The Equality Line straddled the road leading into Pinglin from the north, perching atop the hills to the east and west of the road. On the eastern hill, there was a religious statue of some kind, and one of the soldiers had somehow found out it was supposed to represent a demon. That theory led the eastern hill to be christened Devil Hill. Devil Hill had a cluster of buildings at the base, but was mostly shorn of brush.
The western hill had a tea farm on top and was quickly named Teatime Hill. The tea farm was small, however, so most of the hill was covered in thick forest.
After suffering significant casualties at Farmers’ Ridge, my company was part of the thousand-strong reserve for the coming battle. We were stationed behind Pinglin Elementary School on some tennis courts, about 500 feet inside of the northern outskirts of the town. Our position was such that we could quickly move up either hill to support the two-thousand Airborne soldiers defending the northern entry to Citadel. The remaining thousand Airborne soldiers had to guard the western road in case of a sudden unexpected attack from that direction.
I’d been in position for something like an hour and a half when the radio call came from Colonel Brown. “The Pentagon is reporting a large mixed force of armor and infantry coming down Route 106 to the north.”
“How large?” I asked.
“Sixty tanks and armored personnel carriers and a couple thousand infantry.”
Yesterday, I would have called those odds hopeless, but I had seen four men decimate a company just hours earlier. “We’ll hold our sector, sir.”
Brown didn’t bother to reply, obviously still angry with me over my insubordination at Farmers’ Ridge and McCormick’s embarrassing threats to make Brown look like an idiot to a worldwide audience.
I shook my head. Let politics be politics, I thought. It’s time to think about the battle.
Of course, politics couldn’t be far from the battle with General Gutierrez in charge. Unlike Farmers’ Ridge, where Brown had been the commanding officer, the defense of Citadel as a whole was in the hands of Gutierrez.
As you know, I wasn’t a big fan of either Gutierrez or Brown. I’m objective enough to realize that they were terrible leaders for different reasons. Brown is more a malignant credit-hogger who would never put his own ass on the line but wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice his subordinates.
Gutierrez had a different story, one that arguably made him an even worse military thinker. He became a general by never doing anything too risky. That was the path to success in the peacetime military. Gimmicky adoption of political priorities was much easier than operational improvements or tactical successes. Thus, Gutierrez, a lifelong proponent of solar and biofuel use by the Army, found himself in charge of devising a strategy for the defense of Citadel.
What he came up with was very straightforward: mine the main roads heading into Citadel and set up trenches and static defenses to house the garrison of Airborne soldiers.
One passing irony regarding the mines. Gutierrez had been a military detailee on Capitol Hill, essentially doing a tour of duty as an advisor to a senator who had deep interests in defense affairs.
Mines had been the target of humanitarian ire because of how they remain on battlefields for years or decades after the war and then blow some kid’s arm off. Gutierrez had worked for a senator who made it her mission to remove mines entirely from the U.S. armed forces. He had taken naturally to coalition-building and glad-handing the other staffs. “Hey, don’t worry, we don’t need these weapons, there’s no reason not to do the right thing on this one,” was his constant refrain.
Well, he succeeded. The only mines we’d taken with us to Taiwan were half-century old models that someone had forgotten to destroy when the bipartisan bill had been passed. These mines were now densely distributed for hundreds of yards on the two main roads heading into Citadel from the north and west. They were the linchpin of Gutierrez’s strategy.
And they failed utterly.
The American experience with improvised explosive devices in Iraq two decades past had led the Chinese to revamp their own counter-mine technology. Predictably, the PLA tanks had a system to detect and detonate the mines about fifty yards out. A rolling explosion of mines approached our defensive lines, unleashing a constant roar of explosions and kicking up a thick cloud of smoke and dust.
The cloud had the dual effect of terrifying the soldiers on the front line and obscuring the approaching column, both visually and on our infrared scanners. On top of that, the PLA artillery that had survived the air attacks fired smoke canisters onto Devil and Teatime Hill. The smoke had been enriched with small particles that made it as impervious to infrared emissions as visible light.
A tactical situation thus ensued that neither Gutierrez — nor, presumably, the Chinese commander — had anticipated. The advancing tanks couldn’t see the defensive positions in front of Citadel or on the hills, and the Airborne soldiers in Citadel couldn’t see the advancing tanks.
Gutierrez shouted over the radio from his command post in the lower levels of the gymnasium, “All units, this is Equality 6, can anyone see the enemy?”
The “negative” responses poured in, fear evident in their voices.
Suddenly, the commander of Devil Hill called in. “Equality 6, this is Equality 3, we are under fire.”
With the PLA tanks still detonating the minefields, it was impossible to hear what was happening on Devil Hill. Gutierrez immediately asked, “What kind of fire?”
“I think it’s the tanks shooting blind into the smoke with their cannons and machine guns. We’re under cover, but taking some casualties from direct hits.” Fear crept into the voice of the company commander making the call.
There was a moment of silence, then Gutierrez said, “Report any further developments.”
The situation was evolving rapidly and it wasn’t clear what was happening. I took a moment to consider: what would I do if I were the PLA commander?
The Chinese commander would presumably not order his tanks to charge pell-mell at a town shrouded in impenetrable smoke. He wouldn’t know what kind of physical obstacles we’d placed on the road, and the tanks would be sitting ducks to any manner of grenades or antitank weapons.
So the tanks wouldn’t be pushing down the road. They’d sit tight and provide support for the main attack, which would have to be carried out by the infantry. That would explain the firing at Devil Hill — the main Chinese strike would try to overwhelm Devil Hill, and the tanks were adding their firepower to help suppress the Airborne infantry there.
Gutierrez evidently came to the same conclusion. He called over the radio, “Progress Team, move up to Devil Hill.” Progress Team was the reserve, including my company. We were all ready to move out immediately, and I was just about to give the order when another thought struck me.
But strategy is not a linear concept. What is needed is neither logic, nor gut feelings about your opponent, but a mixture of the two in just the right proportions.
The PLA commander wouldn’t be stupid. While there was corruption in the Chinese system, China was still ruthlessly meritocratic in choosing its leadership. Why use tanks as short-range artillery platforms when they would likely be almost totally ineffective, achieving nothing other than pointing out where the main attack would fall?
The answer came to me and my stomach went cold: because the commander wanted us to think the attack would come at Devil Hill.
If Devil Hill wasn’t the real target, what would be? There probably hadn’t been time to get a major attacking force to the western side of the town, and there was no smokescreen on that side. The main road to the north would be too dangerous for the infantry to go down with the two hills still flying the U.S. flag. Whenever the smoke cleared, the Airborne soldiers on the hills could pour down fire and rout whoever made it into the town.