by Walt Gragg
Walton couldn’t know it, but Sanchez’s rumor was, in fact, true. A brigade from the 3rd Infantry was rolling across the monumental sands at that moment. They were ten hours from relieving the battered battalion.
All the 1st Cavalry soldiers needed to do was live that long.
Because despite appearances the enemy wasn’t sleeping.
* * *
—
Deep inside the hastily constructed command bunker, the argument had been raging for hours among the Iraqi leadership.
“Omar, sit down, you’re making a fool of yourself,” Lieutenant Colonel Yousef Haddad said. “The men are weary of all this killing. They need to rest. Why don’t we let them get some sleep? Paradise can wait for a few hours more.”
But his best friend and fellow battalion commander, Omar Suradein wasn’t about to be silenced. “We’re nearly there. I can sense it. Victory’s within our grasp. The Americans have suffered many losses. They’re as exhausted as we are. And they grow weaker with each attack. If we concentrate everything we have at one key position, we can break through. Once we do, we’ll dash across the desert before anyone figures out what’s happened. By this time tomorrow, we’ll be setting fire to the Saudi oil fields. Won’t that be a pretty sight? Come on, where’s your courage? The Iranian infantry’s ready. They’ve even got one of their martyr battalions prepared to show the way. All they’re waiting for is our tanks to back them up.”
“Omar, the men are tired. And like our previous assaults, this one calls for bravery. Tired men are not courageous men. Many have lost their taste for the fight. They need to sleep if they’re going to rebuild their strength. Let’s go to bed. We can die as easily in the sunlight as we can now.”
“Cowards! Every one of you is nothing more than a coward. I’m ashamed to call myself an Iraqi soldier. Our friends the Iranians are willing to find a blissful beyond this night if that’s what Allah wishes. Their martyrs are eager to lead. The political officers have brought them to a fever pitch. There’ll be plenty of time to sleep in the honored place we go, my friends. And beautiful virgins to share our beds for eternity. Hear this, each of you, my battalion’s going to start its engines this instant. I’ve got thirty-six T-72s ready to support our courageous allies in their holy venture.”
“Omar, if you insist on this foolish thing, let me call for artillery. We’ll soften the Americans before you attack. Maybe we can find a few helicopters to support your operation.”
“Allah’s true believers need nothing to aid their efforts. Save the artillery shells and helicopters for your soldiers. Maybe after they’re given such help and a few days to relax, they’ll be brave enough to attack the heretics whose presence forever stains the Prophet Muhammad’s sacred homeland.”
Suradein stormed out. It wouldn’t be long before his tanks would be supporting a five-thousand-man Iranian infantry brigade’s attack on the American lines.
The Iranian plan was to first send one of their martyr battalions to cause the enemy to expend the majority of his munitions. With their opponent weakened, they’d concentrate everything they had against a single position in the defenders’ lines.
That position was being held by Walton’s platoon.
There would be no rest for the fatigued platoon sergeant on this night.
27
2:42 A.M., OCTOBER 19
4TH PLATOON, ALPHA TROOP, 1ST BATTALION, 5TH CAVALRY REGIMENT, 1ST HEAVY BRIGADE COMBAT
(IRONHORSE), 1ST CAVALRY DIVISION
OUTSIDE SAKAKAH, SAUDI ARABIA
Walton’s eyes momentarily closed.
“Sarge!” Sanchez called out. “Sarge, we’ve got company.”
“What? Where?”
“Where? There’s movement everywhere I look. Got to be at least a battalion of infantry out there, maybe more. Looks like they’re preparing to attack.”
Just then, three dozen T-72 engines roared to life. The first of the hideous tanks crept toward the front lines.
“Aw, shit. They’re bringing their Iraqi friends again.” Walton spoke into the radio. “Two-Six, this is Alpha-Four-Five. Two-Six, this is Alpha-Four-Five.”
Three miles south, the call was answered. “Roger, Alpha-Four-Five,” the familiar voice of the battalion radio operator said.
“Two-Six, be advised we’ve got a strong infantry force directly in front of us. They’re getting ready to attack. Sounds like lots of armored vehicles headed this way too. Request immediate air support.”
“Okay, Alpha-Four-Five. I’ll call for fighters. Then I’ll wake the battalion commander and see if he’ll release our last three Apaches to hold them until the jet jockeys arrive.”
“While you’re at it, Two-Six, can you scrounge up some ammunition for our Bushmaster cannons, machine guns, and rifles? We’re running low. And some additional TOWs wouldn’t hurt. My three Bradleys only have about a dozen missiles between them.”
“That I can do, Alpha-Four-Five. We received a complete resupply an hour ago. Got more stuff than anyone knows what to do with. You’d think with all the support helicopters left, they were servicing a brigade rather than a battalion. I’ll get one of the reserve platoons headed your direction. We’ll put a few crates of TOWs and all the ammunition they can hold into their Bradleys and bring it to you.”
“Make it fast. It looks like the infantry could charge at any second.”
“They’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Walton put down the handset.
“Sarge,” Sanchez said, “I’ve been watching the Iranian preparations. This one looks different somehow.”
Walton peered across the far field. “Different? What’s different?”
“The pieces don’t fit. Something’s not quite right about their actions. There’s some strange goings-on over there.”
“What’s so strange? The Iranian infantry’s about to charge and the Iraqi tanks are backing them up. There’s nothing unusual about that. It’s like they’ve been doing every few hours for the past week.”
“Maybe so. But I swear there’s something odd about their activity. I haven’t put my finger on it yet, but those bastards are up to no good.”
“Wake Wally and get him out there with his M-4. We’re going to need every rifle we’ve got for this one. As soon as he’s outside, button up good and tight.”
Sanchez spoke into the intercom. “Dimmit, you awake?” The corporal banged on the driver’s compartment. “Can you hear me, Dimmit? Get your ass up and get outside. The Iranians are getting ready to attack.”
The sleepy PFC emerged from the driver’s area in the front of the Bradley. He wandered over to a sandbagged foxhole twenty yards to the left. The armored vehicle’s driver rubbed his tired eyes, let out a wide yawn, and took the safety off his rifle. In the distance, the first group of Iranians marched single file onto the humble field. They continued forward until they passed the last of the burning tanks. Once there, they began spreading out side by side to create a lengthy line three hundred yards long in front of the demolished Iraqi armor. The moment the stretching formation was in place, a shrill whistle sounded. The Iranians started running across the chaotic ground. The lovers of Islam were screaming at the top of their lungs. The martyr battalion’s initial wave of three hundred had entered the coming contest. A thousand yards of open ground separated them from the Americans. An identical arrangement of anxious participants appeared behind the first on the crest. As the preceding array had done, they marched forward until they reached the front of the armor and started to disperse. They were ready to race forward upon command. Behind the small hill, out of sight of the Americans, two more queues waited.
“Here they come!” Sanchez said. He dropped into the compartment, grabbed his hatch, and pulled it shut.
Walton took one last look at the charging enemy and slipped inside the Bradley. He reached up and secured his hatch cover. “Ge
t ready to line up your TOWs, Miguel. If they do this one like the others, the tanks will appear as soon as the last of the infantry comes over the top of the hill.” The platoon sergeant spoke into the radio again. “Fourth Platoon, reinforcements and ammunition are on the way. Nobody panic. Hang tight and get those machine guns and Bushmasters ready. Make every shot count. Hold your fire until they’re within range, then let them have it with everything you’ve got. We’ll attack the infantry at three hundred yards. Open fire on my cue. When the tanks appear, select your targets and release your TOWs as you see fit.”
Walton and Sanchez watched the approaching formation through their night-vision system. The Iranians didn’t hesitate. Stretching one hundred and fifty yards in both directions, they rushed toward the American positions. Each Iranian was exactly three feet from the ones on his left and right. Hurdling the piles of ever-increasing bodies, they were running at top speed. The sprinting file was perfectly straight. Not one of the advancing souls surged ahead or fell back. Fifty yards behind the opening wave, political officers, swords in one hand, pistols in the other, trailed the procession.
“That’s weird,” Walton said. “Usually the Iranian attacks are really sloppy. But this one’s coming toward us with absolute precision. How are they staying together like that when they’re running as fast as they can?”
“I’m telling you, Sarge, something’s wrong here.”
At that moment, in the center of the column, one of the Iranians tripped over the putrid remains of a long-dead countryman. Instead of staying where he’d fallen, the faltering soldier was dragged across thirty yards of rock and sand. The far-off figure clawed his way to his feet. None the worse for wear, he returned to running.
Both Americans witnessed what had transpired.
“What the hell?” Walton said.
“Rope! That’s what it is. They’re tied together with a thick rope. If you look real hard, you can just make it out. They’ve got it wrapped around their waists. It’s connected to those on either side of them.”
“But that’s crazy. Nobody in their right mind sends foot soldiers into battle with those kinds of restrictions on their movement. Infantry needs flexibility if it’s going to succeed. Tied together these guys don’t have a chance. They’re begging to be slaughtered. Why in the world would they do something so stupid?”
The Iranians had covered two hundred yards. The fierce whistle, long and eerie, sounded again. A second screaming formation, identical to the first in every respect, started running toward the bewildered soldiers. Behind them, more political officers raced forward. A new group of devotees appeared on the crest and moved forward to take their places in front of the crushed tanks. They watched the events unfolding in front of them with rapt attention.
Each knew his turn would soon come.
The lead elements were eight hundred yards away. There were five hundred to go before the platoon would open fire. In the command Bradley they watched the oncoming file, waiting for the Iranians to reach the attack point Walton had drawn in the sand.
Another two hundred yards were painfully crossed. The nearly immeasurable bodies littering their path was growing. The initial order’s piercing cries of death for America weren’t as loud or as determined as they’d been two minutes earlier. The formation had completed four hundred yards of running at full speed. It was impossible to maintain such a torrid pace any longer. The extreme exertion involved in the self-destructive effort made every breath a painful one. The tethered line slowed. Yet, propelled by its own weight, it struggled forward. The political officers, berating and cajoling, spurred their floundering charges. The second group followed, an eighth of a mile behind. Another piercing whistle blast could be heard over the screaming martyrs. In front of the burning armor, the third three hundred started toward the paradise promised by the American guns.
“Fire a flare,” Sanchez said.
“What?”
“Open up and fire a flare. I want to check something.”
Both soldiers popped their hatches. Walton pointed the flare gun into the heavens and pulled the trigger. Another flare sailed into the ominous night. It burst over the center of the angst-covered ground. Its offensive glow had no effect on the shrieking Persians. Conventional infantry tactics called for the exposed order to drop to their chests and lie perfectly still until the betraying light went out. Yet even under the harsh glow, the maniacal charge didn’t pause in the slightest. The cavalry soldiers shielded their eyes and peered at the persistent enemy.
“That’s what I thought I’d seen,” Sanchez said. “I can’t imagine why but take a good look, those in the first formation don’t have rifles.”
“What? How can that be?”
Walton searched the faraway sands. Miguel was right. With the exception of the political officers, there wasn’t a weapon to be found. He scanned the more distant second and third arrangements. The results were the same. None of the agitated figures was carrying a rifle. An inquisitive expression, filled with confusion, came to the platoon sergeant’s face. What was occurring was completely illogical. He’d no explanation for any of this. And not the slightest clue what the Iranians were doing.
It wouldn’t be much longer, however, before an answer to the madness would appear. It was a result Walton never would’ve imagined, even in his wildest dreams.
For some inexplicable reason, one of the stumbling figures attracted his attention. The muddled form looked like all the others, but something about the striving Iranian caught his eye. He raised his binoculars. From across the cluttered landscape, he stared at his ardent adversary. With the blinding flare’s sheer light raining down, the oncoming individual was as clear as if he were standing a few feet from the Bradley.
Walton could see every crease in his ragged uniform. The fatigue-clad Islamic was racing as fast as his despairing legs would carry him toward a certain death. The platoon leader raised the binoculars to look at his fateful foe’s face. Unbelievably, the doomed figure was actually smiling.
Through the field glasses, Walton watched the soldier’s painful progress, trying to comprehend what was so powerful it could cause a person to ignore the instinct for survival. For a moment, his thoughts wandered.
Suddenly the startled cavalry soldier realized there was something else hidden in the features of his dirt-streaked opponent. Something so horrible his mind denied its existence. For a split second, he refused to accept what his eyes were seeing. Yet it couldn’t be rejected for long. Like a bolt of lightning, the truth of Walton’s discovery struck deep within him. The startled Bradley commander froze. He did a double take, hoping against hope his sleep-starved brain had erred in its observations.
He lowered the glasses to his chest, unwilling to accept the sinister secret he’d uncovered. He shoved the binoculars back to his face and took a second look. He had to ensure he wasn’t mistaken.
But the results were the same. There could be no doubt what he beheld.
The running Iranian was a child.
28
2:53 A.M., OCTOBER 19
4TH PLATOON, ALPHA TROOP, 1ST BATTALION, 5TH CAVALRY REGIMENT, 1ST HEAVY BRIGADE COMBAT
(IRONHORSE), 1ST CAVALRY DIVISION
OUTSIDE SAKAKAH, SAUDI ARABIA
Walton quickly focused on the screaming image to the boy’s left. He held the binoculars steady, searching a second set of features. Once again, the outcome was the same. It was another child. He frantically scanned the procession, hoping for an answer. When he was through, he let the binoculars drop.
He instantly understood the monstrous result the enemy was going to force upon him. Sadness overwhelmed the stunned American. Pain welled deep within his disbelieving psyche. His sorrow burst forth, racing through him with electrifying speed. Consuming agony came to rest in the platoon sergeant’s eyes.
“Miguel, they’re children. Boys of nine or ten. Got a few little girls
mixed in.”
“What? Are you sure, Sarge?”
Walton passed the binoculars to his gunner. Sanchez looked upon the grievous ground. It didn’t take long for the normally animated specialist to confirm his platoon sergeant’s findings.
“My daughters are that age,” Walton said.
“I don’t understand. This doesn’t make any sense. What are children doing in the middle of this nightmare?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Wake me up and tell me this isn’t happening. They should be home playing Little League or dressing their Barbies. Instead they’re running to their deaths in this godforsaken place. Jesus, they don’t even have a way to defend themselves. Give me one good reason why they’re sending children out to be butchered.”
The answer came to Walton. “The bastards are using them as cannon fodder, Miguel. I’d heard they did similar things when they fought the Iraqis back in the 1980s. Gave mothers extra food if they handed over their children to be used as human minesweepers. Until this moment, I hadn’t believed those stories. But there’s no doubt what they’re doing. They’re sacrificing the children to force us to expend our ammunition. Once we’ve run out, they’ll send their regular units and the Iraqi armor to finish us off. What they don’t realize is with the battalion’s last resupply, their plan will fail. As of an hour ago, we’ve got enough ammunition to kill all the children the Iranians send against us until time itself runs out.”
“What’re we going to do? I sure didn’t enlist to murder helpless babies.”
Walton paused. He turned to his gunner and spoke in a voice devoid of emotion. “What choice do we have? It’ll be like gunning down my own daughters. But we’re left with no options. We’re going to kill those children. If we don’t, with or without weapons, they’ll sweep across this disgusting desert and overwhelm us. Once they have, those sweet children you’re worried about will take your knife and slit your throat from ear to ear. When they’re through they’ll rip out your entrails and joyously dance upon them. So there’s nothing we can do. Whether we want it or not, this has been forced upon us. We’re going to aim our machine guns and rifles onto that field and we’re going to pull the triggers. We’re going to kill them. And we’re going to continue doing so until none are left. Now button up your hatch and get ready.”
