Second Platoon’s situation, meanwhile, is dire. There is a huge enemy force directly in their path and another right behind them, and Bowman has seconds to make a decision.
One final rule of command: A good leader must do whatever it takes.
“Who’s holding M203s?”
The boys come forward while Martin and Boomer deploy the M240 machine gun against their pursuers to buy some time. The air fills with the thirty-cal’s staccato bark.
He tells them: “Load up with Willy Pete.”
The boys do what they’re told, loading their grenade launchers with WP grenades. White phosphorous burns fast and produces an instant cloud of smoke, making good smoke grenades. But it also ferociously consumes anything combustible and the only way to stop it burning is to smother it.
As a result, it is one of the most controversial potential anti-personnel weapons available, but ideal for the Captain’s purpose. The grenades will kill and maim many of the Mad Dogs directly and produce so much smoke that the platoon will have a chance of blasting its way through while the enemy is confused and partially blinded.
“Satisfactory, sir,” Kemper says, nodding, then issues his own orders.
The boys break apart, some going forward and some back to the rear.
They shoot.
The grenades arc high into the air and land in the midst of the Maddy column moving into its right turn onto Eighth Avenue. The WP rounds burst, burning fiercely amid the tightly packed Mad Dogs, setting many of them on fire and turning them into screeching human torches while blinding others with instant banks of smoke.
“Go, go, go!” Kemper roars.
“We get through these Maddies, and we’ve reached the Circle!” Bowman promises.
“Hooah!” the boys shout, rushing forward in a line bristling with bayonets, firing as they move, dropping Mad Dogs by the dozen.
“We’re coming in, Vaughan!” Bowman shouts into his mike.
Roger that, out.
Blasting their way past the intersection, they sprint the last block, gasping for air, finally catching sight of Vaughan’s boys formed up in a square formation ahead.
“HOOAH!” Vaughan’s boys cheer, some of them breaking off firing to stand and make a hole, raising their caps and weapons as Second Platoon joins forces with them.
“Boy, are we glad to see you guys,” Bailey yells, coming to a stop and coughing a massive wad of phlegm onto the ground. “Now where do you need my SAW?”
Bowman approaches Lieutenant Vaughan, who stands scowling at the battle with his cheek bulging with Copenhagen dip. The men salute, then shake hands warmly.
“Vaughan, this is your show. Where do you want us?”
The LT shrugs. “We’re pretty much surrounded, so pick your own ground, sir.”
Bowman nods and raises an eyebrow. “Mike?”
“We’ll take the east and get in this game if you can hold the other sides,” Kemper says. “The men are tired of running and they’re itching to kick Maddy’s ass.”
“Roger that, First Sergeant,” Vaughan says, and then they part ways to give their orders and place their squads.
Bowman deeply admires the LT. Getting his unit out of the grave Knight dug for them was nothing short of incredible. The other newly promoted lieutenants immediately named him their leader to create a unified command. Leapfrogging east, he found a building they could pass through. As each squad fell back from the front in the collapsing bag, they entered the building, cut through, and came out the other side, rallying in an empty street a block away from danger. Even the last squad got out without casualties. That was before almost every street in the area became jammed with snarling Mad Dogs.
Only Knight died, giving his life for his men. Or at least that is how Vaughan put it. All sorts of things happen in the field. You take a bunch of boys armed to the teeth and put them in an extreme situation where they are desperate to stay alive, and all sorts of things happen, Bowman knows. He knows all too well.
The soldiers deploy quickly, the formation shifting and growing larger as Second Platoon takes over the eastern edge of the square, with the MG rocking at the northeast corner and two of the SAWs at the other. The Mad Dogs continue pressing in, coming in waves. The square lights up with muzzle flashes, coughing clouds of smoke into the air.
“Reloading!”
“Frag out!”
Several soldiers scramble out of the way of the back blast of an AT4.
“Fire in the hole!”
Lewis is pacing behind his squad, observing their fire, offering suggestions to his boys. Kemper stands nearby, shouting, “Don’t waste your ammo! One bullet per Maddy, in the chest! Put him down and move on! Make every bullet count!”
This is it, Bowman tells himself. The Alamo. The final battle.
We can do this.
“Reloading!”
The Mad Dogs come out of the smoke drifts, their legs splashing through an apocalyptic sea of blood and writhing limbs, their eyes burning with hatred and their mouths contorted with pain and rage.
An endless tide of gray faces.
The boys pour fire into their unprotected bodies without mercy, knowing they are fighting a war of extermination.
Empty shell casings fly into the air and clatter to the concrete, rolling away to form piles around the feet of the formation. Tracers stream through the clouds of smoke. Grenades explode in fireballs and plumes of smoke, flinging torn and broken bodies to the ground. An anti-tank missile bursts in a blinding flash, sweeping the southeastern quadrant of the Circle clear of life for several seconds, leaving a thick smoky haze.
The final battle.
We can do this. . . .
This is Bowman’s mantra—his prayer.
It only takes minutes, however, for the battle to turn against them.
One by one, the boys lower their weapons and cry, “I’m out!”
The fire begins to slacken. Anti-tank rocket launchers are discarded after they fire their last missiles. Grenades begin to run out. Magazines are passed from hand to hand. Some of the boys curse and struggle with jammed weapons. Others stand stoically, carbine held in the ready position for bayonet fighting, waiting for the end. Many turn to their Captain with pale faces, looking for an answer, any answer, other than death. They are afraid to die.
“It’s like Steve said once,” Bowman says. “There just aren’t enough bullets.”
He leans his empty carbine against the base of the statue and blows air out of his cheeks.
“This is going to hurt a lot,” he mutters, shivering a little despite himself. He unholsters his two nine-millimeters, holding one in each fist, and waits for the end.
He finds himself fixating on tiny details: Broken windows in one of the buildings across the street. Pale faces looking down. The trembling leaves of the skinny trees planted around the statue. The inviting green of the Park across the street to the northeast, where the massive Maine monument stands, honoring the valiant seamen who perished in the maine by fate unwarned, in death unafraid. Time dilates: The minutes appear to stretch into hours.
The Mad Dogs continue to die like flies but they are closer now, pushing through the haze, waiting patiently for their moment.
Bowman calls out: “Lieutenant Vaughan!”
“Sir?”
“See that building directly to the west of our position. The Time Warner Center?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s the rally point. Perhaps some of us can make it through. Pass the word.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kemper and Lewis join him, and he tells them the plan. The building looks so close. It’s right across the street.
“I can get my boys there,” Lewis says, his eyes blazing. “I know I can.”