Instead of going to the terminal, however, the buses dropped them off at the post gym, already crowded to near capacity by other dependents who had arrived there earlier. On the gym floor, rows of cots with blankets had been set up. As at the post theater back in the housing area where the wives and children belonging to her husband’s unit had gathered before departing the housing area, the families were grouped by unit. Some of the women from the battalion who had come up on the first group of buses had established an area for the families from each of the units. The new arrivals were informed that since the terminal was already overflowing with evacuees, they had would need to stay there until it was their turn to go. At least, Pat was told, the Air Force personnel running the evacuation were proving to be more helpful than the Army community personnel. The biggest problem they were facing was dealing with the sudden rush of families that were being dumped at Rhein-Main. One Air Force officer had told them that the people in the gym probably wouldn’t leave until the morning.
The thought of this annoyed Pat. Having geared herself up for the final leap, the idea they would have to spend a night in an open gym with hundreds of other dejected and anxious people was disheartening. It seemed that every new move only added more stress and pressure. Unfortunately, however deplorable their plight was, she, like the others, had no choice but endure it as best she could. She had to. A little group that was growing was now depending on her. Jane Ortelli, the wife of Sean’s tank driver had joined them at the post theater before boarding the buses. The nineteen-year-old mother had never been out of the state of New Jersey until she came over to Germany. Through the ordeal back at the post theater, during the ride to Rhein-Main, and in the gym, she clutched her four-month-old baby as a child would a teddy bear for security and comfort.
A little girl named Debby had also joined the group. Debby’s only parent was a medic who had been deployed to the border with everyone else. Fran Wilson, who followed Pat everywhere she went like a stray puppy, had volunteered to escort the eight-year-old girl back to the States where her grandparents would meet her.
And then there was Sue Garger, lost, bewildered, and just as afraid and worried as the rest. The only difference between her and Pat was she made no effort to hide her feelings.
Pat and her group established themselves a little area by taking eight of the cots and pushing them together. The four adults stationed themselves on the corner cots and put the children in the middle. Jane kept her baby with her, not wanting to part for a moment with the only thing of value she had on earth. Sarah, overcoming her apprehensions, insisted on having her own cot, just like her brothers. Sean and Debby stayed together. Sean, despite being a year younger, took over the role of big brother and helped Debby. He tried to explain everything to her like his father had to him, even though he had scant idea what he was talking about. Debby would listen intently to every word as if it were gospel, then ask Sean another question. But at least Debby was talking now and seemed to be more at ease. Kurt insisted on staying near his buddy, Sue Wilson. He was enjoying all the attention she was lavished upon him and she, someone she could care for.
There was little rest that night. Fear, apprehension, discomfort, and a desire to get on with the evacuation kept the adults awake while the adventure of the trip kept the children alert and active. Some of the adults talked in hushed voices, seeking company and escape from their fears. Others simply withdrew into themselves, no longer able to cope with the grim reality they found themselves facing. Pat took solace in pray and the hope that all this would end tomorrow. It had to. There was only so much more that she could give. It had to end, soon. Otherwise she would break down and take to mewling ceaselessly like one woman, somewhere in the gym, was doing. Only exhaustion allowed her to get a few hours’ sleep.
Movement to the terminal began early. Groups left in the order in which they arrived. Pat and her little group had time for breakfast before their turn. Everyone was tired. It had been nearly impossible for anyone to get a good night’s rest, cold meals, little sleep, overcrowded conditions, wearing the same clothes they had slept in, and the trauma of the whole ordeal had worn women and children down to the point of exhaustion. Pat could not remember a time when she had been more tired and miserable.
The passage of thousands of evacuees before them had left its mark on the terminal. The clean, modern building that had greeted Pat and Sean on their arrival in Germany was now strewn with litter, discarded blankets, clothes, and trash bins overflowing with used disposable diapers. Those who had left the gym before them were inside the terminal mixing with the evacuees that had spent the night there. Looking around as they entered, Pat decided that as miserable a night the gym had been, staying here would have been worse.
At the door, an airman took their names, gave them a roster number, and directed them to the second floor where they would wait until their numbers were called. From the second floor at least the children would be entertained, for the view beyond the plate glass windows allowed them to look out onto the airfield and watch the aircraft coming and going. Pat, eager to see an end to this ordeal, joined them.
To one side of the flight line she could see trucks and buses cued up and waiting as a C-141 transport taxied to a stop. Just as fascinated as the children, she watched as its large clamshell doors opened, reminding her of an alligator she’d seen at the Frankfort Zoo at feeding time. Only instead of consuming the waiting trucks, as soon as the cargo ramp was down, troops began to double time out and fall in on their NCOs, forming squads and platoons. Once formed, they headed toward the trucks, one platoon at a time.
While the troops were still deplaning, Air Force personnel scrambled out to service the aircraft. A fuel truck lumbered up and began to refuel the aircraft. Everyone seemed anxious to get the C-141 turned around and on its way.
Inside the terminal, a female voice began to call out roster numbers over the PA and give instructions. None of Pat’s little group heard their numbers called. So they stayed where they were and watched the lucky ones move onto the airfield, form into two lines, and move out to the C-141. By the time they’d reached it, the ground crew was finishing up and moving into position to service a huge C-5 that had just landed. The sight of that plane caused excitement. Turning toward Pat, Fran said she was sure they would be able to get on that one. Pat simply smiled as she prayed they would.
For a moment there was almost total silence in the valley in front of Team Yankee’s positions. It was a dull, numb silence that comes after you have endured prolonged exposure to a deafening noise. The crackle and popping of stored small arms ammunition igniting in the burning Soviet tracks, accompanied by an occasional rumble as a main gun round cooked off were the only sound that rose from the valley. Distance and CVCs hid the moans and screams of agony of those Soviet crewman who were wounded or burning to death in their disabled tracks.
The report of a machinegun off to his right alerted Bannon to the fact that not all the Soviets were hors de combat. He watched as a stream of tracers struck short, then climbed into a group of four Russians trying to make their way back up the hill across from the Team’s positions. As soon as the shooter had found the range, he let go a long killing burst in the center of the group. While many of rounds did nothing but kick up dirt, enough found their mark, sending the Russians either jerking wildly like a puppet whose strings were being yanked or simply tumbling over, head over heel.