He pushed the buttons to systematically detonate them all, one by one. Each explosion ripped huge ribbons of enemy soldiers apart. Finally, when Corporal Wright didn’t think he could take it any longer, he heard a bugle sound.
The enemy soldiers that had gotten so close to them began to fall back. In minutes, the nearly constant roar of gunfire subsided to just the occasional single shot, and the agonizing cries of the wounded and dying became the pervasive noise around him.
When Corporal Wright realized that his death was not imminent, he turned to look for Private Flowers and found his friend slumped down in the trench. He left the machine gun and moved quickly to his side. “Flowers, you OK, buddy?” he asked. “We made it. The enemy is retreating.”
Flowers didn’t immediately respond. Wright turned his shoulder to reveal the extent of his friend’s wounds. Blood soaked through several parts of his right arm and chest area. His was pale and clammy, but the private managed a groan. “I thought we were done for, Corporal,” he said. Suddenly, he had a fire in his eyes, like he was ready to be propped up against the trench with his rifle again. “What now?” he asked.
“Now we get you some help, Nigel,” said Wright, fighting back his emotions. “This is your ticket home, back to the real world, away from all this craziness. I just need you to hang in there, OK, Nigel?” he asked. He scanned his surroundings for a medic.
Wright spotted one of the medics closing the eyes of one soldier, clearly a person he couldn’t save. He ran toward him as he waved his arms to flag him down. Within moments, the medic was helping him carry Private Flowers back to the rear of their lines where the aid station was.
With his friend taken care of, Corporal Wright looked around his stretch of the lines. He only found six able-bodied soldiers: five British, one Australian. All the other soldiers around them were either dead or wounded and being treated by the medics.
Brigadier Sir Nick McCoil wasn’t sure how much longer his force was going to hold out. The PLA had been throwing everything they had at his airborne brigade and then some. His brigade was supposed to be relieved by the main ground force coming in from the port, but they had been held up by heavy fighting in several of the cities along the way. It was looking more and more likely that they might be on their own for at least another day, and he wasn’t sure his command would be able to make it — they were running extremely low on ammunition and had already sustained more than fifty percent casualties.
One of the communications officers walked up to him. “Sir, I have General Bennet on the radio for you.”
Brigadier McCoil looked at the haggard faces of the men around him and the streams of wounded soldiers being brought to the brigade medical tents just outside his headquarters, and he knew he had to get some help from Bennet or they were done for.
He nodded at the communications officer and followed him back to the radio. He picked up the handset. “This is Gladiator Actual. How copy?”
“Good copy. Gladiator Actual, this is Eagle Actual. How long can you hold your current position?”
“If the commanding general is asking you how long you can hold out, it’s not good,” McCoil thought. He immediately wondered how long his help would be delayed.
“I’ve taken some major casualties. We’re down to fifty percent strength and I’m starting to run out of ammunition — not sure that we can hold another day without a major resupply and reinforcements,” he explained.
There was a short pause was before Bennet replied. “Our ground force isn’t going to be able to relieve you in twelve hours,” he said glumly. “I’m not confident they will be able to relieve you for another forty-eight hours. Given your situation, I’m organizing a major resupply to your position and additional air support. Stand by to receive more reinforcements and ammunition in the next several hours. Out.”
And like that, their orders were changed. Instead of holding the airfield for three days, it was now looking like six. Meanwhile, half of the PLA had been attacking his forces for nearly two days straight.
“Whoever the general sends, they better be some really damn good soldiers, or this is going to turn into a slaughter,” McCoil thought in disgust.
Six hours later, true to his word, General Bennet had arranged for a massive increase in air support. His forward air controllers had ground-attack planes and fighter bombers stacked up for near-constant missions. They were hammering the PLA positions wherever they found them. They even had A-10 Thunderbolts patrolling ten kilometers outside his perimeter looking for clusters of enemy troops to engage. The US Air Force had flown in fuel, munitions and maintainers to the airfield so the squadron of A-10s could rebase there to help McCoil and his men.
Then the air bridge of supplies began to arrive. The first to fly in was a string of ten C-130 cargo planes, which soared over the western side of the airfield where most of his artillery batteries were set up. They airdropped pallets of ammunition for his 105mm guns and 81mm mortars.
Then the sky above the airfield filled with hundreds and hundreds of parachutes. Three battalions of soldiers from the 82nd Airborne had arrived to help shore up his positions. With virtually no enemy aircraft or antiaircraft threats near the airfield, General Bennet had also ordered in five C-5 Galaxy heavy lift cargo planes. Once they had landed and taxied off the runway, they offloaded twenty Stryker vehicles, along with 500 additional troops and pallets of ammunition.
Meanwhile, the medical staff quickly worked to get all the wounded loaded for the trip out. Looking out the window, McCoil watched the long line of wounded soldiers — some walking, some being carried on stretchers being loaded into the cavernous beast of an airplane. He felt good about getting them out of there.
Just then, a US Army colonel wearing his camouflage war paint walked in. “Brigadier McCoil?” the tough-looking soldier asked. He had a sharpness in his eyes that only decades of combat could hone.
Of all the Allied officers McCoil had met, this was the first time he’d seen an American senior officer loaded for bear and ready to personally fight if necessary. Looking past the man, he saw hundreds of warriors with full face paint on, gathering up a bunch of gear and loading it into what had to be some sort of American Special Forces vehicles.
Returning his gaze back to the man in front of him, he replied, “Yes, I’m Brigadier McCoil. And you are?”
Smiling at the look of confusion on the British commander’s face, he answered, “I’m here to pull your butts out of the mess you appear to be in,” he said with a wry grin on his face. Then he added, “I’m Colonel Adrian St. Leo, commander of the 75th Ranger regiment. I was directed by General Bennet himself to get my men in here and assist you in any way possible. I’m also the ground commander for the US Forces that are arriving. Landing right now is the 2nd Battalion, 501st Infantry Regiment. Over the next six hours, the 1st and 2nd Battalions, 504th Infantry Regiment will start to arrive at staggered times. If you’ll show me where you need me to plug some holes in your lines, I’ll see to it these battalions relieve your forces.”