Guterman watched the column roll by, brow furrowed, as his sharp eyes scrutinized each passing vehicle. Finally, he permitted himself a second away from inspecting his brigade for a glance at Shror. The colonel swaggered even as he stood, hands on his hips, to Guterman’s left. He believes this is all quite grand, I’m sure, thought Guterman. A mighty panzerbrigade rolling like a juggernaut to crush the enemy and ensure Germany’s, and most importantly his, place in history. He would command this, he thought, he would command it all. He has that air about him. The thought of his brigade’s weaknesses gnawed at Guterman. I am bound to obey his “guidance,” just as the message from headquarters says, but I cannot let him destroy this brigade— my brigade.
“Herr Colonel, what do you think of the high command’s intent to buy time?”
Shror turned. “You are not questioning the legitimacy or competency of higher authority, are you, Herr Colonel? I thought you fully understood General Blacksturm’s intent for your unit to delay the enemy sufficiently so that other forces may mobilize. Did I not show you the order that authorizes me to give you operational guidance in pursuit of your tactical objectives and to take such actions as necessary to ensure compliance?” He lowered his voice. “And have I not taken such actions?”
Were it not for the two hulking goons standing a few feet behind them, Guterman would have ripped Shror apart with his bare hands. Shror had ushered the same two Special Security soldiers into Guterman’s office when he had delivered the message authorizing him limited control over the brigade and the lecture on obedience to higher authority. Guterman put his hands behind him, concealing his fists as they clenched. A promising young officer lies dead at the whim of a rodent, my brigade advances toward a force of unknown strength with less than half its full amount of ammunition and at only eight-tenths of its full strength, my helicopter element is grounded due to Blacksturm’s paranoia, and I am powerless to change anything.
Joel Guterman took his time in answering Shror, time in which a time with an old friend and a time with an old trainer floated back to him.
They were quite drunk, he and Griffin. The ragged formation of empty bottles covered the table and the double images of the waitress stirred the two captains’ sotted loins. They solved the problems of two armies at once.
“You can’t do anything about anything if they fire you, Joel.” Griffin spoke German.
“It’s so easy for you to say so, Mark,” Guterman replied in English. It was their private agreement; each must speak the other’s language.
The ice in his American friend’s blood somehow withstood the antifreeze they’d poured in that night. “That’s bullshit, Joel. I feel things too. I just lock them up where they can’t do any damage. Do what you have to — be cold, survive, bide your time; there’ll come a point when you can change things.” Griffin lurched toward a wine bottle, got a death grip on its neck, then drained the dregs. “If you want to badly enough.”
The bar scene faded. In its place blinding desert light flooded through the open trailer door. Outside the Mojave Desert shimmered as it baked the dull earth, and Guterman’s armored vehicles grew so hot you either wore gloves or burned your skin when it touched the metal. Instead of the thick smoke of the tavern, he savored the cool dryness of the after-action review van’s conditioned air, taking one extra minute to talk with the senior observer/trainer.
“From you I have learned much in this after-action review, Colonel.”
“Thank you, Colonel Guterman. Then I am doing my job.”
“The soldiers your army has trained to impersonate a Soviet regiment are quite good, perhaps even unbeatable.” In the last operation — his first in the desert — Guterman’s battalion had fought them to a bloody draw, even if there was no real blood shed in the war game. Joel Guterman wanted a clean win.
“You want to know how to beat them, don’t you?”
Guterman nodded.
“Then follow your training and your instincts, Colonel Guterman. Every force, every army, every man, has his strengths and weaknesses. Know these and turn his strength against him and exploit his weakness. That’s easy to say, I know. To do so takes thought, and patience, and discipline. It’s difficult, but eminently possible.” The American put on his helmet and stepped into the sun.
“See you at the next mission, Colonel Guterman.”
“Ja, Colonel Stern, on the next mission.” Lost in thought, he floated back to his jeep and mumbled something to the driver.
He rode away pondering as the desert miles between the afteraction review van and his command post drifted by.
So, to Guterman, Shror’s ambition offered numerous possibilities. “I would never question the competency of headquarter’s guidance, Herr Shror. My only concern is that headquarters is so far removed. You, on the other hand, are quite close to the situation. You are much better able to discern the true nature of the operation and its potential.” Guterman lowered his voice so Shror could just hear it above the passing tanks. “I believe great things are possible. I would like to offer my services and technical advice to see that you achieve them. But you must trust my tactical judgment — we must have something left for the final push.”
Shror nibbled at Guterman’s bait. “I think I understand. But what is this final push you speak of?”
“This is a powerful brigade. There is no force in Germany to match it, and you tell me that tonight even more units will arrive to reinforce us. We must turn the Americans aside, of course, but it would be a shame for those who deserve to be in positions of responsibility to play a secondary role when the means of achieving those positions are at hand.”
Guterman could see Shror’s mind working. “And you, Herr Colonel, what position of responsibility would you desire?”
Hook, line, and — what was it Mark would say? Yes — and sinker. That’s what he’s taken if he’s asking me for my cut. Guterman drew himself up in mock righteousness. “You know my politics. I have none. I have wanted nothing else but to soldier. Would a good leader not need a loyal soldier who wished to do nothing else but be a soldier in charge of all his soldiers?”
“You have a plan?”
“No, I have no plans.” That much is true, Guterman thought. I don’t want a plan, only a little space to make one. “I have only ideas.” He paused to let Shror fantasize. “Let me explain them to you later. Now I must tend to my force so that we do not expend too much of it too quickly.”
“Yes, of course, Herr Colonel. Above all do not waste this resource. It has potential.”
Guterman made a point of saluting Shror before the latter could get off another stiff-armed salute. He strode off to his command vehicle and his brigade. I have bought myself some time, he thought, and I must use it wisely. I must think, and be patient, and have discipline.
“That will do quite nicely, Captain Middletown.” Stern puffed on his pipe to signal his approval. The defensive plan covered all the bases. As much as he hated to admit it, Stern thought he could not have come up with such a plan in the short time he’d given his operations officer. Middletown warmed at his praise, trying not to smile, but letting sneak loose the proud grin of a grade-schooler who’d just received a gold star.
Alexander Stern responded with an understanding smile. “You do good work, Captain Middletown. Now get copies of your plan ready for the commanders and staff. They’ll be here any minute.” Middletown scurried off, eager to please.