In the Mech Platoon’s positions, Sergeant First Class Polgar grasped the hand grips of his M2 machinegun as he watched the Soviets. He was amazed. When he had been a young private, Polgar had been in Vietnam two months before he had seen his first VC, and they had been very, very dead. In the first day of this war, he was looking at all the Soviets he cared to see. He looked to his left, then to his right at the line of PCs he was responsible for. The four M-113s with him weren’t going to do a hell of a lot if the tanks in the Team fell flat on their ass. As the Soviets drew near, Polgar tracked the Soviets with his M2 and thought, “Those dumb-ass tankers better be as good as they think they are, or this is going to be one damned short war.”
The Team was charged and ready. Bannon could feel it. Having issued all the orders, he needed to for the moment, the time had come to fight his own tank.
Grabbing the TC’s override, he traversed the turret, bringing the main gun to bear on his intended victim while yelling out his fire command without bothering to key the intercom. “GUNNER — SABOT — TANK WITH MINE ROLLER.”
In response, Folk yelled out once he spotted the vehicle. “IDENTIFIED.”
Kelp followed this with a sharp, crisp, “UP!” letting both Bannon and Folk know the main gun was loaded, armed, and he was clear of the path of recoil.
Bannon dropped down on top of his seat. Perched above the gunner and loader, he watched through the primary sight’s extension as Folk tracked the T-72. Then they waited as the enemy continued to draw neared. And they waited. The line of tanks was now beginning to reach the valley floor. And they waited. The sweat was rolling down Bannon’s face as he edged ever closer to losing nerve. And they waited.
“SPLASH, OVER.” The FSO’s call on the battalion net heralded the impact of the artillery. Across the valley, the crest of the far hill erupted as hundreds of small bomblets scattered and went off. On target!
“FIRE!”
“ON THE WAAAAAY!”
The image of the T-72 disappeared before Bannon’s eye in a flash and cloud of smoke as Folk loosed his first round, sending the tank rocking back as the gun recoiled and spit out the spent shell casing. Without needing to be told, Kelp hit the ammo door switch with his knee, causing it to slide open with a sharp bang. He hauled out the next round, loaded the gun, and armed it even before the dust and obscuration of their first round had dissipated. When it did, the T-72 with the mine roller was stopped, broadside to Alpha 66, and was burning furiously.
“TARGET — CEASE FIRE.” They had drawn their first blood. “STAND BY GUNNER.”
Bannon popped his head up to get a quick overall picture of what was going on. Just as he did, Alpha 33 fired a HEAT-T round at a BMP. He watched the tracer streak towards the target and impact with a bright orange flash and black ball of smoke. The BMP lurched forward another few meters then stopped, quivered, and began to burn. Bannon next turned his attention to the valley floor and opposite slope, watching that scene repeated again and again. In the few instances when the first round missed a BMP, the BMP would turn away from the impact. This maneuver, however, only added a few more seconds to its life and that of its crew because the second round usually found its mark. He watched as two BMPs, madly scrambling to avoid being hit, rammed each other and stopped. This calamity only made it easier for Team Yankee’s gunners, as both BMPs died within seconds of each other, locked together in a fiery death.
By now the crest of the far hill had all but disappeared from view. The smoke and DPICM were doing their jobs. So far, nothing had followed the Soviet command group down. It had scattered in an effort to avoid being hit, but to no avail. The BMP belonging to the command group was lying on its side, a track hanging off and burning. The tank that had been with it had also been hit, but had only shed its right track. It stood, immobile but defiant, returning fire towards the headquarters position. This uneven contest, however, did not last long. In return, the T-72 received a TOW missile that detonated near the turret ring. The resulting secondary detonations caused by stored onboard munitions ripped the turret off with a thunderous explosion.
“I have a BMP in my sights, can I engage?” an impatient Folk called out over the intercom.
Bannon knelt down, glanced at Kelp to ensure he was clear, checked that the gun was armed, and gave the command to fire. Folk gave an on-the-way and fired. As before, the rock and recoil shook the tank. A quick glance in the extension told Bannon Folk had been on the mark again. Another BMP crew and infantry squad had become heroes of the Soviet Union, posthumously. With the need to keep track of what the entire Team was doing, Bannon decided to give his gunner free rein to engage any targets he could find. “Gunner, find your own targets, if there are any left, and engage at will. Just make sure you’re not killing dead tracks.”
“Yes, sir!” His reply had a glee in it that reminded Bannon of a teenager who had just been given the keys to the family car.
With that taken care of, Bannon popped up again to survey the battlefield. The devastation in the valley was awesome. Over twenty armored vehicles lay strewn there, dismembered, twisted, burning hulks. Folk had nothing to engage. The lead echelon of the motorized battalion had been annihilated. Six T-72 tanks, sixteen BMPs, a BTR-60, a ZSU 23-4, and an MTU bridge launcher, along with almost two hundred Russian soldiers, were gone. The engagement had lasted less than four minutes. Team Yankee had won its first battle.
CHAPTER 3
CHANGE OF MISSION
When the decision to evacuate American military dependents from Europe was finally made after countless delays and false starts, there was a rush of frantic and seemingly uncoordinated activity to get it done before hostilities broke out. The drive to Rhein-Main, which normally took one hour, took nearly four as the buses carrying Pat Bannon and her fellow evacuees from the housing area to the Air Base fought traffic on the autobahn all the way. The regular German police, reinforced with military personnel, had established checkpoints along the route where an NCO on the bus had to present his paperwork before being cleared through. At one of these stops, Pat noticed that the Germans were retaining several people. On the autobahn’s median, cross the roadway from where they were being guarded, was a stationary car riddled with bullet holes. Next to it a white sheet with red blotches covered a mound. No one on the bus around Pat could imagine what the car’s occupants could have done to cause the Germans to fire on them. Whatever the reason, the fact that the Germans were ready to use their ever-present submachine guns highlighted the seriousness of their situation.
The last checkpoint was at the main gate of Rhein-Main. Before the bus was allowed to enter, Air Force security personnel boarded the bus and checked everyone’s ID card. They, too, had their weapons at the ready. As this was going on, Pat noticed a German military policeman at the gate was questioning two women off to one side, leaving her to wonder if the women were German nationals trying to get out with the US families.
Beyond the gate, the Air Base was swarming with activity. At one intersection the bus was stopped while a line of trucks filled with American troops coming up from the flight line and heading to a back gate rolled by. They had to be reinforcements from the States, Pat reasoned, deployed to Germany as part of the REFORGER program. With luck the dependents would be flown back on the same planes that were bringing these troops in, causing her to hope this nightmare was nearing its end. At least they were now at the last stop on this side of the Atlantic.