“Just make sure you’re back with some real chow before they do. And make sure you have communications in place; I want to be able to get ahold of you if I need you back here.”
“Yes, sir. Maybe the XO will turn up with some chow.”
“Maybe. Get going, First Sergeant.”
The NCO saluted again and headed for the command Humvee. Give him his due; if you gave him clear instructions he carried them out to the best of his ability. As that headache was placed under control, Captain Brantley saw the Hummer of the battalion commander rolling in through the pine forest.
A tall heavy-bodied officer hopped out of the Humvee before it came to a full stop and strode rapidly towards the waiting company commander. Although he looked about twenty-two, Lieutenant Colonel Hartman was nearly sixty, having retired as a battalion commander in the First Infantry Division in the early ’80s. A solid professional officer, he had taken command of the battalion only four months before and had worked steadily to bring it up to a highly trained level he could be proud of. Unfortunately, the Posleen did not seem to be in favor of giving him the time to correct the unit’s multitude of deficiencies.
As he approached his Alpha Company commander — the only commander he had he considered worth the spit to insult them with — he was rehearsing how to break all the bad news.
“Captain Brantley.”
“Colonel,” the officer said with a nod. “I would offer you a hot cup of coffee, but we seem to have misplaced the mess section.”
“That’s not all we’ve misplaced,” the battalion commander alleged with a patently false grin. “Let’s take a walk.”
When the officers were far enough away from the unit that they could not be overheard, the colonel maneuvered to place Brantley’s back to the soldiers in view. That way they would not be able to see his face when he heard the news.
“Okay,” the colonel said without preamble, “there is no good news. None. The bad news is as follows. I know you don’t have Bravo on your left. That’s because there is, effectively, no Bravo Company. There are enough tracks to make up a platoon in Bravo Company’s area of operation. All the others are either lost or hiding. We may be able to find a few more that are simply lost, but most of them are on the run to avoid the battle. They ran, it’s as simple as that. Before the damn battle was even joined.”
He shook his head but did not let the overwhelming sense of shame and anger cloud his features. Even from here he could see the occasional glance from the soldiers digging in and he was not about to let them know how badly they had been screwed.
“Your First platoon has turned up intact intermingled with the Twenty-First Cav and since they’re already there they have been ‘detached’ for the duration as infantry support to the Cav.”
“Oh, shit.” The company commander shook his head and tried not to let the hysterical laughter that was bubbling to the surface overcome him. “Jesus, we are fucked.”
“The battalion trains — including all the spare food, mess section, ammunition, repair units and general logistics — somehow got on the Prince William Parkway and are halfway to Manassas. That’s where breakfast is.”
“I’d be happy to load up and go after it. I mean the whole company.”
“I’m sure you would,” the battalion commander said dryly. “I have seen some consummately fucked-up exercises, but this is arguably the worst.”
“This isn’t an exercise, sir,” said the Alpha commander, all the humor evaporated. A cold wash of chills came over him and his mouth went dry. “Charlie Company?”
“About where you are, effectiveness-wise, with the exception of Captain Lanceman being among the missing.” Something about the commander’s lack of expression seemed to denote a lack of regret at the captain’s absence.
“I put the XO, Lieutenant Sinestre, in charge and he has most of the company, but he is missing his mortars. I sent them Bravo’s mortars and I’m detaching Bravo’s personnel to you as your ‘Third Platoon.’ However, there are two more problems.”
“And they are, sir?”
“The battalion has no reserve, this way, but worse we have no one on our right flank.”
“Where’s Second batt?” the company commander asked, shocked.
“Somewhere around our mess section, thirty miles away near Manassas. That was the location they received to dig in. Brigade is running around like a chicken with its head cut off, so I’m arbitrarily going to extend the battalion. Third batt is on our left, but there’s a divisional boundary on the right. I’ve got the scouts out looking for the Thirty-Third, which is supposed to be out there somewhere, or even the Forty-First. IVIS says there’s no one between here and the Potomac, but I just can’t fathom that. There has to at least be someone around the interstate!”
“Run that by me again.” Arkady Simosin felt like a half-dead corpse. As many times as he had participated in exercises — from a junior officer leading a tank platoon up through exercises with multiple corps — he had never seen such a tremendous mishmash as had happened during the night. His corps had utterly jumbled units and, apparently, directions and intentions. Now he was finding out just how badly. His staff had assembled to tell him the bad news with the Chief of Staff as official sacrificial lamb.
“As you know, sir, the corps battle plan called for the Forty-First to establish strong positions between the Potomac and the I-95/U.S. 1 area, the Thirty-Third to mass in the area of the roads and the Fiftieth to establish strong positions to the west of the roads, with a cavalry screen to the west and Nineteenth Armor in reserve. This plan was developed on the presumption that the Posleen would drive up the 95/1 axis towards Alexandria.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” snarled the general. His accent went briefly Brooklyn Slavic, always a bad sign. “You said something about the Forty-First being out of position.”
“Badly, sir. The Twenty-First and Fiftieth divisions are the only ones on the correct east-west axis. The Forty-First is set up seven miles to the rear and the Thirty-Third is set up four miles to the rear of where they are supposed to be. We have logistics trains forward of our combat teams and combat units. Currently we have three divisions echeloned instead of massed which is going to invite…”
“Defeat in detail.” Arkady grimaced and glanced at the screen of his PC. “That’s not what this says. It just notes that they are not at full strength.”
“It perceives that a percentage of each unit is in the right location and, given the current chaos, that is their actual axis, General. Unfortunately, most of each division is in the area I just gave you. Those are the locations that they received to set up in or, in some cases, chose to set up in.”
“Okay.” Simosin flogged his tired brain for a solution. “Call the Twenty-First. Tell them to hold in place. If the Posleen make contact they are not to decisively engage but they should try to slow them down. Pull the Fiftieth back to where the Thirty-Third is actually axised. Pull the Forty-First forward to that axis. Get as many units properly joined up as possible in the time allotted along that axis.”
“That will put us almost on the Prince William, General,” noted the G-3. “Well north of the President’s stated intent.”
“North or south of the Prince William?”
“South of it, sir.”
“Good, the President will have to suck it up; having that road at our backs will give us a way to move reinforcements back and forth and to retreat if necessary. Move the corps artillery north of the Occoquan; they’ll be able to range for close support. And move all the logistic elements except ammunition and food north of it too. Tell the division commanders to make their own judgement on where their artillery should be placed. They should know that if it’s north, if those bridges go down their artillery will be out of contact.