Tolliver did some quick calculating just to make sure he hadn’t forgotten something important in his troop’s dispositions. He had three squads, which, including himself and Holmes, totaled only twenty-four men. With that he was to stop, or at least delay, whatever the Russians were going to send down the damn road and through the damn village. The rest of the company had similar assignments, as did the battalion, the regiment, and the division. So did the whole damn army, for that matter, he realized. Slow or stop the Russians was their only goal.
At least this particular village wasn’t in ruins like so many of them. Germany, he decided, was a study in contrasts. While so much of the land had been reduced to rubble only a few feet high, there were other areas that, inexplicably, had been untouched by the physical presence of war. Of course, with the Russians due at any time, there was little likelihood of that continuing for this particular neat and tidy collection of brick and concrete houses and stores.
They were in a gasthaus, a tavern, whose location gave his platoon good fields of fire down the main road from the east, as well as a secondary road that he would consider a tempting way to enter the village if he were the Russian commander. He also had men with machine guns, BARs, and bazookas in homes flanking the gasthaus.
The gasthaus had also given his platoon something they hadn’t had in a very long time, a couple of steins of beer apiece. To their astonishment, they had found a perfectly good cask of suds in the cellar that Tolliver had carefully portioned out to his crew. The local krauts, he decided, would never miss it, and if someone complained, fuck ’em. His men deserved it. Even Holmes had seemed appreciative of the gesture.
“Second squad hears tanks.” It was Holmes on his radio.
“Can they see anything?”
“No, sir, and it only sounds like a couple.”
Yeah, Tolliver thought, only a couple. When this war with Russia first started, he had thirty-five men in his platoon. He had seen how much damage just a couple of Russian tanks could do.
“Can we get artillery or air support?”
Holmes shook his head. “Air is tied up. We’ll be getting artillery support in about ten minutes when they finish with other targets.”
Wonderful, Tolliver thought. In ten minutes, they could all be dead or speaking Russian.
“Here they come!”
Tolliver had no idea who yelled. It hardly mattered. He saw a wave of humanity, he guessed company-strength, surge into view. Behind them came a pair of T34s. As he watched, his company’s mortars started landing in the Russian infantry, flinging several soldiers into the air. His platoon’s machine guns and BARs opened up, cutting more holes in the advancing infantry. It didn’t stop them, and the two tanks opened fire with their own machine guns as the Americans revealed themselves.
“Duck,” Tolliver screamed automatically as the lead tank fired its main gun. A second later, the top floor of the building to his right disintegrated in a billowing cloud of dust and smoke that obscured his view. The second tank fired and smashed another building.
As planned, Tolliver’s men fired some more rounds at the advancing infantry and retreated a few houses down the road. Cautiously, the tanks started to enter the village. Built-up areas would be death traps for tanks if they weren’t careful, and these tankers looked cautious indeed.
Supported by their infantry, the Russians grew bolder and moved forward to about fifty yards from Tolliver’s new position. Tolliver’s gunners fired, cutting down a dozen infantry, causing the remaining Russians to dive for the cover of nearby houses.
“No!”
Tolliver yelled to no avail as he saw one of his men with a bazooka run out in front of the lead tank and fire. As he knew it would, the bazooka round bounced harmlessly off the front armor of the Russian tank as its machine gun opened up and, with an insane chatter, cut the soldier into bloody halves. Tolliver couldn’t tell who it was. Probably one of the newer guys. The older ones knew better than to try something like that.
The tank rumbled on and squashed the dead American soldier. They would have to abandon the village under close fire from the Russian armor. It was the worst possible situation. Then he saw movement on the roof of a building to his left front. Another American with a bazooka, but this time firing downward. He saw the round hit behind the turret, and a moment later smoke and flames belched from the vents and openings of the lead tank as its ammo started to cook off inside. No one got out. The road was blocked by the wrecked tank, and they had a moment’s respite.
“Holmes, any idea where the rest of the Reds are?”
“Glad you asked, sir. We are being flanked. I suggest we phone mother and tell her we’re leaving.”
Tolliver was about to snap at Holmes for his damn Yankee insolence, but thought it could wait for a better time. “Tell Company we’re pulling out.” Russian infantrymen were peering from behind the burning tank and firing randomly at the American positions.
“Sir,” said Holmes. “I’ve got artillery. They want coordinates.”
Tolliver grinned wolfishly. “Give them ours and tell them to wait five minutes.”
Holmes paled and relayed the information. In a barely controlled panic, the platoon gathered its wounded and ran down the road, taking advantage of every wall and shrub to conceal themselves from the Russian soldiers who were now advancing into the village from both sides. Finally, they made it to their previously designated rendezvous point, just as they had done at the last several villages they’d abandoned. Tolliver checked his watch. It had taken seven minutes.
Tolliver looked at Holmes, who shrugged. “I told artillery to wait ten. Five seemed a little close.”
Maybe I won’t court-martial him, Tolliver thought, just have him flogged and then skinned alive. He counted heads. There were only eighteen left and two of them were wounded.
Just as he finished his tally, the first artillery round hit the village, followed by a dozen more that caused flames and sent concussions that they could feel. In seconds, the neat little German village no longer existed except as smoking rubble. Nor for that matter did the remaining Red tank and the rest of the company of Russian infantry.
“Who the hell’s winning this war, Lieutenant?” asked Holmes. He was gasping under the weight of his radio. “And why the hell are we even fighting it? I want to kill the Germans who are killing my people. I really don’t give a shit about the Russians.”
“Shut up,” snapped Tolliver.
He hated it when Holmes asked questions he couldn’t answer. But the man had a point. Who the hell was winning and why was it started in the first place? It was, he thought, nothing but a big snafu. No, a fubar-Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition. They were hurting the Reds, but there were always more Soviet soldiers, while reinforcements and replacements for his platoon were nonexistent.
Tolliver understood that modern war consisted of a large number of small skirmishes like the one he’d just fought, and not a grand epic battle like Gettysburg. His great-granddaddy had fought for the Confederacy and lost a foot at Gettysburg. Before his memory failed him, Grampa had told him a hundred times of long rows of Union soldiers in dirty blue uniforms confronting long rows of Confederates in dirty gray or butternut. He’d described battles where thousands of men could be seen shooting and falling. Now, Tolliver couldn’t even see the platoon next to him.
So, if a hundred skirmishes were fought and the United States won more than fifty of them, then they were winning the war, weren’t they? Fewer than fifty and they were losing. So what had just happened? He’d mauled a Russian company, but lost the village. Had it been a win, loss, or draw?