Trial by Fire

20

The movement of Kozak's platoon through the gap created by the 3rd Brigade was a sobering experience. The first vehicles they encountered were ambulances, both tracked and wheeled, rushing past them with the wounded. Next came the battlefield itself. The axis of attack that the 3rd Brigade had followed was dotted with shattered and burning vehicles.

Here and there, neatly laid out beside the abandoned combat vehicles, were body bags, filled with the remains of crewmen who had died in their vehicles.

The column that Kozak's platoon was in was slowed by combat engineers, who directed the lead elements of 2nd of the 13th toward marked lanes through minefields. Slowed almost to a crawl, Kozak had more time to inspect the point where elements of the 3rd Brigade had made contact with the Mexican forces. As they neared the Mexican positions, the number of American vehicles destroyed and damaged increased, belying the reports by the battalion intelligence officer that the Mexicans had few antitank weapons. Some of the vehicles burned furiously, throwing off great billowing clouds of black smoke. Others, their guns aimed into the vastness of space, just sat there, abandoned and forlorn. The only motion on these vehicles came from the flapping of green, yellow, and red flags, left on the stricken vehicles by surviving crewmen to help harried recover teams determine the nature of their problem and know whether or not wounded were on board.

Kozak, watching a recovery vehicle hook up to a damaged Bradley, didn't notice the Mexican defensive works until her own Bradley hit a sudden bump. Looking down to see what they had run over, her eyes fell on a length of trench, its floor covered with bodies. Before she could react, the forward motion of the Bradley took that image away, replacing it with that of an American aid vehicle parked just beyond the trench. The aid vehicle was surrounded by wounded soldiers, American and Mexican, some lying on stretchers or ponchos, most on the bare ground. On one side of the vehicle, she could see teams of medics working on several of the wounded in a frantic effort to save lives while other wounded men, with lighter injuries, watched and waited their turns. On the other side of the aid vehicle, a lone chaplain, the purple vestment about his neck in stark contrast to the brown and tan camouflage uniform, knelt before a motionless figure, administering last rites. This figure belonged to an other group, one in which those too badly wounded to help were put to wait until those who could be helped were, or until they died.

To actually see triage, the separation of the wounded into three groups, in practice, hit Kozak hard. Unable to watch, she turned away, scanning the horizon. This brought her no relief, though, for the horizon was dotted with more burning vehicles, more aid stations, and more trenches littered with dead. This was the face of battle, a face that had, until then, been to her only an imagined notion. Now, and for the rest of her life, it would be very real.

After her Bradley was clear of the marked lane, a soldier Kozak rec ognized as Wittworth's driver flagged her down. Ordering her driver, Specialist Freedman, to stop, Kozak took her crewman's helmet off and leaned over to hear what Wittworth's driver wanted. Pointing to a cluster of three Bradleys to the right, he shouted above the rumbling of the Bradley's engine that the CO was over there, about to issue a frag, or abbreviated order. Giving Wittworth's driver a thumbs-up to indicate that she understood, Kozak put her crewman's helmet on and radioed Ser geant

Rivera that she was going over to the CO's track to receive a frag order, and that he was in charge until she got back. In her haste, she took her helmet off before Rivera could ask where she wanted him to park the platoon. When he received no response from Kozak, he looked toward her track. By then,"Kozak was on the ground, trotting over to the CO's track with that distinctive and female walk that Rivera now associated with his platoon leader. Mumbling a curse to himself, Rivera looked for a vacant spot to take the platoon that was as far as he could get from the stench of death and from the 3rd Brigade units still eliminating pockets of resistance.

As soon as Kozak joined the circle of lieutenants gathered about Wittworth, he looked at them and asked, "Is that everyone?"

The lieutenants, in turn, looked at each other. It was obvious that he knew they were all there, he had just looked at them. Why, Kozak thought, had he asked that? Strange, she thought. Captains can sometimes be really strange.

After his XO responded that they were all present, Wittworth turned toward the front slope of his Bradley, where his map was laid out. With a marking pen, he pointed to the symbols and locations he mentioned as he briefed his lieutenants. "We are currently located here, on the northern edge of Objective Amanda. The rest of the battalion is spread out south of here. The attack this morning by 3rd Brigade succeeded in penetrating the enemy's main defensive belt and routing the enemy."

Kozak, taking a quick glance at the devastation, wondered who had been routed.

"The battalion," Wittworth continued, "after having completed a passage of lines through the 3rd Brigade, will conduct a movement to contact toward Objective Beth, located just south of this town, named Marin, and then to Objective Carrie. Deployed in a diamond formation, with Team Charlie in the lead, Company B on the right…"

The sudden thump-thump-thump of a Bradley's 25mm cannon firing less than one hundred meters to their rear caused Kozak to jump. Twirling around, she saw the Bradley, sitting at one end of a trench, firing its cannon into the trench. For a moment, Kozak and the other lieutenants, also caught off guard by the sudden firing, watched as members of the 3rd Brigade carried out the grisly task of "mopping up" enemy positions that had been bypassed. The Bradley was firing in support of an M-i Ai tank.

The tank, with a dozer blade attached to its front slope, was in the process of pushing dirt into the trench, starting at the end farthest from the Bradley. Taking its time, the M-i tank would drop its blade and move forward, pushing a pile of dirt over to the trench where the dirt would disappear from view as it fell. Backing up, the tank would shift over a little, closer to the Bradley, and repeat the process. Every now and then, as the M-i was in the process of backing up, the Bradley would pump a few more rounds into that part of the trench that was not yet covered.

Curious as to why someone would waste time and ammunition doing something like that, Kozak turned to Wittworth and asked. Wittworth took a deep breath. "Well, I guess the Mexicans in the trench don't want to surrender."

Kozak's eyes betrayed her shock. She took a quick glance at the trench, just in time to see the tank push another scoop of dirt over the edge. Looking back at Wittworth, she asked if anyone had tried to talk the Mexicans into surrendering. Wittworth chuckled. "I doubt, Lieutenant Kozak, if anyone in the 3rd Brigade was in the mood to try. It's a general rule of thumb that the longer you defend, the less likely it is that the attacker will be in a mood to accept your surrender. Besides, they're only Mexicans."

After one more long look at the trench, Kozak turned her back to the scene. But she couldn't turn her mind away from it. The laboring of the tank's engine as it pushed more dirt into the trench, and the occasional thump-thump-thump of the Bradley's cannon reminded her of what was going on. What do you call men who would rather be buried alive than surrender, she wondered. Were they heroes? Or fools? Was it courage and pride that made them do such a thing? Or was it insanity? In her wildest dreams, she could never imagine anyone in her platoon, even the most gung-ho soldier, sitting in a trench, calmly waiting to be shot or buried. Taking one more fugitive glance over her shoulder at the scene, Kozak decided that, as for herself, she would rather take a 25mm shell in the chest than allow herself to be buried like that.

With her mind awash with images and thoughts of the trench, Kozak missed most of Wittworth's order. Not that it made much difference.

Company B was on the right, its normal location with the battalion deployed in a diamond formation. Her platoon, the 2nd, would be the right flank guard, deployed 1,500 meters to the right of the rest of the formation. Though Wittworth warned her that since her platoon would be cutting across a series of dry streambeds, or arroyos, forcing the platoon to go slower than the battalion's main body moving on flatter ground, she didn't appreciate what he was telling her. Instead, Kozak's mind was in the process of grappling with the cold, uncompromising inhumanity of war, an inhumanity that enveloped her like sackcloth.

As more and more American tanks and infantry fighting vehicles came pouring over the trenches of the brigade defending around Nuevo Re pueblo, Guajardo knew the end was in sight. So did the colonel who commanded the brigade being overrun by those vehicles. Unable to watch any longer or listen to the cries for help from his subordinates, cries that he could do nothing about, the brigade commander turned away from the observation slit of the bunker and faced Guajardo. With tears running freely down his cheeks and his great chest heaving, the brigade commander struggled to look Guajardo in the eye. Finally, with the greatest of efforts, he blurted out his apology. "Forgive me, Alfredo Guajardo, for I have failed you and the people of Mexico."

Overwhelmed by the passions of the moment, Guajardo stepped forward, embracing the brigade commander with a bear hug. Then, stepping back but still grasping the commander by the shoulders, Guajardo told his fellow officer that there was no shame. He and his men had done magnificently against terrible odds. His men, Guajardo told him, had shown the Americans, and the world, that Mexico would never bow its head for any man or nation. Theirs, he said, was a victory of the spirit and of the heart.

When he had managed to compose the brigade commander, Guajardo ordered him to break off contact and pull back as many of his units as he could. Their task, he told him, was over for now. It was important that those who could do so rally and prepare for the next battle. With renewed confidence and sense of purpose, the brigade commander saluted Guajardo, then turned to his staff and began issuing his own orders.

Guajardo watched for a moment. It had been, he knew, a long and hard fight. All of them, including him, were nearing the limits of their own endurance. While what he and the brigade commander had been exposed to, physically, bore no resemblance to what the common infantryman in the most forward trench had to face, the stress and strain of command coupled with a lack of sleep quickly took its toll, especially on older men.

It was time, he knew, to bring the battle to a close. It had been a good fight, far exceeding his wildest expectations. They had repulsed one night attack, fought another nearly to a standstill, and, more important, stood their ground. No, he thought, the Mexican people had been well served.

There remained only one more hand to play out in this game.

Satisfied that all was in order again, he turned to his aide. "Contact the Nicaraguan commander. Tell him he may begin his attack toward Nuevo Repueblo. And, Juan, tell him I recommend that he use the northern route, through the arroyos. It is slower, but offers more concealment."

The heat of the sun beating on the Bradley was, for Kozak, almost unbearable. How the soldiers in the rear of the vehicle stood it was beyond her. As a vehicle commander, and the platoon leader to boot, she got to stand up in the open hatch of the Bradley's two-man turret and take advantage of the cooling breeze generated by the Bradley's forward motion.

That she was recklessly exposing herself, from the waist up, to enemy fire or bodily injury as she stood in the open hatch, her crewman's helmet cocked back on her head, didn't occur to her at that moment. Even the constant climbing out of and back down into the numerous arroyos they had to cross didn't bother Kozak. All that mattered, at that moment, was that there was a cooling breeze, no matter how slight, and she was able to take advantage of it.

Kozak's enjoyment of the breeze was interrupted by a spot report from Sergeant Maupin, whose Bradley was on the far right side of the platoon wedge formation, that there was a large cloud of dust to the platoon's front right. Looking over in that direction, Kozak saw the dust cloud. For a moment, she wondered what could be making such a large cloud. It was, she knew, definitely dust. But, whose? Looking down at her map, she confirmed that no one was supposed to be to the right or front of her platoon. According to Wittworth's order and the graphics he had given her, her platoon was on the right side. Glancing up from her map, she counted her own tracks. All four were there. Next, she looked to her left, down into the flatter lands below. At a distance of fifteen hundred meters, more or less, she could see the other vehicles of Company A. Although they were a little ahead of her, due to the rougher upland terrain her platoon had to fight, everything seemed to be in order there. Turning back to her right, she studied the dust cloud for a moment before making a decision.

Satisfied that the dust wasn't being created by friendly forces, Kozak studied her map again. She decided that whatever was kicking up the dust was in the next arroyo, which was roughly parallel to the orie her 1platoon was in. According to the map, it was a relatively wide one that meandered and twisted as it ran downhill. Narrow at the top, it widened as it reached the open country below. Deciding that it would probably be unwise to take the entire platoon out of the arroyo they were in and expose them to whatever was creating the dust cloud, Kozak ordered the platoon to halt just before it began its assent out of the arroyo.

Contacting Rivera, she told him to remain there, with the tracks, while she dismounted, with a radioman, in order to go forward on foot to take a look-see.

Without waiting to receive an acknowledgment from Rivera, Kozak took her crewman's helmet off. Sticking her head down and to the left, she opened the turret compartment door that separated the turret crew compartment from the rest of the Bradley and shouted down into the rear for the radioman to dismount. After she was sure he had heard her, Kozak took her rifle, Kelvar helmet, and web gear, tossing them out of the hatch and onto the top of the turret. Climbing out, she stood up, put her gear on, arranged it, then carefully began to climb down.

In the past, she had jumped from the side of the vehicle onto the ground. Since breaking her nose, she had been more careful, especially since even a slight jarring was enough to send a spasm of pain shooting from her nose, across her face, and throughout her head. Every time that happened, she cursed herself. Of all the stupid, childish injuries she could have gotten. Though she wasn't thrilled about the injury, and how she had gotten it, it did, she thought, have its advantage. Through roundabout means Kozak had found out that, in a matter of days, her nickname in the platoon had been changed from Lieutenant Lips to "the Nose." Though being referred to as "the Nose" didn't do much for her self-image and ego, at least her new nickname was nonsexist.

On the ground, Kozak was greeted by Specialist Billy Bell, her radio telephone operator, or RTO. His uniform was soaked with sweat. Still, there was a smile on Billy Bell's face. "What's up, LT?"

Even the fact that everyone called her LT, short for lieutenant, didn't bother Kozak anymore. In the beginning, the soldiers in the platoon, used to working in an all-male world, had responded with "sir" when talking to her. This had, on several occasions, resulted in blushing and embarrassment, followed by apologies that sometimes were sincere.

Though the proper response was "ma'am," the soldiers of 2nd Platoon, somehow, couldn't bring themselves to utter that word. So an unspoken compromise had been reached. The soldiers, from Rivera on down, used LT, and Kozak said nothing. Everyone, she knew, had to make compromises.

Sticking her folded map into the large pocket on her right thigh, she looked at the dust cloud, which appeared to be getting closer, then at Bell. She pointed with her rifle. "We're going to trot on over to the hill and see who's making that dust."

Bell sighed. "Do we have to trot, LT? It's hotter than hell."

Ignoring Bell's glib comment, Kozak turned and began to climb the wall of the arroyo, taking great strides as she did so, and calling back,

"Come on, Bell. You could use the exercise."

Looking down at his stomach, then at Kozak, he shook his head.

Damn, he thought, as he began to scale the wall of the arroyo behind her.

Was she ever going to get off his case about his beer gut? It was only a little one.

Once out of the arroyo, Kozak got her bearings and they began to head for the dust cloud. As they did, neither of them took any great care, standing upright as they jogged toward the crest of the mound that separated the arroyo her platoon was in from the one that the dust appeared to be coming from. Once they reached the crest, Kozak stopped, kneeling as she caught her breath, and surveyed the ground before her. For the first time, she listened. To her front, from the direction of the dust cloud, Kozak could hear the squeaking and popping of tracks being pulled through drive sprockets, mixed in with the low rumble of laboring diesel engines.

Tanks! There were tanks to their front. But whose? The throaty rumble of the engines didn't sound like the whine of an M-1A1 's turbine. Though there was the possibility that the terrain, heat, and distance could be distorting the sound, Kozak didn't think they were friendly. Coming up behind her, Bell shouted, "I'm here, LT. Late but…"

Turning, she put her right index finger up to her lips, indicating that she wanted him to shut up. Pausing, BelJ looked at her, then over toward the dust cloud, listening to the sound of the tank engines. Without any need for more cues from Kozak, he understood what was going on. Crouching next to her, Bell held his rifle at the ready as he watched his platoon leader and waited for her next move.

IKozak knelt there for another second, watching, thinking. She could feel her stomach muscles begin to tighten as her heart rate slowly began to climb. With sweat running down her spine in tiny rivulets, Kozak's body prepared itself for fight or flight while her mind pondered their next move. When she was ready in body and mind, Kozak slowly rose and began to advance, her unblinking eyes glued to the edge of the next arroyo. Bell, without a word, followed, his eyes darting from Kozak's back to the edge of the arroyo and the cloud of dust that was being thrown up from it by the unseen tanks.

When they were within two meters of the edge, Kozak paused, then slowly lowered her body to the ground, crawling on her stomach up to the edge. When Bell saw she was at the edge, he did likewise, coming up on her right. When he reached the edge he looked down just in time to see what looked like the biggest tank in the world pass less than six feet below them. Forgetting their predicament, Bell gasped. "Jesus Christ!

What in the fuck are those?"

Kozak, struggling to control herself as she watched the tank pass below them, didn't answer right away. When she was finally able to talk, all she could get out was, "It's a tank." Then, as an afterthought, "A T-72."

Their attention was suddenly drawn away from the tank trundling on down the arroyo below them as another tank materialized out of the cloud of dust created by the tank that had just passed below them. As if from nowhere, it appeared at the lip of the arroyo across from them and a little to their right, at a range of one hundred meters. The new tank, on reaching the edge, slowed almost to a stop as the driver lost sight of the ground to his front. With the tank commander leaning out of his hatch and directing him, the driver inched forward until he could feel the tank teetering on the edge. When he felt that, the driver nudged the accelerator of the tank ever so lightly, giving the tank enough of a kick to push it over the edge and into the bottom of the arroyo. As the tank came over the lip, Kozak noted that, from where she and Bell were, the entire top of the turret and the back deck were exposed for two or three seconds. Once in the arroyo, the tank turned to the right and passed below them, following the first one that was now beginning to disappear in its own dust further down the arroyo.

Although Kozak had no idea who was manning the tanks, or where they came from, she knew that they were not friendly, and worse, that they were headed downhill and straight into the right flank of 2nd of the 13th. Pushing away from the edge of the arroyo, Kozak and Bell moved to where they could sit up. Pulling out her map with one hand, and grabbing the radio mike with the other, Kozak reported her sighting to Rivera in as calm a voice as the situation and her excited state permitted.

Knowing that it was only a matter of minutes before the enemy tanks made contact with the rest of the company, and not wanting to waste time while Rivera reported to the CO and they waited for him to issue orders, Kozak began to issue her own. She was, after all, the flank guard, charged with protecting the battalion from an attack from that area. She was expected, according to doctrine, to take action. And she didn't need anyone to tell her to do it.

The arroyo, according to the map, opened up just south of where they were. It was there, Kozak thought, that the tanks would deploy before hitting 2nd of the 13th. Since the 25mm guns and TOW missiles of the Bradleys would be of no use at close range, Kozak decided to send the Bradleys, under Rivera, to the open ground to the south, where they could engage the tanks at long range. And rather than send the infantry dismounts with the Bradleys, where they would be of no use in a long range antitank fight, Kozak ordered Rivera to send all the dismounts with man-portable antitank weapons to where she was. In that way, she could break the column in half while Rivera dealt with those tanks that had already gone past Kozak's position by hitting them in their flank and rear as they massed before attacking the battalion. She could only pray that artillery, which Kozak told Rivera to request when reporting to Witt worth, and attack helicopters, which she hoped Wittworth would request, would be enough to deal with the unknown number of tanks that were still to come.

Finished with her orders, she gave the hand mike back to Bell, Noticing that he was staring at her, Kozak forced a smile. "Looks like we're about to get into some really deep shit."

Bell nodded. "Yeah, big time."

"You ready, Bell?"

For a moment, he looked her in the eyes. If there was fear there, she wasn't showing it. Slowly, he smiled. "Fuckin' A, LT. Fuckin' A."

With Sergeant Maupin in the lead, Kozak deployed her three dismounted squads. To the right, she placed Maupin and his 1st Squad.

She recommended that he use the Dragon antitank guided missile, and told him that if he waited to fire until after the tank entering the arroyo began to go over the edge, the thin armor of the tank's top would be exposed. At the range they would be engaging at, the missile would have just enough time to arm. The missile's flight time, which would be less than three seconds, wouldn't give the enemy tank commander much time to react. The way Kozak figured, the forward momentum of the tank, and the resulting lack of control as the tank dropped into the arroyo, would prevent the crew from avoiding the guided missile even if they saw it. Because of the need to time the shot, 1st Squad would fire first and initiate the ambush. When Maupin nodded that he under stood,

Kozak sent him and his squad on their way as she moved to the next squad leader.

In the center, she placed Staff Sergeant Strange and his 3rd Squad.

Because they were too close to use their Dragon, she told him they would have to use the AT-4 light antitank rockets. She told Strange that, by crawling up to the edge of the arroyo, where she and Bell had been, he and his squad could fire right down on top of any enemy tank passing below them. Kozak cautioned him, however, to let the tank go a little farther down the arroyo before his squad fired, lest fragments from the explosion of their own antitank rockets on the enemy tank fly back into the gunner's face.

When Sergeant Zeigler and his 2nd Squad came up, she ordered them to the left. Their mission was to engage any tanks that had gotten past Maupin's or Strange's squads. Because the dust might cause problems with the Dragon, she told Zeigler to use his best judgment in deciding which weapon to use. When Zeigler and his squad were gone, Kozak looked about, watching as the three squad leaders quickly positioned their men.

The thought of failure, and its consequences, never crossed her mind.

Nor had she considered what they would do once the ambush had been initiated and the first three tanks were taken out. Kozak, in the rush of events, was taking the problems on one at a time, as they presented themselves to her. Right then, at that particular moment, Kozak's only concern was that the squads would be set, in place, before the last enemy tank rolled past their position. With the squad leaders doing their jobs, and nothing more for her to do, Kozak placed herself in the center, with the 3rd Squad.

Back at the edge of the arroyo, Kozak crawled up next to Strange, who was peering over the edge. When he saw her, Strange leaned over and whispered, "Any time you're ready, LT."

Scooting herself back a few feet, Kozak got up on her knees and looked to her right. Maupin, who had been watching, waved his hand. He was ready. Looking to her left, she caught the attention of Zeigler, who also waved. Turning back to Maupin, she pointed at him. With an exaggerated salute, Maupin acknowledged the order to fire. Turning away from Kozak, Maupin leaned over to look into the arroyo, placing his left hand on his Dragon gunner's back as he did so. She watched as the two men, squad leader and Dragon gunner, waited for their opportunity. When she saw Maupin's hand rise, then slap the gunner's back, she knew it had begun.

Bracing himself for the shock of firing, Maupin's Dragon gunner leaned into his sight, took one more deep breath, then squeezed the trigger. The whoosh of the missile rocket engine, and the pop, pop, pop of the tiny guidance rockets firing on the sides of the missile, caused everyone in 2nd Platoon to jump a little. Across the arroyo, only the commander of the tank being engaged saw the incoming missile. As Kozak had predicted, there was nothing he could do. Holding onto the edge of the open hatch to his front, he could only watch, eyes and mouth wide open in disbelief, as Maupin's missile closed on his tank.

The Dragon impacted on the flat turret roof just in front of the tank commander. While the hatch protected his body, his face and head had no protection whatever when the shaped-charge warhead of the Dragon missile detonated. If the injuries to the tank commander's head and face from the detonation of the Dragon's warhead were not fatal, the secondary explosion of on-board ammunition was. To protect the main gun ammunition on a T-72, all rounds were stored under the turret floor, in a circular carousel. The angle of attack Maupin's Dragon gunner used, however, defeated that system. The jet stream from the Dragon's shaped-charge warhead was driven straight down into the stored ammunition.

Maupin and the rest of his squad watched as a sheet of flame leaped up, engulfing the tank commander. Then, to their utter amazement, the tank shook, then exploded, ripping the turret off the chassis and into the air.

Oblivious to the danger of flying scraps and shrapnel thrown up as the enemy tank tore itself apart, Maupin's men turned their faces skyward, mouths gaping, as they watched the tank's turret twirl. It was the first time any of them had seen a tank die.

Though they could clearly hear the destruction of the tank Maupin's squad had engaged, the rest of 2nd Platoon was too busy to watch. Both Strange's and Zeigler's squads were using AT-4 antitank rockets to deal with their target. Because 1st Squad initiated the ambush, and the 3rd Squad could not fire while its intended target was right below it, a strange standoff existed for several seconds between the 3rd Squad and the tank commander on the vehicle below them. Looking back to see what had happened to the tank to his rear, the commander of the vehicle below Strange's squad looked about, and then up, right at the men of the 3rd Squad.

Had it not been war, the scene would have been comical, with the tank commander, mouth open and eyes wide, looking up at the faces of Strange's men as they trained two AT-4 antitank rockets on the tank less than six feet below them. The panicked screams of the tank commander were as clear to Strange's men as they were to his own crew. Only when the commander reached for his machine gun did someone finally do something. Without a second thought, Strange raised his M-16, flipped the safety off with his thumb, and squeezed off a three-round burst. Hit in the back and shoulder, the tank commander dropped down the open hatch of the turret, out of sight, as the tank continued to move down the arroyo and away from Strange's men. When he thought that there was a comfortable distance between his men and the tank, Strange gave his gunners the order to fire.

Both antitank rockets impacted, striking the top of the engine compartment.

Though their effort yielded a less spectacular result than that of the 1st Squad's, the resulting damage and fires caused by the antitank rockets were enough to stop the tank. For the longest time, Strange and his squad watched and waited, their rifles and automatic weapons ready, prepared to gun down the crew of the burning tank as they abandoned it.

But no men came out. Only the screams of the crewmen burning to death, screams that seemed more animal than human, came out of the stricken tank. That the tank crew chose to die as they did was almost a disappointment to Strange's squad. It was a feeling akin to what a hunter experiences when denied the pleasure of a kill he feels he deserves.

Kozak had no time for such feelings. Looking to the left, she noted that Zeigler's squad had already engaged their tank. She watched as, for whatever reason, a second volley of AT-4 antitank rockets was launched into the tank being engaged by Zeigler's gunners. Beyond Zeigler's squad, Kozak could just make out pillars of black smoke farther down the arroyo. That had to be Rivera and the Bradleys. They were engaged.

Waving to Bell to come over, Kozak looked around while she waited, her eyes falling upon the far side of the arroyo, the side the enemy tanks had come from. The fear of not being able to deploy her platoon in time to catch some of the enemy tanks was now replaced with an uneasiness that, in all probability, there were more tanks over there, tanks that could, at that very moment, be massing for an attack. The artillery mission she had requested should have come in by now but hadn't. When Bell handed her the hand mike, Kozak keyed the radio and called for Rivera.

Instead of Rivera, however, Sergeant Kaszynski, the assistant squad leader for the 1st Squad, replied. Kozak was puzzled. "Alpha two one Alpha, this is Alpha two six. Do you have contact with Alpha two four, over."

There was a pause before Kaszynski answered. "Two six, this is two one Alpha. Alpha two four's track has been hit. Over."

It took Kozak a second to realize the significance of Kaszynski's statement, given in such a matter-of-fact manner. Her platoon sergeant's Bradley had been hit. How, she asked herself, could that be? "Alpha two one Alpha. How bad is the damage to two four? Is two four still operational?

Over."

As she waited, Kozak looked around. Still no artillery on the far side of the arroyo. On this side, all her men were, like Kozak, watching the far side for more tanks. "Two six, this is two one Alpha. We're kinda busy here right now. Two four's track is stili moving. There's a red flag on it. Can't talk now. We're engaging a tank. Out."

A red flag, that meant wounded on board. For a moment, Kozak looked about her and took stock of her platoon's situation. Deciding that it was pointless to try to talk to Kaszynski while he was engaging, Kozak dropped the matter. By doing so, Kozak realized, she was abdicating control of half her platoon. Not that she could have done much from where she sat, since the Bradleys were somewhere off to her left and out of sight, commanded by assistant squad leaders in combat for the first time, fighting an unknown number of enemy tanks. That left the rest of her people with her, and with no way of getting around except by foot, facing an imminent attack by God knew what from across the arroyo. On top of that, she had no way of knowing for sure if Rivera had ever managed to get a report in to the company commander. Reaching the conclusion that she had screwed things up about as bad as she could on her own, Kozak decided it was time to report directly to Wittworth.

Ordering Bell to turn around so she could change the radio frequency to the company net, Kozak decided that it was time to find out. Using a small plastic-covered card she kept around her neck on her dog-tag chain, she looked up the company frequency and set it on the radio. When it was set, she took the hand mike, keyed the radio, and tried to contact Wittworth.

"Alpha six, this is Alpha two six. Over."

Wittworth's response startled Kozak. "Alpha two six, this is Alpha six. Where in the hell have you been? What in the hell are you doing?

Over."

With Rivera possibly out of action, she wondered how much Wittworth knew. Deciding that she should start by giving him a full report, Kozak tried but was cut off by Wittworth. "Two six, this is six. I say again, what in the hell is going on? Over."

"Alpha six, this is Alpha two one. Dismounts are located one point three klicks north of checkpoint Charlie three three. We have engaged and destroyed three enemy T-72S at that location. Break. Alpha two four and the tracks are engaging more T-72S vicinity of checkpoint three three.

Alpha two four has been hit. Over."

"Alpha two six, this is Alpha six. Request you confirm that you are engaging T-72S. The Mexicans don't have T-72S. Over."

Wittworth's last comment struck Kozak, causing her to hold the hand mike out at arm's length and look at it with a strange expression on her face. Sergeant Strange, who had been watching and listening to what she was saying, asked her what was wrong. Kozak let the hand mike fall to her lap and looked at Strange. "The CO says the Mexicans don't have T-72S. He wants us to confirm that we're engaging T-72S."

Leaning over, Strange looked into the arroyo at the burning T-72 less than ten meters from his location, then back to Kozak. "Well, LT, they got 'em now."

Kozak chuckled as she picked up the hand mike. "Alpha six, this is Alpha two six. Affirmative. We are engaging T-72S. Over."

Without a pause, Wittworth shot back, "This is Alpha six. That's not possible. Over."

Before she realized what she was doing, Kozak keyed the hand mike.

"Six, this is two six. Well they got them now. If you wait a minute, I'll let you talk to one of their tank commanders. Over."

Strange, as well as those members of his squad who could hear, began howling over Kozak's statement. As she waited for Wittworth's response, she looked up at Strange and his soldiers. Unable to restrain herself, she also began to laugh. What an idiot, she thought. He's nowhere near the fighting and he's telling me what I see. What an idiot!

The next voice that came over the radio surprised both Wittworth and Kozak. Blue 6, the battalion commander, had been listening on the company radio net.

"Alpha two six, this is Blue six. I've monitored your report and have your Bradleys and the T-72S in sight. You're doin' a great job, two six.

I have some fast movers and snakes coming your way. Do you have smoke to mark your position? Over."

Though she had no idea what snakes were, Kozak asked Strange if he had any colored smoke. Pulling a canister from his web belt, he showed it to Kozak. "Is violet okay, LT?"

Giving Strange the thumbs-up, Kozak informed the battalion commander that she had colored smoke.

"Okay, Alpha two six. The forward air controller is asking to pop that smoke now. The fast movers will be coming in from the southeast.

Over."

Hesitating, Kozak wondered if it was such a good idea to mark her own position. If friendly forces could see the smoke, the enemy forces could also. Still, the battalion commander had told her to pop smoke. Without another thought, Kozak told Strange to pop the smoke and toss it to the rear of their position so they could mark it for an air strike. She waited until the dark violet smoke cloud was well developed before she reported back.

"Roger, Alpha two six. We have your smoke. Fast movers inbound now. When they finish, I want you to collect some prisoners, pronto. We need to find out who's driving those tanks. Over."

"Blue six, this is Alpha two six. Wilco on the prisoners. Will advise you when we have them in hand. Over."

When neither the battalion commander nor Wittworth responded to her last transmission, she figured that they were done with her for now.

Turning to the southeast, Kozak watched, shouting to her squad leaders to spread the word that an air strike was coming in. Bell, who was also watching, saw them first. "There they are, LT."

Following his finger, Kozak finally saw two black dots coming toward them fast. Within seconds, the black dots became black blobs. Then the black blobs appeared to sprout wings. Finally, just before they passed overhead, the two blobs with wings began to take on the distinctive form of F-16s. When they released their loads before they passed her platoon's position, she thought, Christ, they're going to hit us! Controlling her panic, she held her breath as-she watched the bombs fall away from the jets. Only when the cluster bombs, already split open and spewing hundreds of small bomblets, had cleared the platoon and began to impact on the far side of the arroyo, did Kozak begin to breathe again. Though she could not see the impact, a series of secondary explosions told her the F-16s had found the mark. A second pass, and the appearance of a company of Apache attack helicopters, was anticlimactic.

She had pulled it off. Second Platoon, Alpha Company, the "Dust Devils," had pulled it off. Now, all that remained for her to do was to find out how much their small victory had cost them.

From his position, Captain Nino Garza watched the trucks of the 16th Armored Division's main command post move like a great snake crawling along the road leading southeast out of Vallecillo. The information he had been given, six hours before, that the division command post was preparing to move, had been right. Even more gratifying was the fact that his guess as to the road it would use had also been right. If that guess had been wrong, he would have been guilty of unnecessarily exposing the one hundred and fifty members of the Rural Defense Force he now had deployed along that road, waiting to ambush the American command post. Taking one last look, Garza struggled to suppress the giddiness he felt at the prospect of impending battle.

Finally ready, Garza eased himself down off the rock he had been watching the road from and joined his subordinate commanders, who were gathered to receive his final instructions. "Remember, no one is to fire until the mortars fire. I will have them alternate the high-explosive rounds with illumination rounds so that we can keep the column illuminated.

And, remind your men, a green flare means they are to rush the column. I will do that only if conditions are ideal. Do not rush the column on your own, no matter how good conditions appear to be to your front.''

Garza paused, looking at each of his subordinate commanders as they nodded that they understood. Though he was far from being the patronizing type, Garza knew that the men entrusted to his command were simple farmers and shopkeepers. He not only had to keep everything simple, he also had to remember that each of these men had a family that depended upon him. Though the men were patriots, and each and every one was willing to die in the defense of his home and Mexico, as their grandfathers had been, Garza never forgot Colonel Guajardo's admonishment to him and other guerrilla leaders like him: "While we need patriots to fight this war, never forget that only live Mexicans can build our future." So Garza was careful to ensure that, if nothing else, everyone in his command understood the dispersal plan and the signal to initiate it. "Regardless of what happens or what you are doing," he stressed to his subordinates, "when I or my deputy fires a red flare, the company will disperse. Do not wait for me, or anyone else. Take your people back to their rally points, have them clean their weapons before they bury them, and send them home. I will contact you when I can. Is that understood?"

With a final nod, each of Garza's subordinate leaders moved off into the darkness, back to his unit where he would wait with his men for Garza to initiate the ambush.

Stuck in the rear seat of Major Nihart's vehicle, amidst a tumble of personal gear and boxes, Captain Harold Cerro was asleep. To him, convoy and sleep were synonyms. Since his earliest days in the Army, he had found that the slow, serpentine pace of a convoy, coupled with the steady hum of an engine running at the same speed hour after hour after hour, was the best sleep aid ever invented. Cerro could last for ten, fifteen minutes tops, in a convoy before going to sleep. While sleep was always a commodity soldiers sought, it was not acceptable for the senior occupant of an Army vehicle to be seen sleeping while the vehicle was moving.

Though Cerro understood the reasoning behind that rule, he also understood that no one could regulate biology and human nature. Cerro had therefore developed a system for accommodating both. After being reprimanded on several occasions for sleeping, he now took the precaution of training his drivers to be on constant lookout for officers of the rank of major and above when he was asleep. When the driver saw the senior officer, it was the driver's duty, Cerro would explain, to wake him.

That night, it would take more than a nudge by the driver to wake Cerro. It had been a difficult and trying day for him, far more demanding than he had ever thought possible. Though the threat of danger had been absent, along with the stress of being a leader in battle, the strain on the body and mind he had experienced that day was no less debilitating.

Division staffs are dominated by lieutenant colonels, who are the principal staff officers, and majors who are punching their tickets while they wait to become lieutenant colonels. Captains serving on division staffs don't make any real decisions and don't really get the chance to do much of anything. Their-days, split into twelve-hour shifts, consist of numerous little tasks, such as answering the phone; filling out, receiving, and submitting reports; asking questions of staff officers on subordinate unit staffs or answering questions asked by staff officers from higher headquarters staff; updating maps or redoing map graphics; searching to find the answer to a question posed by a senior officer; and dozens of other relatively simple and mundane things. Each of these actions, in and of itself, is simple, ludicrously simple. Doing all of them at once, however, in an area the size of a small hotel room crammed with tables, chairs, radios, telephones, map boards, computers, and a dozen other members of the staff is not only hard, it is physically and mentally demanding.

As in the experiment in which rats are made to live in overcrowded conditions, it is not long before the stress and strain of operating in an overcrowded van causes the members of a staff to turn on each other.

Though Cerro and the other members of Major Nihart's current operations shop got along with each other under normal circumstances, the demands of the last twenty-four hours would have turned a saint into a chain-saw murderer. Even Colonel Dixon, normally a rock, had broken that day. During a heated conversation with the corps G3, Dixon had reached his breaking point. When he terminated the conversation by throwing the telephone across the current-operations van, barely missing Cerro, everyone in the van froze. Looking about at everyone in the van — all of whom were, in turn, looking at him — Dixon, a little embarrassed, mumbled, "Stupidity knows no bounds," before he turned and left. Though no one had any idea what he meant, as soon as Dixon was gone, everyone went back to work without giving the incident a second thought. Such scenes were becoming more and more common.

Unable to vent the stress and frustrations of the day through physical means, as he had been able to do when he had commanded an airborne infantry company, Cerro sought escape through sleep. A sleep that nothing could disturb. Or so he thought.

Cerro hadn't counted on Captain Garza and the members of the Rural Defense Force. No one, in fact, had. And that was about to become apparent.

When the convoy reached the point where Garza wanted to initiate the ambush, he fired a white flare, the signal for the mortars to commence firing. Five hundred meters to his rear, a man old enough to be Garza's father, a cobbler by trade, watched the white star cluster climb into the sky and burst before he gave the three mortar crews under his command the order to fire. The mortar on the left, manned by a fanner and his two sons, had the honor of being the first to fire.

Cerro's eyes popped open when the first 6omm mortar round, the one fired by the farmer and his sons, detonated less than one hundred meters in front of them. The odds against a mortar round, especially the first one, impacting on a moving truck were, even when the range was known, astronomical, under the best of circumstances. But it was also true, in the game of probability, that eventually someone had to be that "one" in a situation that measures the million-to-one odds.

As the G2 current-intelligence van, hit dead on, flopped over into the ditch on the side of the road, small-arms fire began to rake the column.

In the darkness, to his right, Cerro could see the flashes of rifles and machine guns. As he struggled to find his own rifle, hidden amongst the tumble of gear and equipment, Cerro heard a thump-thump-thump on the side of the vehicle, followed by a scream from Major Nihart. "Jesus. I'm hit. I'm fucking hit!"

Thrusting his head between Nihart and the driver, Cerro could see Nihart bent over, grasping his right thigh with both hands. Though he couldn't see the blood, the grimace on Nihart's face told him he had been hit bad. Cerro turned to the driver. "Left. Go left and get off this road. Now."

For a moment the driver looked at Cerro, then at Nihart. Thrusting his head forward so that it blocked the driver's view of Nihart, Cerro repeated his order. "Get this piece of shit off the road to the left now, before we all die."

When, out of the corner of his eye, the driver saw another truck further down the road blow up, he snapped out of his shock. He cut the wheel to the left with all his might, stepping on the accelerator as he did so. The vehicle almost jumped. The ditch to the left, though it wasn't very wide or very deep, was wide enough and deep enough to bring the vehicle's sudden burst of energy to a bone-crushing halt. Cerro was thrown head-first into the dashboard. Nihart, still clutching his leg, let out a piercing scream.

Panicked, the driver pushed the accelerator to the floor to no avail.

"We're stuck! We're stuck!"

Pulling himself back, Cerro shook his head. Now, he thought to himself, he finally understood why everyone insisted that soldiers wear their helmets when in a vehicle. Though he knew his neck would be stiff, his Kevlar helmet had saved him from a cracked skull. After shaking his head again, Cerro turned to the driver. In a rather calm tone of voice, he told the driver to let up on the accelerator and engage the four-wheel drive before trying again. Though the rear window of their vehicle was shattered by another volley of rifle fire, the driver complied. This time, they cleared the ditch, crawling up into the open field on the left side of the road and away from the ambush.

Sergeant Major Aiken, Dixon's senior NCO and operations sergeant, was in the cab of the truck immediately behind Major Nihart's vehicle.

He was in the process of swinging the ring-mounted .50-caliber machine gun that was attached to the cab of his truck toward the ambushers when he saw Major Nihart's vehicle clear the ditch and move into the field to the left. Deciding that it might be smarter to follow the major, Aiken leaned over and yelled to the truck driver to follow Nihart into the open field. Though he knew that there might be mines or more enemy troops lying in wait on the left side of the road, Aiken also knew that the odds would be better moving around in an open field instead of sitting on the road.

Though he hadn't intended it to, Cerro's action created a chain reaction.

Behind Nihart's vehicle and Aiken's truck, every truck that could make the left-hand turn began to follow them. Though the drive across the open field was almost unbearable for Major Nihart, as each bump sent a spasm of pain through his body, it quickly became clear to Cerro that they were moving out of the kill zone of the ambush and mortar fire. It was only after he looked back to confirm this that he noticed that he was being followed. After traveling several hundred meters away from the road, a trip that seemed to take forever, Cerro told the driver to stop.

Climbing out over him, Cerro ordered the driver to tend to the major, then set out to set up a defensive perimeter.

Once on the ground, he headed for the first truck he came to. Aiken, seeing Cerro, who he thought was Major Nihart, on the ground, ordered his driver to stop. Dismounting even before the truck stopped rolling, he began to head for Cerro. "If you start forming the perimeter, Major, I'll direct the other vehicles over to you."

Cerro ignored the fact that Aiken thought he was the major. "Sounds good to me, Sergeant Major."

Confused, Aiken walked up to Cerro, confirmed who he was, then apologized. "Sorry, thought you were Major Nihart, sir."

"The major's been hit. He's out of it for now."

"Anything we can do?"

Cerro looked around as he answered. "No, the major will be all right, I think. His driver's with him now, taking care of him. Besides, you and I got a lot to do out here. If you will go on over there, Sergeant Major, and direct the incoming trucks to me, I'll start circling the wagons."

Aiken was about to respond when a red star cluster popped over the portion of the column that was still on the road. "What do you suppose that means, Captain?"

Cerro looked at the star cluster, noting that the ambushers were increasing their rate of fire. "I don't know, Sergeant Major. But I have a sneaking suspicion we're gonna find out. Until then, let's get a move on and form this here perimeter."

Aiken, looking at the road one last time before setting out, sighed,

"Big Al's going to be pissed."

"Pardon my apparent disrespect, Sergeant Major, but screw Big Al.

Right now, I'm more concerned about the yahoo that's directing the ambush and what he's thinking."

Almost a kilometer away, on the other side of the road, Captain Garza, the yahoo that Cerro was referring to, decided to break off the attack.

The sudden separation of the rear of the column had come as a surprise to him. From where he sat, it looked as if the Americans had been less surprised than he had hoped, and were responding better than he'd expected.

There was no telling what they were about to do and how they were going to respond. Rather than press his luck, Garza decided to break off the attack.

Firing the red star cluster, he paused for a moment and watched the response of his men. As instructed, some of the men increased the rate of fire while others, under the direction of their leaders, began to move back to their rally points. The mortars also increased their fire, switching to firing all high-explosive rounds instead of a mix of illumination rounds and high explosives. The mortars would be the last to stop, as they covered the withdrawal of the rest of the force. Garza's planned route of escape took him right past their position. He personally would give them permission to leave.

Satisfied that all was in order, he turned to the militiaman who was serving as his radio operator. "We have done well tonight. Tomorrow, there will be many gringo families mourning."

In the fading light of the last illumination rounds, Garza could see the militiaman's face. The young farmer, a boy of sixteen, was smiling.

"And we, el capitdn, will have much to celebrate."