Tin Soldiers

by Michael Farmer

  Overhead, white parachute flares burst into life, illuminating the two M1A1s on the hillside. The sounds of artillery accompanied by explosions emanated from the left and right of their tanks. At the same time several dark shapes separated themselves from the valley floor. The sounds of pyrotechnics filled the air as the enemy combat vehicles opened up on the American tanks.

  A yellow light, the Combat Vehicle Kill Indicator, began flashing next to White One. He turned his head to the side and squeezed his eyes closed, temporarily blinded by the harsh light after hours of operating under blackout conditions.

  A smoky female voice filled the crew’s CVCs. “ Artillery hit, mobility kill. Please bring your vehicle to an immediate stop.” Before the crew had the opportunity to comply, the voice cut in again. “Multiple direct fire hits, catastrophic kill. Please stop your vehicle and wait for further instructions. Maintain radio silence until the conclusion of the exercise. Thank you.”

  From the gunner’s seat, Sergeant Izzo sighed and pulled off his CVC helmet. “You know, it’s almost worth dying just to hear that sexy bitch’s voice.”

  The radio came to life. “White One, Steel Six. That’s the end of your platoon exercise. Gather the rest of your tanks from wherever they are and meet me at the After Action Review site in one hour, out.”

  White One hung his head in dejection. This wasn’t going to be pretty.

  An hour later White One sat with the other members of his platoon in a circle of camp stools as the sun rose, waiting for a review of their mission with the Old Man. The rising sun painted the Rocky Mountains a few miles to the west a deep purple. Pike’s Peak, with the season’s first snow visible on its crest, was clearly visible to the group. At other times in his life the lieutenant would have been overwhelmed by the sheer majesty of the scene. Today he didn’t even notice.

  A crowd of senior personnel was gathered fifty feet away near a group of Hummers discussing how White One’s platoon had done on the final mission of their training exercise. As the lieutenant watched, a medium-height, broad-shouldered captain separated himself from the crowd and headed toward them. The figure turned back to the group he’d just left and called a noncommissioned officer out. The captain and the NCO moved together toward the lieutenant’s platoon.

  Someone tapped the lieutenant’s shoulder as he watched the pair approach. Turning, he saw First Sergeant John Rider grinning at him. The company’s senior NCO stared at his company’s newest platoon leader. “What the hell happened to your eye, Lieutenant? Fifty cal?”

  White One rubbed the eye, which had continued becoming darker and more swollen by the minute. “Yeah.”

  The first sergeant, a tanker for years, simply nodded knowingly. A cup of steaming coffee appeared in his hand. “Here, sir. You look like you could use this. Damned cold mornings in Colorado this time of year.”

  White One gratefully accepted the cup. “Thanks, Top. Looks like it’s about to get colder,” he said, nodding toward the approaching figures.

  The first sergeant looked toward the approaching men. The pair had paused en route and were in the middle of a discussion. Rider turned back to the junior officer. “Hey, sir, take it with a grain of salt. Remember, the whole point of being out here is to learn.”

  The lieutenant nodded his head ruefully. “Yeah. But, Top, I knew better than to go rolling over that hill. The CO is going to have my ass . . . and I don’t blame him.”

  “Of course you knew better, sir . . . here,” Rider said, pointing at his head. “But now you’ve seen why we go around hills and not over them. You’ve lived it, or ‘died it,’ so to speak. You won’t forget the lesson anytime soon. Besides, you see that NCO with the commander?”

  The lieutenant nodded.

  “He’s from First Brigade. When we want quality bad guys for an exercise, we make sure to ask for his platoon.” Rider slapped the young officer on the back again. “Sir, you were smoked by the best. Hard to believe four Bradleys killed your tanks, ain’t it?”

  The lieutenant shrank. Impossible. “Bradleys?”

  Any self-respecting armor officer cringed at the thought of dying to an inferior vehicle, especially one that wasn’t even a tank, but rather an Infantry Fighting Vehicle that boasted only a 25mm cannon as its main gun—of course its TOW missiles evened things out somewhat.

  Rider laughed and dumped the dregs of his coffee on the ground. “Yep. And don’t worry about Captain Dillon. His bark is worse than his bite.”

  After two weeks of tutelage under Dillon, White One had his doubts about that. “His teeth seem pretty sharp to me.”

  Rider turned serious. “Sir, you gotta understand where Captain Dillon is comin’ from. He came up through the ranks. He was an NCO before he was an officer, so his way of training may be different than what you’re used to . . . not exactly the ‘kinder, gentler army.’ Sure, you might have an easier time of it with some captain who only has maybe four or five more years in uniform than you do . . . but do you think you’d learn as much?”

  The captain and NCO had begun moving toward them again.

  “I’ve gotta go check on my troops, sir,” said Rider. “Just remember what that old Chinaman general said: ‘That which doesn’t kill you will make you stronger,’ or some such shit.”

  Great, now I’m being quoted Sun Tzu before breakfast, thought the lieutenant. “Thanks, Top. I’ll try to remember that.”

  As the first sergeant walked away, the captain and NCO were approaching the tank platoon.

  “Take it easy on him, sir,” said Rider quietly without breaking stride. “I think this one is a keeper.”

  Patrick Dillon turned around and threw a quizzical look at the back of his first sergeant, who had continued moving without another word. Dillon shook his head and continued walking. He stopped in front of the lieutenant.

  “Doc,” said the captain, “I want you to meet Sergeant Matt O’Keefe. He’s the one who took out your platoon. In the real world you wouldn’t be able to shake the hand of the man who killed you, so take advantage.”

  Lieutenant Doc Hancock rose and shook the NCO’s hand. He somehow couldn’t manage a “nice to meet you.” “Morning, Sergeant.”

  “How you doin’, sir?” said the young NCO. “Not a bad job last night . . . till that last charge over the hill.”

  “Come on, Doc,” said the captain. “I want to talk to you. Sergeant O’Keefe, could you sit down with the lieutenant’s platoon for a minute and compare notes with the platoon sergeant while Lieutenant Hancock and myself have a quick talk?”

  “You bet, sir,” said O’Keefe, turning toward the group still seated.

  The captain and lieutenant walked toward the edge of the clearing and sat down among a field of large rocks.

  “Take your kevlar off, Doc. Relax.”

  What the hell? wondered Doc Hancock. This had been the last night of his first exercise with C Company, 2-77 Armor. He hadn’t been assigned to the company known as Cold Steel for two days when they’d rolled out through the gates of Fort Carson, Colorado, he as a brand-new tank platoon leader in charge of fifteen men and four M1A1s. Throughout the training, Captain Dillon had threatened death or worse if he or the soldiers of his tank platoon weren’t wearing headgear of some type—either a CVC helmet on the tank or a kevlar helmet while dismounted.

  Dillon removed his own kevlar, displaying a brown flattop rapidly silvering on the sides. He stared at Hancock with cold blue eyes. Reaching into a can of snuff, he pulled a pinch out and inserted it between his cheek and gum. He bent close to Doc’s face and examined the lieutenant’s black eye. “Fifty cal?”

  Am I the only one who doesn’t know to guard his face against his own machine gun? wondered Hancock. “Yes, sir.”

  “Doc, I’m going to be honest—my intent this morning was to rip your ass for that stunt last night,” Dillon said.

  Hancock’s only reply was a gulp.

  “Unfortunately—for me—I don’t have time. Something’s come up and I’ve got to
get back to the battalion headquarters early.”

  Thank you, God, thought the lieutenant.

  Patrick Dillon continued. “Since I can’t be at your platoon’s After Action Review to hear you guys work through the mission’s details, I wanted a minute alone. Here’s my question, Doc. What did you learn? What got you and your men killed?”

  “Jesus, sir. Do you want it alphabetically or numerically?”

  Dillon’s face remained serious. “This is why we’re here. What did you learn, Doc?”

  Doc Hancock thought about the question again. He’d been rolling it around in his mind since “dying” an hour earlier. “Don’t roll over a hill if there’s any way around it, listen to my more experienced gunner when he tries to prevent me from making a fool of myself, and . . . keep you informed.”

  Dillon slapped him on the back, stood, replaced his kevlar helmet, and began walking toward his Hummer. “Good. See you back at the ranch in a few hours.”

  Hancock watched his commander stride away. That’s it? He almost felt let down.

  C Company, 2-77 Armor, Fort Carson, Colorado

  11 October, 0915 Hours Mountain

  “Damn it, Sergeant Almo, turn that shit down!” yelled Dillon as he walked past his company training room. Almo, who doubled as Dillon’s training NCO and Hummer driver, tended to blare Garth Brooks nonstop during duty hours. The current duo of Garth and Almo belting out “American Honky Tonk Bar Association” went down just perceptibly as Dillon continued down the hallway.

  Dillon looked at his watch as he stepped into the washroom. Seeing that he didn’t have time for a shower before his meeting at headquarters, the Steel commander instead settled for a quick scrub at the sink to knock off the majority of his field grime and followed up with a shave. Dillon looked in the mirror at his Nomex combat crewman’s coveralls, the olive drab one-piece jumpsuit that the manufacturer guaranteed would not “melt, burn, drip or support combustion in air.” Too dirty to mingle with the staff pukes at headquarters? The captain slapped a hand against his chest and a dust cloud enshrouded him. Fuck ’em, thought Dillon as he proceeded out of the washroom and down the hall.

  Walking into the first sergeant’s office, Dillon grabbed one of Rider’s spare cups, none of which looked as though they’d been washed in recent memory. “Top, I’m heading over to the battalion to see the commander and hopefully find out what’s going on.”

  Rider sensed something was on his commander’s mind. Rising from behind his desk, he walked over and poured a cup for himself. After taking a swallow, he sighed. “My God but that is tasty. So, sir, any idea what this is all about?”

  Dillon shook his head, wincing, as he tasted from his own cup. “Nope.”

  Rider nodded thoughtfully and took another sip of coffee. “You think it has something to do with this Kuwait business?”

  Good question. I’ve been wondering the same thing myself. He shrugged. “I don’t know, Top. We’ll find out.”

  Rider smiled and tapped the side of his nose with a finger. “I got it, sir. Squash the rumors before they start. I like it.”

  As Dillon stepped out of Rider’s office, he was almost run down by two dirty lieutenants.

  “Shit, sir,” said Bluto Wyatt, Dillon’s senior platoon leader. “Sorry about that.”

  Fred Wyatt had earned the nickname “Bluto” on account of the uncanny resemblance he shared with the Popeye cartoon character—six foot three, two hundred fifty pounds, and a perpetual five-o’clock shadow on his large face. While not a fat man, Wyatt was certainly a big man.

  His partner was Dillon’s third platoon leader, Ben Takahashi, who was the physical opposite of Wyatt. The two made an odd pair. Takahashi had been in the company for a couple of months. Under Dillon and Wyatt’s tutelage, he was just starting to get a good feel for his job as a tank platoon leader.

  “Why back so soon, gentlemen? You guys opening the Arms Room to collect weapons or something?” With fourteen tanks in Cold Steel, each mounting three large machine guns, plus the assorted weaponry associated with the company’s support vehicles, the individual soldiers’ rifles and 9mm pistols, night-vision goggles, and other ordnance, collecting sensitive items and ensuring they were cleaned to standard after a field exercise was no small task. Usually a lieutenant or senior NCO would leave the field a little early to make sure the Arms Room was open and waiting when the crews began returning with their equipment. This process ensured that the soldiers “got home to Momma”—or were ready to hit the streets and meet potential mommas—as soon as possible after an extended period away from civilization and its amenities.

  Wyatt stammered. “Well . . . no, sir, not exactly. Doc is taking care of that.”

  Dillon nodded. “Right. And the sensitive-items report due at battalion in two hours?”

  Takahashi coughed. “Uh . . . Doc, sir.”

  Dillon crossed his arms over his chest. “And you two?”

  Wyatt smiled conspiratorially and wiggled his eyebrows. “To be honest, sir, Ben here’s set us up with a couple of snow bunnies for the weekend in Vail. If we leave now we can beat the traffic and be up there before dark.”

  “So you suckered Doc and your platoon sergeants into doing your work?”

  No command was given, but both lieutenants found themselves gradually drawn to the position of parade rest, arms crossed behind their backs, feet spread.

  “Rethink it, gentlemen,” said Dillon, stepping into his office to retrieve his jacket and headgear.

  “But, sir,” implored Wyatt from the hallway, “these babes are hotties.”

  Ignoring the moans, Dillon retrieved his gear. As he passed his desk, the cover of the morning edition of the Colorado Springs Gazette Telegraph drew his attention:

  U.S. DEPLOYING MILITARY FORCES TO THE MIDDLE EAST AT REQUEST OF KUWAITI GOVERNMENT

  He looked from the paper to the framed photo of his wife, Melissa, and their four daughters sitting on the edge of his desk. Patrick Dillon, my fine Irish lad, why are you starting to get a very bad feeling about this meeting?

  2-77 Armor Headquarters, Fort Carson, Colorado

  11 October, 0930 Hours Mountain

  “Gentlemen,” Lieutenant Colonel Estes said to his company commanders, “I’m sure you’re wondering what the hell’s going on, so I’ll get straight to the point. Third Brigade, Fourth Infantry Division is deploying to Kuwait within the next seven days. The full brigade—that means us, the other armor battalion, the mechanized infantry battalion, the artillery battalion . . . everything.”

  “Say again, sir?” said Captain Dan Malloy, the Iron Tigers’ newest company commander.

  Malloy had been in charge of A Company for one month. Command had been a whole new experience for Malloy. All of his previous assignments, with the exception of his mandatory time as a platoon leader, had been logistical billets. Because he knew his own strengths and weaknesses, the career path had been a logical choice.

  Dillon’s assessment of his brother-in-arms’ field skills was that Malloy might be able to buy the hot dogs, but he’d have an extremely difficult time maneuvering his way to the grill.

  “I got the call late last night from Colonel Jones,” said Estes. “In response to Iraq’s troop movements and at the request of the Kuwaiti government, Third Brigade is deploying as a show of force to emphasize that the United States’ resolve has not weakened where our friends’ sovereignty is concerned.”

  “This sounds familiar,” remarked Captain Mike Stuart, the B Company commander.

  Stuart had taken command fourteen months earlier, at the same time as Dillon. They were the senior company commanders and the only men present who had deployed with 2-77 Armor to Kuwait two years earlier for a similar operation. Stuart was also Dillon’s best friend and only real confidant.

  Estes continued. “The Pentagon believes this will be nothing more than an opportunity for us to exercise our deployment systems and get in some maneuver training. Remember, this isn’t the first time that this has h
appened. There’s a new president in Iraq, but Saddam used to pull the same tricks. The Iraqis love riding up to the border and rattling their sabers—especially when the holidays are approaching. Personally, I think they just like yanking our chain.”

  “Any details yet, sir?” asked Dillon. “Like an estimated deployment length? That’ll be the first question we’re hit with from the wives.”

  All present knew that similar deployments had lasted anywhere from a month to six months. A great deal would depend on the activity of the Iraqis and whether or not the no-fly zone heated up while they were in country.

  Estes shook his head. “The exact layout for the operation will follow sometime later today when Third Brigade issues their operations order. They’ve been working on the OPORD all night. We did receive some good news this morning. Division headquarters wants to plus us up. A mech infantry company from Fort Hood will link up with us in Kuwait. Once that happens we’ll task organize. Right now we’ll plan on leaving A Company and C Company pure armor with fourteen tanks each. Mike, I’ll probably take one of your tank platoons and give them to our new mech team. You’ll get one of his infantry platoons, so you and Team Black Knight will field ten tanks and four Bradleys. Same is happening with the Third Brigade’s other two battalions—they’re each being plussed up with a company from Hood. It’ll be just like the good old days.”

  Though all of the men present knew that the United States had pretty much kept a brigade of heavy troops on call in Kuwait for well over a decade, and that this deployment was likely just another exercise, they all breathed a little easier at the news of three extra companies joining the brigade’s ranks for the mission. Only a few years earlier, every tank and mechanized infantry battalion rolled to the field with four companies each. All of that changed with the army’s digitization of the battlefield. Because the newer combat systems being fielded were able to communicate with each other and share the same tactical picture, the forty-pound brains that made such decisions reasoned that battalions could now get the same results with twenty-five percent less firepower. Most of the men of 3rd Brigade agreed that digitization—once they actually had it—would allow them to operate more efficiently, but in their bellies none believed the reason for cutting the battalions was for battlefield efficiency. In their minds, they were giving up combat power for budget savings. At least for this deployment they would have some insurance in the form of extra firepower.