The Red Line

by Walt Gragg

  The gregarious M-1 commander was well liked by everyone within the tank company. Nevertheless, only the eleven other members of his platoon felt they knew him well. And even they had to admit that when it came right down to it, none of them really ever knew what Tim Richardson was thinking. There was a distrust Richardson held for people, which caused him to keep even his closest friends at arm’s length. Those sentiments could be traced directly to an exceptionally harsh and abusive childhood.

  Richardson ran back to his room. He grabbed his parka, hat, and gloves. He threw these final articles of clothing on while flying down the second-floor hallway toward the middle of the building. Once there, he hurled himself down the wide stairs.

  He pushed open the barracks door. A blast of arctic cold rocked him to his very soul as he stepped from the building. So much for finding a way to rid himself of the alcohol still running through his veins.

  “Son of a bitch!” he screamed.

  The snows pelted him as he hurried to his place on the far left of the company formation. All three of his M-1 tank’s crew members were waiting in the darkness when he arrived. Tony Warrick and his tank’s driver, PFC Jamie Pierson, looked as miserable as Richardson felt. At the end of the short line, the face of the tank crew’s newest member, Private Clark Vincent, was as emotionless as ever. All three had their backs turned to the driving winds. But their feeble efforts were of little use against the biting snows that pummeled them.

  “Jesus,” Richardson said. “Do you believe this shit?”

  “Who’s the clown that came up with this brilliant idea?” Warrick said.

  “Probably some second lieutenant up at division who got bored on staff duty and decided to have a little fun.”

  “Whoever he is, he’s got to be crazy,” Warrick said. “I vote we find out who he is, go up to division, and kill him.”

  “Nah, Tony, we can’t do that,” Jamie Pierson said. “Someone told me that if you kill a second lieutenant, they get real mad and punish you by not letting you go into Wurzburg for two whole weeks.”

  “And I heard,” Vincent added, “that they also kick you off the company bowling team for six months.”

  The three of them stared at Vincent in complete disbelief. This was the most any of them had ever heard the young private utter in his brief time with the M-1 crew. In his six weeks serving on Richardson’s team, Vincent, the tank’s new loader, hadn’t said more than one word at a time, and then only on rare occasions. And most of those words had consisted of a single syllable.

  Richardson was the first to recover from Vincent’s actions. “There you have it, Tony. No second lieutenant’s worth that.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Warrick said. “We won’t kill him. We’ll just go up to division and hurt him real bad.”

  Although the longer they stood, and the more miserable they became, the better the murder idea sounded.

  The first sergeant walked to the front of the formation in the purposeful strut all first sergeants seem to instinctually develop. He looked at the men huddled in the company area. If the elements were bothering the first sergeant, he would never show it.

  “Company, fal-l-l in!”

  The soldiers snapped to attention. Each held his head high while looking straight ahead. The windblown snows tore at their faces. Not a soldier flinched. Not a soul blinked. No matter how uncomfortable they were, once called to attention, they would never move until allowed to do so.

  “Re-e-e-port!”

  The four platoon sergeants did an about-face in the snow to look at their platoons. Staff Sergeant Greene, 1st Platoon Sergeant, repeated the command, “Report.”

  After 1st Squad reported, Richardson said, “Second squad, all present.” He saluted Greene. Greene returned his salute.

  When the platoons had reported to their sergeants, each sergeant did an about-face once again. Greene waited until the first sergeant looked his way.

  “First Platoon, one man unaccounted for,” Greene said. He saluted the first sergeant. The first sergeant returned the salute and moved on to 2nd Platoon.

  Six of the tank company’s men were absent. Four were married soldiers who hadn’t yet arrived. The other two were tankers who’d found a willing Fraulein’s company. Both were presently snuggled under thick German comforters on opposite ends of the gray streets of Wurzburg.

  The report taken, the lieutenants moved forward from their positions at the rear of the platoons. The platoon sergeants exchanged salutes with the platoon leaders. Each sergeant moved to the rear of the platoon to stand where his lieutenant had previously stood. Lieutenant Mallory now stood in front of 1st Platoon.

  The company commander came forward. He faced the first sergeant. The first sergeant reported to the captain. They also exchanged salutes. The first sergeant turned and strutted around to the back of the formation.

  “At ease,” the company commander said. He paused for a moment and stared into the faces of the soldiers under his command. It was obvious that he was searching for just the right words. “Men, I don’t know any other way to tell you this. So I’m just going to say it. Russian armor attacked in force about an hour ago. The German border’s been overrun. As of this moment, we’re at war.”

  Even in the midst of a blizzard, the body language of the soldiers evidenced the surprise each felt. Like so many others on this night, Richardson wondered what it all meant to him. He didn’t ponder anything as esoteric as how many more sunrises he would see or what his own end would be like. At twenty-three, he still felt the complete invincibility of youth. The possibility of his death wasn’t remotely comprehensible. Instead, he focused on something far more concrete and tangible. The first thing to enter his mind was how cold his feet always got and how many extra pairs of socks he should take along in his tank.

  “The battalion commander’s gone up to brigade to receive our battle plan and marching orders. While we’re waiting for the orders to come through, each of you is to go into the barracks and get your field gear ready to go. We’ll fall you out again when we’re set to move. Until then, I recommend you stay in the barracks and keep as warm as possible. I’ll send someone to the mess hall for coffee and donuts.”

  Protocol called for the company commander to turn the company over to the platoon leaders, who would turn the platoons over to the platoon sergeants, who would dismiss their men. But enough was enough. The captain wanted his soldiers inside as quickly as possible. So he dispensed with the formalities and dismissed the company himself.

  The tankers wandered back into the ancient barracks. In silence, each soldier went to his room and took down his previously prepared field bags from the top of his locker. Richardson grabbed a handful of extra socks. He stuffed them into one of the bags and placed the bags in his doorway.

  The soldiers began mentally preparing for the task that lay ahead. A half hour went by. The coffee and donuts arrived. There was muted talk, whispering really, but nothing more.

  The tankers waited on the company commander, who waited on the battalion commander, who waited on the brigade commander, who waited on the division commander. The division commander waited on Army headquarters in Heidelberg. Heidelberg waited on European Command Headquarters in Stuttgart, who, thanks to George O’Neill’s efforts, was talking with the Pentagon. The Pentagon spoke with the President.

  Another half hour went by. Richardson went back into his room and flopped down on his bed. He looked up at the peeling ceiling and waited some more.

  The President released the Pentagon to do their job. The Pentagon talked to Stuttgart. After a dozen tries, Stuttgart finally got through to Heidelberg. An hour passed. It was 3:00 a.m. Russian tanks were pouring into Germany. Richardson wandered down to the first floor for another donut and a second cup of coffee.

  Heidelberg spoke to the division commander. The division commander called the three brigade commanders together
and told them which battle plan to implement. The brigade commanders returned to their brigades. They called the battalion commanders together. The battalion commanders were briefed on the battle plan. Richardson sat in the second-floor hallway with his back against the wall and his legs sticking straight out. He stared at the lifeless, cream-colored wall on the other side of the hall. The battalion commanders returned to their battalions.

  The battalion commanders called the company commanders together. The company commanders returned to their companies and informed the platoon leaders of the plan.

  The first sergeant ran across the company area. He shot up the icy steps and burst through the heavy wooden doors.

  “Everybody form up outside!” he yelled.

  His voice reverberated throughout the three-story barracks.

  The tankers scrambled in every direction. They grabbed their gear and ran down the same steps the Nazi tankers of World War II had used nearly ninety years earlier. The ghosts of those long-dead warriors watched from the twilight shadows as the Americans of Alpha Company raced out the door for the final time. The Americans disappeared into the darkness in their rush to meet the enemy.

  When he stepped outside, the first thing Richardson noticed was that it was even colder than before. The fierce winds ripped at his face while he ran through the deepening drifts. The second thing he noticed was that the blizzard had stopped. He dropped his heavy field bags into the snows and took his place in line.

  They dispensed with the formalities. Formalities were for peacetime armies. The company commander headed to the front of the formation.

  “Men, we’ve gotten the word to move out. Your platoon leaders have been briefed on the battle plan. The 3rd Brigade will be heading south on Autobahn A7 to take up defensive positions. I’ve sent to the motor pool for trucks to take you to your tanks. If I don’t see you again before we leave, I want to tell you all good luck and good hunting. Remember, you’re American soldiers, the finest trained and best equipped in the world. Every one of you knows the capabilities of your M-1s. There’s not a tank in the world that can stand up to the Abrams. And there’s not a division in the world better than the 3rd Infantry. Platoon leaders, take charge of your platoons and prepare your men for battle.”

  The company commander and the lieutenants saluted. The captain returned to the orderly room to see if there were further instructions from battalion. While they waited for the trucks, Lieutenant Mallory briefed the eleven men of his tank platoon on their objective and their mission once they arrived. The division’s organization chart called for each tank platoon to have four tanks. Like a number of platoons within the 3rd Infantry, however, Mallory’s platoon was short a tank crew.

  They would limp into battle with only three M-1s.

  • • •

  Hitler’s fears of his military had been so great that throughout Germany he’d built numerous small kasernes and barracks so there’d never be too great a concentration of soldiers at a single location. At the end of the Second World War, the Americans simply moved into those scattered locations. The fifteen thousand men of the 3rd Infantry Division were housed on eight kasernes in and around Wurzburg.

  From each of the eight bases, every few minutes a platoon of three or four tanks or a similar number of Bradleys departed.

  At 4:00 a.m. on that terrifying morning, Richardson’s seventy-two-ton M-1A2 rolled forward. The three tanks edged out of the motor pool and turned south onto Autobahn A7. For hours, the rumble of armored vehicles could be heard all over the city.

  The Americans’ organized response had begun.

  CHAPTER 22

  January 28—10:00 p.m. (Eastern Standard Time)

  World News Network Studios

  Boston

  Carl Stern, veteran anchor for the evening news segment, stared down at the piece of paper he’d been handed during the commercial break. He pondered the significance of the words he would read. From behind the camera he heard, “Fifteen seconds, Carl.” Stern adjusted his silk tie and straightened his immaculate suit jacket.

  “In five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one.”

  “This just in to the WNN news desk,” Stern said. “An unconfirmed White House source has intimated that clashes have occurred on the German border between American military units and elements of the Warsaw Pact earlier this evening. These clashes have apparently resulted in at least a handful of casualties on both sides. For more on this story, we take you to WNN’s Pentagon reporter, Patricia Moore.”

  The picture switched to an attractive woman in her early thirties wearing a charcoal blazer and matching skirt. She was standing inside the main entrance to the Pentagon.

  “Thank you, Carl. So far, the Pentagon has refused to confirm or deny a report, which leaked from the White House, of possible skirmishes between American forward units and forces of the Soviet Union. I can tell you, however, that activity here is unusually heavy for this time of the night. All of the joint chiefs are still in the building. Rumor among the Pentagon press corps is that many high-ranking officers who’d left for the evening have been recalled. Other than that, there’s little information coming out of official sources here. Minutes ago, it was announced that the Pentagon has no plans to hold any unscheduled press conferences this evening. Back to you, Carl.”

  “Thanks, Patricia. We take you now to Steven Dillard at the White House.” The picture changed to a man in a tan trench coat, his dark hair blowing in a cold Washington wind. A well-lit image of the White House was in the background. Stern continued to talk, “Steven, what can you tell us from the White House?”

  “Carl, twenty minutes ago, a high administration source told me that clashes have occurred between Russian and American soldiers along the border of Germany. The source, who wasn’t willing to be quoted on camera, said details at this point are quite sketchy. As our viewers probably know, Warsaw Pact war games, involving as many as fifty Russian combat divisions, have been going on at the German border for the past two weeks. White House Press Secretary Randolph Wilkerson told me that the President has been aware of the possibility of something like this occurring because of the close proximity of the Warsaw Pact and Allied units. Our source, and Press Secretary Wilkerson, confirmed that there have been some casualties on both sides from the skirmishes. Neither, however, is able to provide us with any further details at this time.”

  Dillard paused. The picture on the screen returned to Carl Stern in the Boston studios. “Thanks for your timely report, Steven. We’ll get back to Steven and Patricia as further information on this late-breaking story becomes available.”

  The picture changed to an unhappy man with an upset stomach holding the latest pink cure.

  From now until the end of the war, WNN would be America’s most popular television station.

  CHAPTER 23

  January 29—4:00 a.m.

  2nd Platoon, Delta Troop, 1st Squadron, 4th Cavalry

  Outside the Town of Schirnding

  With gloved hands wrapped around his canteen cup, Robert Jensen took another sip of strong coffee. After Ramirez and Steele arrived with the steamy liquid a few minutes earlier, both had been removed from the shit list—at least until their next stupid stunt. Against an ageless apple tree, the platoon sergeant knelt in the modest snow fortification he’d hastily constructed. He was fifteen feet to the right of the critical four-lane highway. The platoon’s firing positions were all laid out. The apple branches had been in place for quite some time. The cavalry soldiers were as ready as they could be for the Russian attack.

  Within the last hour, the weather had changed for the better. After three wretched days, the snowfall had ended. The skies above were clearing. A full moon and a handful of shimmering stars, their glow distorted by the bitter cold, peeked through the early-morning darkness. Around the lifeless orchard, the world was eerily still. For the past thirty minutes, there hadn’t be
en a single secondary explosion in the death-filled valley below. The fiery destruction the Americans had inflicted four hours earlier was no longer impeding the Russian column’s ability to advance.

  Jensen lifted the metal cup for another taste of bitter coffee. As he did, the terrifying sounds of two thousand armored vehicles resonated from the valley floor. With the cup poised at his lips and the ebony liquid’s pungent aroma filling his nostrils, the platoon sergeant froze. It took just seconds for his senses to confirm what he already knew. The thunderous noises were definitely there.

  It could only mean one thing—the enemy was on the move. The Russian armored divisions were headed west once more. Their thrust deep into the heart of Germany was back under way. This time there was no possibility that the Americans could prevent the powerful column from escaping the bloody valley.

  The platoon sergeant had tried to find a way to keep the Russians from breaching the woods. He’d sent Austin and a handful of scouts scurrying back into the valley on foot. They’d made a desperate attempt to find an ambush spot for Captain Murphy’s tanks. If the M-1s could surprise the enemy prior to his escaping the restrictive mass of evergreens, the cavalry soldiers would still have a chance. Murphy’s tanks would be greatly outnumbered, but in the narrow valley’s confines, the overpowering Abrams tanks would’ve had an excellent opportunity of blocking the immense column’s actions once again.

  Jensen’s hopes, however, had been dashed. His desperate plea for one final miracle had gone unanswered. When Austin and his men arrived in the valley, the woods were swarming with Russian infantry. The Americans had barely escaped with their lives.

  Austin, unharmed but dejected, had returned with nothing but bad news. The staff sergeant’s discouraging report forever sealed the cavalry soldiers’ fates. Deep within the forest, hundreds of white-clad figures were moving forward. Scores were carrying armor-piercing weapons—weapons capable of destroying any tanks, even the nearly indomitable M-1. Faced with such a threat to his meager force, Murphy’s Abrams tanks dare not enter the burning valley.