“Sir, the S3’s calling you,” Eads said over the intercom. Lost in thought, Stern had missed Middletown’s attempt to reach him.
“Three, this is Six. Over.”
He heard the static, then Middletown’s voice. “Six, this is Three. Sitrep on the Cav follows.”
What Middletown told him wasn’t good. I have to have my eyes, my scouts, thought Stern. At this rate, by daylight I’ll be blind. He considered and rejected each option in turn. The battalions can’t help, they’re too busy wrestling with their maintenance problems. Send in more tanks? Might work, but in the woods and villages the Germans will take them out at close range. If I let loose the artillery, we’ll kill civilians. We can’t stop, either.
No way out.
“Three, this is Six. Wait, I have to think this one through. Out.”
“Six, this is Five. Monitored your talk with Three, and I know the answer.”
Somewhere back along the road, Mark Griffin had stopped shepherding stray units, broken down vehicles, and overworked maintenance teams for five minutes to listen in on Stern and Middletown. Seems pretty simple to me, he thought smugly, you road-bound treadheads.
“Five, this is Six. Cough it up, we don’t have time to play twenty questions.”
“Six, Five. Send in the infantry.”
“Negative. We have too much broken and not enough time to mount major infantry attacks.”
“Then don’t, because you don’t need them. Send in big groups, and they’ll make so much noise they’ll get waxed. All you need is what the jarheads used to call ‘a few good men’ to walk in. I’ll lead a team myself.”
Miles away from each other, Alex Stern and his operations officer listened to Griffin and simultaneously slapped their foreheads and, mentally at least, kicked themselves for overlooking the obvious. Stern radioed Middletown to make it happen, then deflated Griffin’s dreams of ditching his maintenance responsibilities. Stern told Griffin that, though the brigade had lots of squad leaders, it had only one Two IC; perhaps Griffin would get his chance to lead a patrol sometime when a quarter of the brigade wasn’t broken down along the highway.
Mark Griffin silently twisted his mouth in disappointed acknowledgment; once again Stern was right. Griffin could do nothing but “roger” Stern’s transmission and head off to supervise the brigade in putting itself back together. But my time will come, he said to himself. You’ll need an expert at walking in the woods sooner or later. When you do, I’ll get away from this diesel engine and armored crap and back to doing my business on the ground, which is what counts. He gave directions to his driver and his track lumbered down the road.
What counts, thought Griffin, what counts.
Maggie.
He hit the intercom switch. “Driver, how fast are we going?”
“Twenty miles per hour, Sir.”
“How fast can you go in the dark and still get us there without wrecking this thing?”
“Maybe twenty-five, Sir.”
“Make it thirty-five, we got places to be.”
“Yes, sir!” Griffin felt the track lurch forward as his driver tromped the accelerator.
“Red One, Red Two. Set in position, ready to cover your move.”
It took them the better part of an hour to come three-quarters through the village this way, two tracks moving and two covering. Twice, before anyone in the platoon could get off a clean shot, the Germans jumped back at the last minute. Only a block or so remained, although four different side streets and alleys fed into the main road. The two armored cars could be down any of them with guns pointed, waiting for the Americans to come to them.
“Red One, this is Red Two. I say again, we’re ready for your move.” “This is Red One. Change in the situation. Stand by. Out.”
The other lieutenant, his face smeared with black and green camouflage paint, waited as McKay put down the microphone.
“Sorry for the interruption,” apologized McKay to his guest, who had arrived just as the radio had begun to blare.
“Just make sure your guys know we’re coming.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Now where did you say they were?”
“Well, like I said, there are four side streets or alleys that feed into this main road. The Germans could be on any one of them, or even between buildings. They probably have one armored car on the left side and one on the other.”
“Can you draw me a picture?”
“Huh? Sure, whatever.” McKay took the paper he was handed and sketched out the part of the village where the Germans might be, occasionally sliding into the turret to confirm through the thermal sight what his memory told him. He handed the completed product to his guest.
In the half-light of the Bradley’s interior lamps, McKay watched as the figure studied the sketch, drew something on it, then quickly made a copy. The artist was McKay’s age, but even in the cramped vehicle interior he seemed to slouch a little less than the Cav platoon leader. His hair was cut well shorter than regulations demanded. His counterpart’s leanness was evident to McKay, despite the uniform’s sacklike fit. Finished, he handed the original back to McKay.
“My plan’s on there: one squad on the left, one on the right. I’ll keep one with me to go either way, depending. You can see the other side of the town from here, right?”
“Uhh, yeah. Why?”
“If we don’t get them both at the same time, one may try and run for it. If you keep all your stuff pointed at the outskirts, maybe you’ll get him then.” And, thought the young man, those automatic cannon won’t be aimed into our backs.
They wrapped up a half-dozen details and the officer with the blackened face climbed out of McKay’s Bradley.
“Hey,” McKay called after him, “I didn’t get your name.” “Walker. Bill Walker.”
McKay chuckled. “That fits for a grunt.”
“Really,” Walker answered flatly. He disappeared into the night.
McKay grabbed the microphone. “Red, this is Red One. Friendly dismounted elements will pass in front of our positions to clear out the enemy. Orient weapons toward the roads out of the village.”
Several minutes later McKay watched through the Bradley’s thermal sight as the two lines of infantrymen snaked by him. Buttoned up behind the armor plating, with a 25mm autocannon, guided antitank missile, two machine guns, and a high-tech sighting system at his command, McKay felt very big compared to the twenty-five dots of heat that grew steadily smaller as they neared the village. Then he thought for a moment about the Germans, and actually felt a little sorry for them. The grunts will get in close and then it’s all over for the bad guys, he mused. Glad Walker’s people are on our side.
Quite suddenly, Ralph McKay felt very, very small.
Walker’s platoon split up after it passed the Cav’s forward Bradleys. In the unlit side streets the Americans sensed the enemy was close by. Slowly, carefully, the squads felt their way along the dark, winding village streets, their eyes and ears straining into the blackness. Spc. Eldridge Macintosh and Spc. Harold Baldwin led the way.
“Hey,” Macintosh whispered. “Baldwin?”
“What is it, Macintosh?”
“How’s it feel to be the lead man of the lead fire team of the lead squad of the lead platoon of the lead company of the lead battalion in the brigade?”
“Why don’t you take over being point man and find out?”