Neboatov had to move; in a few minutes the attackers would be at the tree. Slowly, he crawled back, away from his covered position behind the root. But his efforts attracted attention. An enemy soldier, not twenty meters from Neboatov, shouted and turned toward him. Jumping to his feet, Neboatov drew his pistol and fired two quick shots; both hit their target. For a second he watched the man twirl about and fall to the ground. The enemy soldier's hat flew off, revealing straight black hair and the white face of Sergeant Veldez. "Americans! They're being led by bloody Americans!" The sound of rounds from other enemy soldiers hitting the tree near Neboatov reminded him of his plight. He turned and, followed by a hail of bullets, ran back down into the gorge, where he assumed the survivors of the column would be forming.
Despite the fact that he was in grave danger, he surveyed the scene before him as he ran. Many of the trucks that had not made it up the side of the gorge were also burning. That meant that there were enemy forces hiding along the edge of the gorge as well as on the rock ledge. When he reached the rocks and boulders, however, the scene before him was ripped apart as plumes of fire and dirt exploded before Neboatov's eyes. Mortars. The concussion of a near miss sent him sprawling. He lay there for a moment, trying to decide if he was hit. He gasped for breath; his mouth was dry; sweat dripped from every pore. But he was alive. A sharp pain in his shoulder when he began to move told him he was hit. But he was alive. Propping himself up slightly, he found that his injury was not a crippling wound. Ready to continue, he got onto his hands and knees and crawled behind a boulder, guided by the sound of AK assault rifles returning fire.
The first Ethiopian soldiers he came across were dead. He paused by one body, holstered his pistol, and took the AK assault rifle from the dead man. He then emptied the dead man's ammo pouches of magazines and stuffed them into his belt. Better armed now, Neboatov continued. After passing several more dead Ethiopians, he came up behind an Ethiopian who was lying prone behind a mound of dirt. The noise of Neboatov's approach startled the Ethiopian soldier; he spun about and prepared to shoot. "Don't shoot! Friend!" Neboatov yelled in broken Amharic. The soldier paused, then turned around again, continuing his random firing. Neboatov had no idea what the man was shooting at; but at least someone was returning fire.
Slowly Neboatov began to collect whatever Ethiopians he could find and organize them. He even came across a captain and a lieutenant, to whom he assigned a section of the small defensive perimeter that was beginning to take shape. In the midst of this, the beating of blades announcing the approach of the escorting attack helicopters could be heard above the din of the fire fight. For a moment Neboatov allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief. Salvation. Surely the motley American-led guerrilla band would be no match for the heavily armed MI-24 Hind gunships.
Kinsly and his men, however, were ready. They too heard the approaching helicopter gunships. On cue, two Sudanese soldiers emerged from their concealed positions. They removed surface-to-air missiles from their containers and stood up, facing the direction of the gunships. As the helicopters bore down on the knoll, the Sudanese gunners casually shouldered their weapons, activated the infrared seekers of the missiles, and waited for the tone that would tell them the missiles' heat-seeking guidance systems were locked onto the approaching gunships. Once he had a tone, each gunner let fly his missile.
The relief Neboatov had felt when he heard the approaching gunships was short-lived. From the far side of the knoll, two pillars of flame and smoke raced toward the approaching gunships. In an instant Neboatov knew what they were. In horror he watched the missiles intercept the gunships. The first missile appeared to hit the lead gunship head-on, causing the helicopter to erupt into a ball of fire. The second gunship banked sharply in an effort to evade the oncoming missile, but it too was hit. The missile impacted on the engine just below the blades. The resulting explosion separated the blades from the helicopter, letting the fuselage fall away to the ground like a rock.
For a moment the ground fire died down; it was almost as if all the combatants had stopped in order to watch the destruction of the helicopters. The respite did not last long. Encouraged by the destruction of the enemy aircraft, the guerrillas doubled their fire and began to press their attack home.
This new attack, however, was met with stiff and organized resistance. Leadership and organization among the Ethiopians were beginning to take effect. Sensing that the time was right, Neboatov led a small counterattack force he had formed around the flank of the attacking guerrillas. Using his limited command of Amharic and hand and arm signals, he ordered his counterattack force to hold its fire until it was within twenty meters of the enemy.
Slowly the Ethiopians moved forward among the boulders and gullies. When he could clearly hear the enemy leaders issuing orders, Neboatov signaled his force to stop. Carefully he raised his head. To his immediate front he could see a lanky black officer directing several of his men. Lowering himself down, Neboatov looked to the Ethiopian soldiers to his left and right. They were in a rough scrimmage line. Raising his gun above his head to signal the beginning of the attack, Neboatov waited until he was sure the word had been passed down the line. When he was ready, he stood up, cut down the guerrilla officer with a burst of fire and yelled "Charge!" in Russian.
Kinsly sensed, more than saw, that the tide of battle was beginning to shift. To his right he could hear a maelstrom of small-arms fire. To his left, where the bulk of the Ethiopian force had been pinned, there were only random shots. To his immediate front there were only burning trucks and motionless bodies hanging from them or sprawled between them. Even before Sergeant Johnny Jackson came crawling up to him, Kinsly knew that the Ethiopians had shifted over to their right and were counterattacking.
"Thirty, maybe forty Ethiopians deployed on line came into our flank and began to roll up the second platoon," Jackson reported, huffing. "We were able to reorient, but not before losing the major and half a dozen men."
Rather than being energized by the report, Kinsly suddenly was overwhelmed by exhaustion. It was as if he were an inflatable pool toy from which someone had just released the air. They had been on the go for the last twenty-four hours. The accumulated stress — the exertion of a thirty-kilometer march, two major engagements, the unending chain of life-and-death decisions — momentarily paralyzed Kinsly. Jackson knelt there watching his leader and waiting for an order that Kinsly was unable to give. Enough, Kinsly thought. We've had enough. This shit has gotta stop. We've had enough.
The firing from the right began to diminish but did not stop. From the left, a Sudanese lieutenant came up to Kinsly. "Do we attack, Lieutenant Kins-lay?"
Kinsly turned to the Sudanese. It wouldn't end unless he did something. The killing would continue with or without him. They had accomplished what they had set out to do. The airfield, its fuel dump, and the defending company had been hit, and the only force capable of interfering with their withdrawal back to the Sudan had been badly mauled. The Sudanese had gained no ground that they could hold, nor could they totally destroy the enemy. They had, however, carried the war into the enemy's country. So long as the communists were busy fighting in their own country and unable to control it, they would have no time to bother Sudan. That, at least, was what everyone hoped. It was now time to cut losses and withdraw while they still held the upper hand. There would be another day, another battle. There always was.