A tank was advancing directly towards him with a squad of soldiers following close behind. He laid a fresh magazine on the sandbag beside him and hummed a refrain from an old song. “Non je ne regrette rien,”
Allston reacted instinctively without thinking, the product of years of training and experience. He had a mental image of the battle around him that few men ever achieve in combat. It was reality, focused and fine tuned, and made the difference between life and death. He was skimming the ground at 130 knots, a snail’s pace by his normal standards. But he was so low that the advancing tanks could not bring their weapons to bear. He turned towards them and overflew Vermullen’s DFP. “Lock and load,” he shouted at Williams. “We’re engaged.” Again, he ballooned the Porter into a left pylon turn, and two seconds later, Williams fired a missile. Submachine gun fire raked the side of the Porter as Allston dove for the ground.
Vermullen thumbed the FAMAS to single-shot and fired as Williams’ missile hit the tank. The soldiers firing at him disappeared in the tank’s fireball. Vermullen kept firing, methodically killing the soldiers around the second tank coming at him.
Allston flicked on his instrument lights to check for damage. In less than a second, he had scanned the instruments and turned the lights off. Everything was working as advertised. At the same time, he detected movement on the ground in his peripheral vision. He jinked the Porter hard, its wing tips almost hitting the low scrub below him, as he turned into the movement. A tank was less than a hundred yards away from Vermullen’s position. “Tank in sight,” he told Williams. They had three more missiles and he intended to use them. “Ready.”
A very weak “Ready” answered him.
“We’re engaged.” Again, he jinked hard as he turned into the tank. An inner voice warned him that the soldiers knew how he attacked, always turning to the left in a low pylon turn. “No turn this time,” he shouted. “Nail him as fast as you can.” There was no answer as he closed on the tank.
At four hundred meters, Allston lifted the Porter up to fifty feet and banked hard to his right, turning his tail to the tank. He stomped on the left rudder pedal and yawed the nose to the left as he played with the ailerons and power. The agile Porter skidded sideways, tracking away from the tank. He looked to his left and could see the tank at their eight o’clock position. “Fire!” he yelled. He was answered when the blowback from the missile shot out the right side of the cargo compartment. Allston did a hard reverse and looked to his right in time to see the tank disappear in a bright flash. The concussion rocked the Porter, and an eerie light revealed a scene of death and destruction. He jinked back to his left and his eyes swept the battlefield. The mental picture he held in his mind matched what he saw on the ground. Six tanks were burning in the night. The closest one was less than fifty yards from Vermullen’s foxhole. The four remaining tanks were retreating to the river, leaving the infantrymen behind. “You got ’em,” he shouted at Williams.
“Boss, I’m hurt,” Williams said. Allston could barely hear him and he twisted around. Williams was slumped forward over the launcher as blood spread across the cargo deck. Allston headed for the mission.
Vermullen jammed a fresh clip into his FAMAS and squeezed off a single round. His face was impassive as he picked off one man after another as they retreated. It was all in a day’s work. Smoke from the destroyed tank nearest him rolled across the terrain, blocking his aim. He rolled out of his foxhole and ran towards the burning tank, using the smoke as cover. He skirted the tank in time to see three soldiers running for the river, their backs to him. He thumbed the FAMAS to full automatic and cut them down as he ran. Ahead, he saw a single soldier. Vermullen snapped his short bayonet onto the barrel as he chased the man down. In his panic, the soldier never saw nor heard the killing machine that ran over him, driving the bayonet deep into his back. Vermullen stopped to wrench the bayonet free. A sixth sense tingled in his subconscious and he fell to the ground behind the dying soldier. A long burst of submachine gun fire cut into the soldier’s body. Vermullen squinted into the dark, finding the shooter. He lay motionless in the dark, his eyes locked on his target. His right hand moved slightly as he keyed his tactical radio. All jamming had stopped and the listening posts along the river reported in. The tanks were in the water and swimming for safety. “Do not let the stragglers escape,” he ordered.
Smoke rolled over him as he came to his feet and moved forward, stalking the man who had shot at him moments before.
Allston circled the mission looking for a place to land. He picked the road leading to the hospital and flicked on the Porter’s landing lights. He buzzed the road to clear off the two vehicles and the two dozen or so people heading for the hospital. He circled to land and stalled the aircraft just as he touched down. He stomped on the brakes, dragging the Porter to a halt in 250 feet. He had to swerve past a truck at the last minute and stopped outside the hospital. He shut the engine down and jumped out, pulling the unconscious Williams out of the cargo compartment. He carried him up the steps and into the waiting arms of a nurse and an orderly.
It was triage in the rough and the nurse quickly checked Williams’ breathing as the orderly applied pressure to the wound, slowing the flow of blood. She probed the gaping wound on his left side and made a decision. “He’s next. Take him inside.” She shined a flashlight on Allston, studying his face. “Your sergeant is a very lucky man,” she said. “You’re dehydrated. Drink some water.” She pointed to an old woman sitting on the veranda and tending a box filled with a hodgepodge of plastic water bottles. Then she was gone.
The woman handed Allston a water bottle and he sat on the hospital steps. He drained the bottle. The eastern horizon glowed with the first light of the new day. Heavy smoke from two burning buildings billowed past as Beck trudged towards him carrying Bouchard in a fireman’s carry across his shoulders. He was fatigued to the point of collapse and his steps were faltering. Allston rushed down to help him. “Wounded man!” Allston called. “We need help here.” The nurse was there with her orderly. She quickly examined the French officer, impressed with the way Beck had dressed his wounds.
“You, my gorgeous man,” she said to Bouchard, “are going to live, but you must wait for now.”
“Can I help?” Allston asked.
“Keep him company,” the nurse replied. She turned to the next arrivals. It was Malone and Ford with the wounded Dinka teenager. Again, the nurse performed triage. She shook her head and told Malone to take him to the far side of the veranda. “Did you get the armored car?” Allston asked.