The prospect of getting back home was welcome. While the three-month master-gunner course at Fort Knox was a good one, it had been hard on the family — especially since it followed almost three months of field duty, including a trip to the Mojave Desert and the National Training Center. Maxwell looked forward to spending the holidays with his family.
The prospect of rejoining his unit, Task Force 3–5 Armor, however, was far less inviting. Although it once was regarded as the best combined-arms maneuver task force in the 16th Armored Division, a change of command and a few too many times as the lead element during major brigade and divisional exercises had worn both the leadership and the troops thin. While the training and duty were no less demanding under the new commander, it had been different under the former commander, Lieutenant Colonel Andrew A. Stevens. Under Stevens, the leadership of the task force, from the task-force commander on down, had been both positive and inspiring. Stevens never made his people do anything that didn't pass his "so what?" test: simply put, any order, any task, any training, any mission had to have a purpose, a reason — if it didn't, either the event didn't happen or Stevens would do his damnedest to get out of it. This resulted in a boundless confidence between leadership and troops. In addition, Stevens understood that there were times when "the 80-percent solution" applied. He realized that excellence in everything was a dream few mortals could realize. In some areas, "good enough" had to do if the overall mission of the task force was going to be accomplished.
That feeling of confidence and common sense, however, was fleeting. Lieutenant Colonel Vince Vennelli changed all that. Though the new commander was intelligent and technically proficient, his vanity and arrogance hamstrung his ability to work with people. He came into Task Force 3–5 Armor like a tornado. His twin mottos of "No mission too hard, no task too trivial" and "Excellence is our standard" were an about-face in policy for a unit that was used to sanity and rationality. The quiet, understated professionalism of Stevens's regime was replaced by a boastful and blustery pride that had little to back it, adding to the alienation between the task-force commander and his men.
Though Vennelli was difficult and far from being a desirable commander, most of the NCOs in the unit could have tolerated him had he been slightly more astute in his handling of them, especially those who had seen service in Iran. Maxwell, a gunner during that war, was proud of his service in Iran. There he had learned many hard lessons about his vocation in the only classroom that mattered to a soldier — the battlefield. In the final days he had participated in the pivotal battle of the war north of Hajjiabad. During that fight he had had two tanks shot out from under him. His tank commander, the task force S-3 or operations officer, had assumed command of the task force and led the survivors in a series of desperate counterattacks, which stopped the enemy and earned the S-3 the Congressional Medal of Honor. Maxwell walked away with a Silver Star for saving the life of the S-3, and a Purple Heart for the smashed knee that he got in the process. It therefore came as a shock to him, and to others like him, when Vennelli, who had never left the States during that war, told the officers and NCOs of Task Force 3–5 Armor, "You had better forget all that horseshit you learned in Iran and start training to standards."
Ever conscious that he had yet to prove himself in battle, Vennelli went out of his way to discredit those who had. Veterans or not, most of his men could not understand their commander's attitude. But right or wrong was not in question. He was the commander, the Man. Thus, the task force was torn into two camps. Heading the one side were the veterans, and most of the NCOs who believed that they knew what soldiering was all about and had the credentials — scars, campaign ribbons, and medals — to prove it. Rejected and scorned by the very man who should have been using their experience, they, and their adherents, kept to themselves and did what was necessary to get by.
On the other side, led by Vennelli, were some of the officers and NCOs who, like him, had not been in combat. Many of them, tired of hearing about how the vets had done it in Iran, actually welcomed Vennelli's changes. Others, lacking the wisdom to know who was right or the courage to stand for what they believed was right, took the easy out, saying nothing and doing exactly what they were told. It was a no-win situation. In the end, it was the task force that suffered. Morale dropped as bickering between the rival factions and the resulting drop in overall unit readiness made Task Force 3–5 Armor an unpleasant environment.
A flash of light broke Maxwell's train of thought and brought him back to the here and now. The sun, its brief appearance over, had set, and drivers were turning on their headlights. Maxwell reached over and switched his on, noticing while he did so that the low-fuel indicator was flashing. The thought of returning to the unit had effectively canceled any joy the late-day sun had brought. Now it was gone, just like his fuel. Twisting in his seat, Maxwell felt a slight pressure in his bladder that told him it was time for a pit stop. With St. Louis coming up fast, it wouldn't be hard to find a gas station and a McDonald's.
Looking at his watch and without giving it much thought, Maxwell decided that he would drive straight through to Fort Carson. He loved to surprise his wife. His only concerns were (a) that the kids could be shuffled off to the neighbors for a few hours; (b) that he would be able to do something about his surprise after driving all night; and (c) that it wasn't that time of month.
There was no escaping the nightmare. Even worse, there was no predicting when it would steal its way into his sleep. Awakened by it, Dixon brought his hands to his face and covered his eyes. It never changed. The images were always as sharp in his mind's eye as they were that day in Iran. Sometimes the images slowed down for a particular horror, almost as if his mind wanted to study in detail, over and over again, certain aspects of that battle. At other times the nightmare whirled by with the speed of a roller coaster.
It always started the same. The swirl of the white, artillery-generated smoke slowly became laced with oily black smoke pouring from unseen tanks and armored personnel carriers burning somewhere out there. Shadowy figures of armored fighting vehicles emerged from the smoke, some friendly, most hostile. The screams of fire commands, his own fire commands, echoed in Dixon's ear. At that point his body would begin to tense up and rock, as if it were reacting to the recoil of the main gun and the bucking of the tank as it rolled over the broken ground and plowed through the smoke.
Once the nightmare had grasped him, there was no escape. Sweat soaked the sheets as he relived the death of his battalion. There appeared the image of a burning American M-2 Bradley on its side, its hatches blown open by the explosion of the ammunition stored inside, its dead crew scattered about it. For a second it came into view; then it vanished. Close to him, a man, his uniform on fire, was running in circles, thrashing his arms wildly in the throes of death. Dixon heard the distinct crack of a Soviet T-80 tank cannon firing from somewhere in the smoke. There were no logic, no pattern, no control — and worse, no escape from the random killing and destruction, either then or in the nightmare. It was everywhere, and seemingly unending. Death that day had been swift and sudden — a point that the nightmare hammered home every time and never allowed Dixon to forget.