Chapter 8
Just over the Inter-German Border
14 km South east of Fulda, FRG
27th Guards Motor Rifle Division Headquarters
4 August, 1985
1025 ZULU/1225 Local
Major General Alexandr Leontev, Soviet Army, was a very angry man. He was on a hill overlooking his engineers throwing a bridge over the Fulda River. It was three kilometers to the north of the embattled town, where the 900th Independent Air Assault Battalion was holding on against repeated American pressure by its very fingernails. They'd done a fine job of seizing the center of town, but the fact remained, if they weren't relieved by the end of the day, their position was hopeless. That was part of Leontev's job. But the going had been slow, and the American 11th Armored Cavalry (also known as the "Blackhorse") had sold themselves dearly to delay his advance. I was supposed to be in Fulda 8 hours ago!
So far, his war was one of frustration. His division, the 27th Guards Motor Rifles, was literally bleeding its way to the all-important town of Fulda, and in copious amounts. A good chunk of his division's reconnaissance battalion was burning wrecks, along with a 1/3rd of the division's advanced guard. He could still see the smashed and burning vehicles dotting the roads and dense woods, each one a grave for at least three of his men. What further fueled his frustration was that he'd seen precious few American or German wrecks or bodies in return.
There weren't enough good roads in this part of Germany, so the usual means of each regiment advancing on it's own axis of advance wasn't going to happen. No, those idiots at 8th Guards Army want to advance three divisions down a road network barely good enough for a fucking regiment! And what happened to Nastin over at 79th Guards Tank when he pointed it out? The chekists relieved him on the spot, shot him, and handed the division over to his deputy, who'd only been in the job a week, claiming he'd been spreading "defeatism." He'd known Igor Nastin for 30 years. Igor had been many things, defeatist? No. He was not a defeatist.
What disturbed Leontev the most was the sheer multitude of threats the Americans presented towards his tanks and armored vehicles. Everything from aircraft and attack helicopters, to artillery, to these "off route anti-tank mines" that had been responsible for the death of the commander of the division reconnaissance battalion. It was very difficult to counter all the threats the Americans were presenting. And Leontev was very sure this was just the tip of the iceberg.
Leontev heard a throat clear and a scuffing of feet. It was the divisional deputy commander, and the divisional intelligence officer. The deputy commander was a rat faced man by the name of Matroshkin. He was little more than a careerist who did not care one whit about the men, or the division. His time with the 27th was simply a stepping stone on the way to greater things, like a staff position at 8th Guards Army…or would have, had not the war inconvenienced his plans. Now we have a war, a real war, not chasing dushmen near Kandahar, Andrei Gerisomovich, will your careerism save you from an American anti-tank missile? For your sake, I do hope so.
The divisional intelligence officer, Chakovsky, was from an old military family. His blond hair was receding a bit, and he was greying at the temples, but the noble features of his line were still quite evident. His grandfather had served as an officer in the Czar's army, and then as a "military technician" for the Bolshiviks. His father had been a lieutenant in a rifle division when the purges began, and luckily for him, had only spent three years in a gulag before the Nazis came and he was hurriedly "rehabilitated" and sent to the front. The family, though, remained under suspicion until his father, then a colonel, died on the Seelow Heights in 1945, his rifle regiment breaking into the German defenses, and being posthumously decorated by Zhukov himself. His death, while unfortunate, made possible the younger Chakovsky to attend a Suvorov school, and then commissioning as a Tank officer. He'd had an average career, and a major, was filling a staff billet before being given a battalion. Leontev was seriously considering giving him the battered remains of the reconnaissance battalion and see what he could do with it.
"Comrade General, we have news about the 900th in Fulda." Chakovsky began, there was a sorrowful tone in his voice. "They're running low on ammunition, and expect to be overrun by the Americans in the next four to six hours."
Leontev swore softly. "And what of our comrades from Frontal Aviation? Haven't they found a way to keep the Americans back until we get there?"
"No, Comrade General, Frontal Aviation has done little more than embarrass itself over the battlefield. I personally have seen more NATO aircraft than our own."
"Damn," It seems I will have to give Chakovsky that command after all.
"Chakovsky, I want you to take command of the Divisional Reconnaissance Battalion, or what's left of it, reorganize it, and take under your command a company of tanks and motor rifles from the advanced guard, then find me a damned way into Fulda. I'll get you what support I can from here, but get it done, by nightfall, Comrade Major."
Chakovsky nodded, and made his way down the hill. Leontev looked after him, and wondered if Chakovsky would prove equal to the task. Matroshkin cleared his throat, and locked eyes with Leontev.
"Comrade General, he hasn't even attended Frunze! And he has is a tank officer who has had no idea how to coordinate with the divisional reconnaissance battalion."
Leontev gave Matroshkin a warning look. Matroshkin immediately clammed up as if he had been scalded. I am not in the mood for Matroshkin's whining. He will accept the actions I take, or he can deal with the chekists.
11km South East of Fulda
Tank D-55
Delta (Heavy) Troop, 1st Squadron, 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment
4 August, 1985
1040 ZULU/1240 Local
1st Lieutenant Michael Jordan "Mack" McKenzie, United States Army, shook his head at the mess that had ensued thus far. His view from the tank commander's cupola was a weary one, and the weight of his CVC helmet had begun to tell.
Mack's war had begun at 0330 that morning, when he saw the entire eastern sky light up like a patch of day. The Soviet prep barrage had so many guns opening fire, that one really couldn't tell individual guns from each other. When the shells came to earth…that was a really unpleasant memory. Even though an M1 isn't an easy target to hit with a given artillery round, if the shell was big enough, and in the right place? It would code out an M1.
That's what happened to Captain Dalton, the troop commander. A 152mm shell, as near as anyone could figure, hit the front top of the turret and exploded. Though it was a high explosive, or HE round, it still had enough power to blow through the thin top turret armor. The shell killed the entire turret crew instantly, and left the driver a deaf, staggering shell of a man who had had to be evacuated as a psychological casualty. It left the tank a burning, shattered wreck, the vehicle needed a new turret for it to ever function again, and there was a premium on those right now.
. 2 hours later, they had engaged their first Russians, a BRM CFV which they had easily disposed of with a shot from their 105mm main gun. That was the beginning of at least 8 hours of continuous combat without resupply or relief. His men were tired, their MOPP suits were stained with mud, grease and in some cases blood. And all he could promise them was more of the same.
Mack was relieved that his wife, Jodie, was out of danger, as she and the kids had been evacuated by her employer when the President had ordered all American service dependents and tourists out of the then potential war zone. Well, I guess we got that one right in time, for a change. She had insisted on staying, as she was a cub reporter for the Baltimore Sun, operating out of the AP branch office in Bonn, but the editor back in Baltimore agreed, as Jodie had just delivered a baby six months ago, and thus, Jodie, reluctantly, evacuated along with the other service dependents.
Mack rubbed his bloodshot eyes and his ebon skin was dusky with exhaustion. They'd been dueling with the advanced guards of at least 2-3 Soviet divisions. It had been simple affair, with only another M1 immobilized, and forced to be abandoned. The crew hadn't been so lucky, as they had been machine gunned attempting to leave their broken down vehicle. The Soviets were nothing, if not relentless, and Mack hadn't seen any ammunition resupply all day, which concerned him, what with rumors of Soviet paratroopers in Fulda itself.
Mack had selected a series of low wooded hills that overlooked some broken ground for about 3000 meters until it led to a long tree line to the east. He'd hoped the thermal sights his M1s had would compensate for the depth of the forest to his front, but the Soviets would barely be stopped by a slightly understrength tank company with little if any support, and dwindling ammunition supplies. Where the fuck is First Sergeant Jimenez and the LOG detachment? Last he'd heard, "Top" and the LOG detachment was heading for the ASP (Ammunition Supply Point) that had been established near a town whose name escaped Mack for the time being. That had been four hours ago. For all I know, Soviet air or artillery got him. Mack and the rest of the company, now 10 tanks in all, had dug in as best as they could, but the scrapes they had managed to make weren't as good hull down positions as the ones a good bulldozer from the engineers could create. But, in the meantime, it would have to do.
The radio crackled with reports from the 4th Squadron's helicopters dueling with the Soviet divisions to Mack's front. As near as he could tell from the hash of voices and jamming, the Soviets were 2-3km away, and closing fast. The Soviets could arrive in minutes, and they weren't ready. They just weren't ready. My instructors in ROTC and AOBC never told me there'd be days like this. Fortunately, Mack and the rest of the 11th, wasn't supposed to stop the Soviets, just slow them down and bleed them long enough that when they handed the battle over to the rest of V Corps, that the Russian fangs had been well and truly pulled. Or, at least that's how it's supposed to work. For as bad as the fighting was here, he'd heard it was a real horror show up north, with the Brits and Germans under heavy pressure, and a Dutch division being destroyed piecemeal west of Bremen.
Mack's reverie was disturbed with a shout from the loader's hatch of his tank. "El-tee! We got a contact report from those choppers out front! Sounds like Ivan's headed our way, in force!" his loader, a tough kid from the Bronx named Crosetti exclaimed. Crosetti had joined the Army for the usual reasons, to get out of a bad neighborhood and he thought he was tough, the drill sergeants at Fort Knox disabused him of the latter however. But right now, SP4 Crosetti was as nervous as could be, he'd done a silly thing just before all had gone to hell in Jugoslavia. He'd fallen in love. And worse, it was a German girl from Fulda. Crosetti had been worrying himself sick about it, and his usual steady nature had become a jumpy and touchy nature.
"Coming Crosetti, tell those helo guys to wait one?" Mack exclaimed as he jogged the twenty feet to his tank at a dead run. He clambered onto the tank and scrambled up the turret face with practiced ease as Crosetti handed him the intercom cable to plug into his CVC.
As Mack did, the airwaves were chaos, with squeals and pops from jamming attempts from both sides, and a half dozen radio conversations bleeding into each other. Mack motioned to Crosetti to adjust the radio settings and he finally acquired the frequency for the 4th Squadron's helicopters in front of his position.
RAPIER SIX, THIS IS SADDLE TWO-ACTUAL, I HAVE A CONTACT REPORT FOR YOU. PERMISSION TO SEND, OVER?
Mack keyed the mike, SADDLE TWO, SEND YOUR TRAFFIC.
SIX, WE RAN INTO THE LEADING ELEMENTS OF AT LEAST TWO, REPEAT TWO MOTOR RIFLE DIVISIONS, WE ESTIMATE PROBABLY A SHORT REGIMENT, WITH A BATTALION ADVANCING ON BOTH ROAD AXES, YOU'VE GOT AT LEAST AN OVERSTRENGTH BATTALION HEADED YOUR WAY, OVER.
Mack sighed, Awesome, how in the hell am I supposed to stop an over strength Soviet battalion with 10 tanks? Not good, not good at all. He keyed the mike again. TWO, DID YOU GUYS SLOW THEM DOWN AT ALL, OVER?
SIX, WE SURE AS HELL TRIED. WE LOST TWO COBRAS FROM MY COMPANY TO ZSU FIRE, AND ANOTHER TO MANPADS. ESTIMATE WE GOT CLOSE TO A COMPANY OF IVANS THOUGH, SO WE DID HURT THEM, BUT EVEN SO, IT LOOKS LIKE THEY ARE GOING TO BYPASS YOU TO THE NORTH. SIX, I AM NOT YOU, BUT MY ADVICE IS TO GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE FOR YOUR NEXT SET OF POSITIONS BEFORE THEY CUT YOU OFF, OVER.
Mack's brows furrowed. Good advice, but I can't raise anyone at Squadron or Regiment at all. And I am not going to tuck tail and run without telling someone. Damned if I do, Damned if I don't. Sorry Jodie, you and Melanie are just going to have to understand. I have to stick it out here till someone relieves me, or tells me to haul ass out of here. 3rd Herd, where the hell are you?
TWO, CAN YOU RAISE ANY SHERIDAN OR SHERMAN CALLSIGNS? OVER?
NEGATIVE, SIX, I CAN'T GET ANYBODY BUT YOU AND A FEW OTHER GROUND CALLSIGNS, I CAN'T EVEN RAISE MY OWN SQUADRON CALLSIGNS. IT'S CHAOS OUT THERE. OVER?
TWO, IF YOU CAN TRY ONE MORE RUN ON IVAN FOR US, WE'D APPRECIATE IT. BE CAREFUL, OVER?
SIX, WE'LL GIVE IT THE OLD COLLEGE TRY, BUT JUST SO YOU KNOW, THIS MIGHT BE OUR LAST TRANSMISSION. BUT, I ALWAYS DID LIKE A FIGHT. OVER.
TWO, WE'LL KEEP THE LIGHT ON FOR YOU, GOOD LUCK AND GOOD HUNTING, OUT.
Mack turned to Crosetti, "Hollis and Washington ready?"
"Taking a nap boss, I was on radio watch." Crosetti responded.
"Ok, wake em, and close 'er up. We have company coming and I don't want to be unprepared for them. Clear?"
Crosetti nodded, then dropped down into the tank, nudging the tank's gunner, a small brown-haired fireplug of a man named Hollis awake. He awoke with a start, as he almost shouted as Mack clambered down into the turret, dogging the hatch behind him with a series of noisy clanks. "Good dream, Hollis?"
"Um, yeah, sir. Ivan coming?"
"Yeah, a battalion plus of him, I need you up in under a minute."
They say nothing focuses a man more than the idea of his hanging. Or, in Hollis's case, the news that there was a battalion of Soviet tanks headed for him and his tank, doing their level best to kill him. His fingers sprinted through the function checks for the gunfire control system and the test circuits for the main gun. All came back normal and ready to fight. "Gunner up, Boss!"
DRIVER UP, EL-TEE! Mack's headphones echoed. That was the driver, SP4 Darius Washington, a kid from Detroit on his first real assignment out of AIT. And he too was scared out of his mind. His father was a preacher, and he had called the Soviet prep barrage that had killed Captain Dalton a "glimpse of hell."
"Loader up!" Crosetti shouted. His tone was nervous tinged with excitement.
Mack keyed his mike and spoke over the freq to the troop. THIS IS SIX TO ALL RAPIER CALL SIGNS. STAND-TO, I SAY AGAIN, STAND-TO. THERE IS A SOVIET TANK BATTALION WITH RECON ASSETS APPROXIMATELY TWO THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED METERS TO OUR FRONT. ANNOUNCE WHEN YOUR TANKS ARE UP AND AS SOON AS THEY ARE, HEAD FOR YOUR POSITIONS. WE WILL OPEN FIRE AT SIXTEEN HUNDRED METERS. FIRE YOUR FIRST ROUND WHEN I DO. GET READY TO DISPLACE AS SOON AS YOU FIRE YOUR SECOND ROUND. GOOD LUCK TO US ALL, SIX OUT.
10 minutes later
Mack was sweating buckets due to a mix of nerves and the fact that his MOPP overgarment had a nasty ability to become little more than a sauna for the wearer. He thanked God that he didn't have to mask and put on his gloves, the heat would be unbearable then. He looked through his commander's sights, and began to see small columns of white smoke advancing through the small valleys and above the treetops. Each of those smoke columns was a Soviet tank. They were injecting fuel onto the engine manifold to make smoke to cover their advance. But, the M1 had an answer for that.
"Hollis, can we see those bastards on thermal?"
"Sure can, El-Tee, but the imagery kinda sucks, can't tell a T-72 from a BMP out there."
Mack cracked a feral smile. "Ok, lase somebody likely and give me the range."
"Gotcha boss"
Hollis lased a target that looked something like a tank in the green black world of the thermal sight. Thermal sights could see through a lot, as long as the target radiated heat. Trouble was, the resolution wasn't the best, and finer points of a target didn't resolve. There were rumors the British thermals were better, but sadly, Hollis didn't have those, so he'd have to work with what he had. He pushed a button on his firing grips, and this triggered the laser rangefinder, which measured the distance to the unknown target, which in this case, turned out to be a Soviet T-64, the laser beam struck the target on the front hull, and the return was noticed by the gunfire control system, which dutifully calculated the range at 1750 meters.
"1750 meters boss."
"Thanks Hollis, Corsetti, do we have AP up?"
Corsetti looked at the main gun indicator, and noting it said AP, turned back and nodded to Mack.
"Ok, steady guys…they'll be coming to us. Hollis, keep giving me ranging data every 10 seconds or so."
"Roger that, El-Tee." Hollis responded. "El-Tee?"
"Yeah Hollis?"
"Think we'll stop 'em, or is it going to take…?"
"Rather not think about that right now, Hollis. Get on your sight and range the bastards."
"1700"
"1680"
"1650"
"1625"
"Hollis, fire at will when they reach 1600 meters."
Hollis nodded, but his main attention was to his gunsight, where he tracked what he hoped was a Soviet tank. The turret smoothly slew in conjunction with his movements, whirring imperceptibly as it tracked the heat signature in Hollis's sight.
"1600! FIRE!" Hollis yelled
"GUN UP!" Crosetti replied
"ON THE WAY!" Hollis yelled and in one fluid moment, pulled the triggers on his firing grips, a WHAM reverberated through the tank as the 105mm main gun bucked and shook the tank with a considerable recoil. Hollis's sight went bright green for a moment, and then cleared. He was rewarded with an unmistakable image. A burning Soviet vehicle. The smoke from the now-dead vehicle streamed from the dead Soviet vehicle like water from a spigot. A secondary explosion glowed green in the sight as the turret flew off of the now dead vehicle, marking the dead vehicle unmistakeably as a tank.
As that occurred, the other nine tanks of Delta Troop fired as one, and six more Soviet vehicles fireballed in gouts of smoke and flame, in several cases, the T-64s had the turrets fly off after a series of explosions. One T-64 took a glancing hit from a 105mm on the glacis, and stopped, with the crew popping the hatches and abandoning their tank as fast as they could.
The Soviets, realizing they were in a kill zone, did the only thing they thought they could do, they increased speed to close with the unknown American force, and began to fire wildly on the move. The fire was inaccurate, but there was a lot of it, as geysers of sand and dirt erupted around Delta Troop's positions. As the Soviet vehicles increased speed, they quickly cleared the woodline, and became visible to the M1s optical sights. Mack grimaced, as this worked both ways, if he could see them, then the Soviets could see him. He grabbed the turret override handles and searched for a likely target, and he found one, a T-64 that was advancing head on.
"Gunner, Target, Tank, 11 O' Clock, Load Sabot."
Hollis responded "Identified" which mean he saw the target and was beginning the process of "engaging" it.
Crosetti reached back to the rear of the turret, grabbed a sabot round and wrestled it into the breach of the main gun. He then seated the round, and rammed the round home with his right arm, and swung the breach upward, while yelling "Up!"
Mack then shouted "Fire!"
Hollis responded with the words "On the way!" and pressed the triggers on his turret grips, which triggered the main gun with a loud report, just as the Soviet tank got a round off as well, The American round hit high on the left side of the turret, and the T-64 caught fire immediately, and quickly slew off to the left, quivering from the spontaneous detonation of multiple main gun rounds.
But the Soviet round also struck true, smashing into the main gun and knocking it out of battery. The turret shook like a bone in a terrier's mouth, and Crosetti fell onto the turret deck, breaking his right wrist.
"Washington, get us out of here, fall back to the alternate position by the road!" But Washington was was not answering to anyone, even Mack. More Soviet tanks were coming, and they were firing on the move, and with the M1 unable to move, sooner or later, one of those rounds was going to find a weak spot. The decision pained Mack, but he figured better to fight another day, than die with the tank at this point. "Everyone out, Hollis, check on Crosetti. Crosetti as soon as you can, help me rig the SOI to burn and then grab the small arms and other gear. We'll leave via the loader's hatch and make our way to the woodline off to the West, it was what, about 500 meters, Hollis?
"What about Washington? El-tee?" Hollis inquired.
"He's coming with us, dead or alive."
"El-Tee, if he's dead, we'd be better off leaving him..." Crosetti began, but trailed off after he saw the look on Mack's face.
After a few moments, they had grabbed all the gear they needed, left the SOI in torn sheets, ready to be burned by a thermite grenade, they had also left the ammunition storage door open, hoping the rounds would detonate from the fire, and render the tank unusable. Crosetti left first, with Mack next, and Hollis after him, Mack and Hollis clambered over the tank to the driver's hatch, and pried it open. Washington looked up neck was clearly broken, and his head had smashed against the instrument panel from the force of the main gun round hitting the tank. Mack looked at Crosetti and Hollis..they both shook their heads; We won't get far lugging his body with us.
Hollis muttered "Shit, El-Tee, we'd better get the hell out of here."
Mack reached down, and closed Washington's sightless eyes, he then yanked free Washington's dog tags, then clambered back up onto the turret deck, pulling the pin on a thermite grenade, which he then casually dropped down the open loader's hatch. Mack sincerely hoped the SOI and the tank burned nicely. "Let's get the hell out of here!" he barked.
The trio jumped down off the tank, and ran quickly, the Soviet tanks too busy to notice them as they drove westward. They were armed rather poorly, with an M3 Grease Gun and two .45 pistols between the three of them, but at least they were armed. Mack hoped they didn't run into a Soviet Motor Rifle squad, as any firefight would be rather one sided.
They made the woods without incident, and skidded down a culvert into a wooded and muddy ravine. They looked at each other, and nodded, they'd hug the ravine going west, and hope for the best. Mack knew from his own map that the ravine stretched for a good two miles, so assuming friendlies were not that far off, it was a doable exercise to make it out of the mess they found themselves in, Mack couldn't know two things. First, a Soviet Motor Rifle company was being brought in to clear the woods, and second, only six tanks of Delta Troop had survived the latest battle. But, they had destroyed half a Soviet battalion in the process and bought 3rd Armored Division another precious couple of hours.
