They had made it, most of them. He counted vehicles first, the Bradleys hugging the protection of a drainage ditch. To his left, Two-Two’s squad was already lumbering back to the track, a few paranoid soldiers looking over their shoulders, searching the empty sky. Wish they’d done that before.
“Hey, Sir,” his track commander called, “the CO’s on the horn. He wants us to mount up and get moving.”
“Tell him roger.”
To his right, Two-One’s turret slewed slowly back and forth. Good old 1st Squad, pulling security, looking for ground targets. Travers felt better. His platoon had made it through. His platoon sergeant came toward him.
“They hit Two-Three.” Behind him a hulk burned.
“How bad?”
“The squad was still mounted.”
“How bad?”
His platoon sergeant just jerked his head, motioning over his shoulder. Four hundred meters away Two-Three belched smoke and flames. Travers could see the vehicle commander’s body slumped out of the commander’s hatch. As he watched, the Bradley seemed to heave, then it blew apart in one violent convulsion, pieces of metal and pieces of bodies spraying over the plowed field. Travers turned away, back to the sergeant.
“Get them mounted up and ready to move.”
“Hey, Lieutenant Travers,” a soldier called from down the line, “look up.”
A parachute floated slowly toward his platoon. Travers raised his binoculars to his eyes. He could clearly see the pilot’s hands grasping the risers, pulling them in an effort to steer himself away from the nearby trees. He could see the man twisting his head to look around at the troops below.
Then a shot, and another, and a third. The arms stiffened on the risers, then fell away from the parachute’s controls. The head slumped onto its chest.
“Who did that? Who fired?” Travers demanded, spinning around. Second platoon had just committed a war crime. “Tell me who did that. Who shot him?”
One soldier raised his rifle to the firing position. There was a long second. Then another raised his rifle. Then the whole platoon, twenty of them. As he looked around he saw other infantrymen from 1st Platoon, out of their vehicles, raise theirs. Now there were sixty, no, a hundred, rifles up. A tank commander nearby elevated his machine gun until it tracked the pilot’s limp body as it drifted toward the field next to them. There was silence until the corpse thudded dully to the ground.
Travers turned to walk away.
“For Two-Three,” he heard from behind him.
The lieutenant turned to face his men, then looked at the burning track, then at his soldiers. He turned to face the pilot’s body, the parachute billowing in the breeze. He stared a long time, felt his blood boil, then leveled his rifle. He aimed at the body. He felt his finger inch toward the trigger, felt his hate course toward the figure, felt his finger tighten. He held his aim for a long minute, conscious that every soldier around him was watching and conscious that he wanted to pull the trigger as much as his men wanted him to.
He stopped. Slowly, deliberately, he took the rifle off his shoulder and turned to the sea of faces staring at him.
“Mount up. We’re rolling.”
As he walked back to his track his platoon sergeant caught his arm.
“Sir, that ’rad bastard deserved it.”
Travers pulled his arm away. He kept walking back to his track, staring straight ahead.
“Sergeant?”
“Yes, Sir?”
“That’s probably what the pilot thought about Two-Three.”
Through their binoculars the two cavalry scouts scoured the countryside. The pair lay prone just inside a tree line, observing the plowed fields that stretched for a mile or so until they ended abruptly at the edge of a manicured woods. Two hundred meters to their rear, hidden behind a small hill, their Bradley waited for the two dismounted men to check the countryside before the squad’s next bound forward.
“What do you think went on back there?”
“The main body got hit with an air strike.”
“Guess there’s something good about being Cav after all.”
“Yeah. Fresh air, sunshine, a chance to experience the beauties of nature without the crowd of a battalion around you to spoil the countryside, and you get to operate five miles ahead of everybody else. You’re also so spread out that fighter pilots don’t pay any attention to you.”
“Ain’t it grand. Hey, I got movement in those woods over there— vehicles on the trail.”
“Where?” His eyes traced the imaginary line from his partner’s extended finger to the distant forest edge. Then he lifted his binoculars back to his eyes. From their observation post they could see where a road cut through the distant forest and ran into a village. They could also see, although less clearly because of the distance, where the road snaked over the crest of a bald hill and fed into the same woods. Two lines of gray boxes ran like columns of ants along the road, then disappeared beneath the cover of the trees. As he counted more kept coming.
On McKay’s orders each cavalry squad had strung communications wire from dismounted observation posts (OPs) back to their vehicles. With the wire spliced into the vehicle’s intercom system, the soldiers on the ground could talk to the vehicle crew. The troopers had complained about the extra work — the roll of wire was awkward to carry and even more awkward to roll up, especially when they were in a hurry, but this time the annoyance would pay off. The scouts spent a moment pinpointing their location and verifying the Germans’ placement. The two men lined up the roads and villages on the map with those on the ground. Satisfied, the first scout cranked the phone until the Bradley commander answered.
“Get on the radio and tell the lieutenant we got a target. Tanks and mechanized infantry in reinforced-company strength moving southwest vicinity grid 884937. Other units of undetermined size following.” “He’ll want to know about their recon, he always does.”
“We haven’t seen ’em, but I bet they’re out there.”
“Roger. Wait.” They watched the steady stream pour into the forest while the vehicle commander sent their spot report. The field phone clicked and the scout answered.
“What’d he say?”
“He wants us to hold our position, continue to observe, and adjust artillery, if we get it. But don’t initiate direct fire contact.”
The scout put his binoculars back to his eyes and tried to count how many Leopards and Marders were flowing over the hill into the woods. They’re massing for an attack, he thought, there’s at least a battalion in there already. Means they’ll be backed up by artillery, maybe they’ll be able to bring in an air strike if they want it. It’s all pointed right at me. He spoke into the phone again.
“No direct fire contact?”
“That’s what the man said.”
“Tell him no problem.”
“Two, this is Six.”
“This is Five at the TOC.”
“All right, Five then,” Stern said, giving in to Cooper. “What do you make of that last report from the Cav?”
“I’d say we have thirty to forty-five minutes before we make contact with their main body and about fifteen before we begin to get incoming artillery.”
“This is Six. Agree on the main body. What makes you say that about their artillery?”
“This is Five. The Cav can’t find their recon. Most likely that means they’ve penetrated the Cav’s screen line and are behind them. They should have us under observation soon. They’ll call for indirect fires.”