The Red Line

by Walt Gragg

  As the first TOWs tore from their launch tubes, Cruz ordered his Bradley onto the roadway. The fighting vehicle sprang from the cover of the deep forest and positioned itself in the middle of the trail. Renoir and Richmond opened fire with their Bushmasters on the BMP a few vehicles back of the burning tank. The Bushmasters’ shells ripped gaping holes in the side armor of the Russian fighting vehicle. Thick smoke billowed from the wounded armored personnel carrier. The BMP’s ten soldiers died in a matter of seconds beneath the deadly curtain of fire from the Bradleys.

  Cruz’s gunner located the second T-80. He hurled a stubby missile down the narrow path with devastating effect. The tank was quickly devoured. Another ear-shattering explosion rocked the night. A second pillar of fire stretched high into the sorrowful evergreens.

  The third tank succeeded in its desperate attempt to find the source of the ambush. The T-80’s machine gun opened fire on the American position. The turret of the monster swung to the left. The tank’s gunner locked onto the Bradley sitting in the center of the trail. In a fraction of a second, he would unleash the awesome power of the T-80’s main gun to annihilate the foolish Americans who dared to stand in the column’s way. The Russian gunner prepared to fire his cannon. The time was nearly here. Without warning, three TOWs ripped into the tank’s exposed belly. Its metal workings spilled forth onto the snows. A third blazing tank reached out to sear the majestic forest.

  “Fall back! Fall back!” Jensen’s voice screamed in their ears.

  In fifteen seconds, the platoon had devastated the enemy. His ability to advance was gone. The remaining elements of the Russian column were hidden by the curve. Protected by the thick woods, they were unreachable by the platoon’s guns. Jensen’s men hadn’t suffered a single loss.

  Given a little time, however, the Russian commander was certain to dismount a powerful infantry force and crush the Americans. There was nothing more the platoon could accomplish. The time had come to run.

  Jensen signaled the pair of soldiers guarding the platoon’s right. The soldiers raced back through the fallen trees to the Humvee.

  Sergeant Richmond raised his commander’s hatch and motioned for the two soldiers protecting the left. They hurried through the heavy snows and disappeared up the ramp into the Bradley’s rear compartment. The ramp closed behind them.

  The platoon started its escape. With Cruz’s Bradley providing protection for the fleeing soldiers, Renoir’s team scurried onto the roadway and tore back down the winding trail. Richmond’s fighting vehicle was soon clipping at his heels. With Jensen at the wheel, the Humvee soared from the woods a few seconds later.

  While he drove, Jensen keyed his headset. He needed to ensure that Austin’s group, waiting in ambush below, didn’t fire upon their own platoon. In three previous wars, he’d seen far too many soldiers killed by friendly fire.

  “Delta-Two-Four, this is Delta-Two-Five. Seth, are you there?”

  “Yeah, Bob, we’re ready and waiting.”

  “Seth, we’re on our way. Don’t fire. Say again, do not fire. It’s us coming down the trail.”

  “Roger. We copy. Bring it on home.”

  In order to turn around, Cruz’s Bradley backed into the spot Richmond’s had just relinquished. The last of the Bradleys headed down the trail one hundred yards behind the speeding Humvee.

  • • •

  A few vehicles back of the raging fires of the lead tanks, two BMPs spotted a small opening in the trees. They carefully threaded their way through the obstacles on the forest floor. The BMPs warily eased onto the roadway in front of their burning comrades.

  The T-80 directly behind the BMPs attempted to follow the personnel carriers through the narrow opening they’d forged in the woods. The tank, twice the BMPs size, faltered in its attempt to make it around its burning partners. It wedged itself in the heavy mantle of trees. The more the tank attempted to extricate itself, the more it succeeded in jamming its gargantuan frame ever deeper into the quagmire. The T-80 blocked any further use of the escape route the BMPs had found. The possibility of breaching the burning tanks was gone. And the impenetrable forest of ancient fir held no other means of escape.

  Jensen’s plan had succeeded. He’d trapped the Russian armored division at the border.

  The BMPs were reentering the trail in front of the blazing tanks when they glimpsed the shadow of the final Bradley beginning its retreat. Throwing caution to the wind, the lead BMP commander gave chase. The second followed close behind as the lethal pair pursued the Americans down the unfamiliar path.

  No one in the fleeing platoon was yet aware of the BMPs’ success in breaching the barrier of burning metal. A lethal chase had begun.

  The Bradleys rushed toward the safety of Austin’s covering force. Renoir’s and Richmond’s vehicles sped past the deserted platoon building and through Austin’s position without slowing down. The Humvee also hastened past the ghostly structure and was nearing Austin’s force.

  Cruz’s team trailed.

  At the last possible instant, Austin spotted the rapidly closing BMPs as they made the trail’s final turn. He quickly aimed his Bushmaster at the onrushing threat. His gunner did his best to line up a clear shot at the leader. He was more than eager to release the first of his TOWs. But Cruz’s Bradley was in their line of fire.

  “Brownie, nail the bastards!” Austin screamed into his headset.

  “Hector’s in the way!”

  “Foster, can you get the lead one?”

  “Negative, Seth! The trail’s too tight. There’s no way to fire around Cruz.”

  “Hector, get out of the damn way! Hector, move your ass to the right!”

  In the confined space, however, there was nowhere for Cruz and his men to go.

  The final Bradley was nearing the platoon building when a Spandrel missile leaped from the lead BMP. The lethal missile ripped from its mooring and roared through the frozen night. With a mighty wail of protest, it struck the lightly armored rear of the Bradley. As it exploded beneath the impacting missile, the Bradley swerved sharply to the right. The crippled fighting vehicle slammed headlong into the staid building that minutes earlier had been the platoon’s home. Inside the Bradley’s burning wreckage, Cruz and his team were dead.

  The BMPs continued their relentless pursuit of the American cavalry. The first, his lone missile fired, found a small opening and slid to the left to allow his partner to pass.

  A second inviting target, the speeding Humvee, was one hundred yards beyond the demolished Bradley. In the new leader, the Spandrel gunner took aim. The smaller American combat vehicle was in his sights. In a few seconds, he’d be ready to fire.

  But the Russian would never unleash his Spandrel. For he didn’t have a few seconds left to live.

  The Bradleys of Austin’s force had beaten him to the draw. With Cruz out of the way, they locked onto the enemy armored vehicles. In quick succession, the American crews fired TOW missiles. Two struck the lead vehicle. The third hit the trailing one. Both BMPs erupted in hellfire and damnation, reaching high into the low-hanging heavens. For good measure, the Bradley commanders opened up with their Bushmasters to ensure no one survived.

  And no one did.

  A few hundred yards down the trail, Jensen keyed his headset once again. For the moment, he was uncertain of what had happened near the platoon building. While he dashed for safety, he was aware of the excited chatter on the radio. And he’d heard the explosions close behind. He didn’t yet know, however, that Cruz and his men were dead.

  “Form up just before the highway,” Jensen said.

  Renoir’s Bradley skidded to a stop thirty yards from the trail’s entrance onto the north–south roadway. The platoon began arriving at his position. The young sergeant dismounted. He ran to scout the blizzard-shrouded highway. Renoir threw himself into a snowdrift at the edge of the road. He brought his night-vision
goggles up to his face.

  He could see nearly a mile in both directions on the snowy asphalt. Behind him, there were tremendous explosions and constant distractions by the sudden flashes of light all along the border. But for as far as he could see, nothing was moving on the pavement.

  While Renoir scanned their escape route, Austin’s covering force arrived at the platoon’s location. Jensen sent Marconi and a handful of soldiers scrambling to the rear to protect them. Once more, they needed to get organized. It was then that he realized they were short a Bradley.

  “Who’s missing, Seth?” Jensen asked, as Austin climbed down from his fighting vehicle.

  “Cruz’s team bought it, Bob. We saw the BMPs coming, but with his Bradley in the way, we couldn’t get an angle on Comrade to get off a shot.”

  Midnight. In fifteen minutes of battle, the platoon’s losses totaled seventeen. Even so, there was no time to mourn, for there were twenty-six lives Jensen could still attempt to save.

  Kicking up the soft snows as he ran, Renoir hurried back to the platoon’s position.

  “Well?” Jensen said.

  “I checked the road in both directions. There’s nothing moving anywhere.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive, Sarge. The road’s deserted.”

  “Well, it won’t be for long,” Jensen said.

  “What’re we going to do?”

  “I wish I knew. One thing’s for certain, we can’t stay here.”

  So far, their leader’s instincts had served them well. But now he faced a new dilemma. If they didn’t get off the north–south highway and onto one heading west, his platoon would soon be trapped.

  They had two alternatives. They could try to run north. In that direction, the highway headed northeast. Winding slowly away from the border for twelve miles, it would take the platoon nearly thirty minutes to reach the town of Selb. There they’d find a roadway leading to the west. Or the platoon could flee five miles south. There the highway connected with E48, the major east–west artery running through this section of Germany. That would place them three miles west of the border checkpoint manned by Echo Troop’s 4th Platoon and a few miles east of the small German town of Schirnding.

  Either way—north or south, it might already be too late. For all Jensen knew, the enemy could have breached the north–south highway in a number of locations. They could be trapped no matter which way he chose. And he knew that even if they were fortunate enough to reach one of the western-reaching highways, the Russians could be ten miles into Germany by the time the platoon arrived.

  Jensen poked his head into the rear compartment of Austin’s Bradley, where Jelewski and his radios had found a home.

  “What’s the word on the squadron net?”

  “Real confusing,” Jelewski said. “One thing’s for sure, they’ve hit hard all up and down the border.”

  Information Jensen already knew from the sounds of the pitched battles raging both north and south of the platoon.

  “Haven’t been able to make much sense out of any of it,” Jelewski added.

  “Any word on whether they’ve breached our lines?”

  “Can’t really tell. Some units have failed to report in entirely. Others seem to be holding on okay. Russians are jamming our frequencies like crazy, so squadron’s changing them constantly. I’m not getting much of it at all. But what I can tell you is that because of the weather, squadron says they can’t get the Apaches into the air until morning. They’re going to try to send one of the tank troops along with a couple of platoons of Bradleys our way, though.”

  “Get on the radio and tell them they’d better do a lot better than try.” And Jensen made the decision that could end the lives of every member of the platoon in the next few minutes. “Tell them we’ve blocked an armored column’s advance within a mile of the border but we can’t hold any longer and we’re retreating to take up a secondary position. Give them the map coordinates for E48 just east of Schirnding. If we can get there, that’ll be the platoon’s next position.”

  “Roger.”

  Jensen had chosen his next move. Now was not the time to try anything cute. They would head for the nearest east–west highway and pray they got there before the Russians did.

  They needed to hurry. Their location was quite desperate. Jensen, however, had to make a second, equally important choice before they could hope to have any chance of escaping the hangman’s noose.

  Should they go fast or slow?

  If they moved cautiously, the Russians were bound to arrive at the north–south highway’s entrance to E48 before they did. If the platoon moved too quickly, however, what they’d done to the Russian column in the woods a few minutes earlier was probably going to happen to them. If enemy units had breached the north–south highway, this time 2nd Platoon would be on the wrong end of the ambush. Neither option was particularly attractive.

  The platoon sergeant decided to do the only thing he could. The platoon would move fast. But he’d send out a sacrificial lamb to try to fool any wolves that might be waiting.

  He would be the sacrificial lamb.

  Bringing together as much of the battered platoon as he could, he hurriedly explained his plan. He would take two soldiers with him in the Humvee. One would drive, the other handle the machine gun. They’d rush south as fast as they could. The five Bradleys would trail far enough behind to be out of sight. If the Humvee came upon an enemy trap, Jensen would try to spring it before the Russians realized he wasn’t alone. It was the best chance he had of saving the platoon.

  As Ramirez, head bandaged by the platoon medic, and Steele were without weapons, they were reluctantly elected to go with him. Steele climbed behind the machine gun. Ramirez got behind the wheel. Jensen sat in the passenger seat, ready to cry out over the radio at the first sign of trouble.

  It was time to move. The Humvee cautiously poked its nose from the woods and headed onto the highway.

  They were soon up to traveling speed on the deserted roadway. Going thirty miles per hour, they plunged through the deep snows. It was a speed the Bradleys could easily match.

  It wasn’t long before the Humvee completed the first terrifying mile.

  Jensen spoke into his headset, “Delta-Two, move out.”

  “Roger,” Austin said.

  One at a time, every few seconds, a Bradley hurtled from the woods and onto the open highway. In a little more than a minute, all five were on the narrow ribbon that would carry them south to prepare for the next battle. Again, hopefully on Jensen’s terms and Jensen’s terrain.

  • • •

  From a safe distance, the general surveyed the burning wreckage at the front of the stalled column. He turned toward the tall figure standing next to him in the snows.

  “Well, Dmetri, what do you have to say about our foe now?”

  “Comrade Commander, you were right in your estimate of the enemy. He turned out to be quite resourceful.”

  “How long did the lead battalion commander say it would take for his infantry to secure the woods?”

  “At least three hours. Possibly more if we encounter serious resistance.”

  “What about this?” The general motioned to the burning wreckage. “How long before we can be under way again?”

  “He didn’t know, Comrade Commander. He can’t begin clearing the wreckage until he’s certain all the ammunition inside the burning tanks has exploded. It might take many hours before we can extricate ourselves.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Dmetri. We’d better find a way out of here before morning. If the American air forces find us here at dawn’s first light, none of us will survive.”

  • • •

  The Bradley crews blindly followed the man who’d so far kept them alive. None of them needed their night-vision systems to find their way through the bliz
zard. To their left, scores of burning Russian and American vehicles created their own false sunrise in the east.

  Jensen, his eyes fixed upon the fearful roadway, knew if all went well, the platoon would arrive at its next position in fifteen minutes. And if things didn’t go well, they’d never arrive.

  When the Humvee completed the second mile without incident, even the stoic platoon sergeant began believing his fateful decision had been correct. He glanced over at Ramirez. The private’s hands were locked onto the steering wheel. The fear in Ramirez’s eyes was undeniable.

  “Keep alert . . . keep alert,” he admonished his inexperienced companions. And himself.

  The Humvee was three miles from E48. Their precarious luck needed to hold for a few minutes more. Much could still go wrong. The Humvee might not fool the enemy and spring a waiting ambush. The Russians could arrive at the roadway just after the Humvee passed, catching the trailing Bradleys. Or E48 could be crawling with Russian tanks when they got there.

  “Come on 4th Platoon, Echo Troop, don’t let us down,” he muttered to himself.

  Unlike Jensen’s platoon, the doomed soldiers of Echo Troop’s 4th Platoon didn’t have a tactical edge over their opponent. Jensen had the twisting trail, which he used to its utmost advantage.

  But 4th Platoon was responsible for a major four-lane highway into and out of Germany. They couldn’t stop the enemy by destroying a few lead tanks. Hit three minutes after the attack on Jensen’s men, they’d heard Jelewski’s alert on the squadron net moments before the enemy slammed into them. It had helped.

  Even so, it wasn’t nearly enough. Now, twenty minutes into the war, all eight of the platoon’s Bradleys lay burning at the border. All forty-three of the platoon’s men were dead.

  They’d held out for as long as they could, taking a dozen Russian tanks with them to their graves. But after a fierce struggle, an immense enemy armored column two thousand vehicles long was rolling west unopposed.