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Bannon took his CVC off again. To his front, off in the distance he could see pillars of black smoke rising in the sky, joining together high above the horizon before drifting away to the east. Burning tanks. There were a lot of them. No doubt about that. Hundreds of gallons of diesel, together with ammunition, rubber, oil, and the other burnable material on a tank provides plenty of fuel when a penetrating round finds its mark and turns even the most sophisticated combat vehicle into nothing more than a funeral pyre for its crew.

The noise of the battle was more varied now. The initial massive bombardment was replaced by irregular spasms of artillery fire as the artillery batteries shifted their fires to hit targets of opportunity as they presented themselves. The sharp cracks, booms, and reports of tank cannon fire were suddenly trumped by the thunderous crash of an artillery unit firing all its guns simultaneously, leaving Bannon to wonder how long the cavalry could maintain the tempo of the battle they were involved in.

Modern war consumes ammunition, material, and, worst of all, men at a frightening rate. Rapid-fire tank cannons, coupled with a sophisticated computerized fire control systems and laser range finders were capable of firing up to eight aimed rounds per minute at tank sized targets at ranges in excess of 2,000 meters. Guided munitions, fired from ground mounts, vehicle launchers, or helicopters had a better than ninety percent probability of hitting a target up to 3,000 meters. Soviet multiple rocket launchers and US MLRSs could fire numerous rockets in a single volley that were capable of destroying everything within a one-by-one kilometer grid. And then there were the chemical agents produced by the Soviets, lethal concoctions capable of penetrating exposed skin and attacking the body’s nervous system, crippling the victim within seconds and killing him in minutes. In the wake of World War II, all the implements of war had become more capable, more deadly. All were designed to rip, crush, cripple, dismember, incapacitate, and kill men faster and more efficiently. In all the armies arrayed across the continent, the only thing technology had not improved was the ability of the human body to absorb punishment.

Such thoughts were disquieting. The mind, left free, tends to wander into what might be and what could happen, as frightening to Bannon as the Ghost of Christmas to Come was to Scrooge. A diversion from these thoughts came from the east.

Two dots, growing rapidly into aircraft, came screaming toward the small valley from the east just as the others had this morning. Bannon hoped the Team would abide by the standard operating procedures, or SOP, and not engage them unless attacked. With only machineguns, they stood little chance of hitting fast-moving jets. The only thing that would be accomplished by opening up on them, if in fact they were Soviet, would be to give away the Team’s positions.

It was a Stinger team somewhere in the cavalry’s sector, however, that rose to the challenge, engaging them with two missiles. Fascinated, Bannon watched as the white smoke trail of the Stinger surface-to-air antiaircraft missiles raced up after the second jet. But it did not find its mark. The Soviet pilot popped small decoy flares and made a hard turn and dive. The missile detonated harmlessly in midair as the second jet turned to rejoin the first before both disappeared up the small valley. This reprieve was short lived as the ripping chainsaw-like report of a Vulcan 20-millimeter antiaircraft gun somewhere behind the Team’s position revealed that problems for the Russian pilots were just starting. Unlike earlier in the morning, the air defense system was now alert and in action.

As if to underscore that point, two more dots emerged from the east. Apparently the Soviet Air Force was fond of this approach and were sending their aircraft through four at a time. Their heavy use of the small valley cost them this time. Two more Stinger missiles raced up to greet the next pair of Soviet jets. The pilot of the trail jet in this pair was not as quick or as lucky as the other pilots had been, for one of the Stingers managed to find its mark. With a flash and a puff of white smoke, the missile detonated, causing the jet to tumble over as if kicked from behind before disintegrate in a rolling orange ball of fire. Alerted to the danger, the first jet kicked in his afterburners, dropped lower, and kept flying west and toward the waiting Vulcan.

Kelp, who had been watching the engagement, let out an “Ah, neat! Hey, Sarge, you missed it!” as if he were watching Fourth of July fireworks instead of the destruction of a pilot and a multimillion dollar aircraft. Kelp then described, in his own colorful way, the engagement to Folk. As Bannon reflected on Kelp’s reaction, he, too, had to admit that it had been kind of neat.

* * *

The announcement concerning the evacuation of dependents aired repeatedly on AFN TV before the network went off the air the morning 1st of the 4th Armor moved out of garrison and into its local dispersal areas. AFN radio, which stayed on the air, yielded little in the way of news or information Pat Bannon and other wives like her could use other than they were to standby to be evacuated. About the only thing it did provided concerned the closing of the commissary and the PX as well as repeated calls for all US military family members living off post to move onto US installations.

Pat was in the midst of going over her own preparations for the umpteenth time when Fran Wilson, the wife of the commander of 1st of the 4th Armor’s Charlie Company, came over later in the morning. With no children of her own to distract her, Fran explained she needed to be with someone. “Sitting alone, waiting for word to leave is driving me crazy.”

“I know what you mean,” Pat replied sympathetically. “Between the children and the lack of any news worthy of the name, I’m half way there myself.”

“If that’s the case, do you mind terribly if I join you as we go crazy together?” Fran muttered half-jokingly.

“You’re more than welcome. After all, misery enjoys company.”

It was Fran’s appearance that caused Pat to remember that Sue Garger, the wife of one of Sean’s platoon leaders, was still staying in a German gasthaus in town. The Gargers, who had been in country for less than a month, had been waiting for quarters and the arrival of their car in Bremerhaven when the crisis had erupted. With children to look after and the need to keep near the phone as things steadily went from bad to worse, she had managed but a single quick visit with Sue. Afraid that the young woman might not have heard the news or, because she was new to the unit, might have been overlooked by the battalion NEO officer, Pat decided to check up on the young woman herself by calling the number listed for Garger on Sean’s alert roster. The resulting call turned out to be a rather disjoined affair as Pat attempted to explain to the German who answered who she was and what she wanted using what little German she’d learned in high school from her Pennsylvania Dutch German teacher.

Eventually she did manage to get her message across, despite a number of mistranslations that caused Fran to laugh for the first time in days. When Sue finally did come to the phone, Pat could tell the young wife was just as lonely and nervous as the rest of them. Without the need to give the matter a moment’s thought, she informed Sue to pack a bag. “You’re staying with me until this thing blows over.” With that, Pat left Fran to watch the children and headed off post.