Tin Soldiers

by Michael Farmer

Jones smiled and tapped his pockets. The smile disappeared. He couldn’t have smoked the whole pack. He’d just opened it at breakfast.

  “Here you go, sir,” offered Kelly, already having shaken one of his own out when he saw the look of disappointment on his commander’s face.

  “You’re spoiling me, Sergeant Major,” said Jones, the smile returning as he reached over to take the cigarette. “Yeah, I think Estes’s guys will do all right. At least they didn’t let recon vehicles into the center of their sector.”

  Kelly nodded understanding at his commander’s frustration, then stood and reached for his kevlar helmet and equipment harness. “Need anything else, sir? I want to go out and check our local security. Lets the troops see that I care,” Kelly said with a laugh. His tirades over improperly placed machine guns around the 3rd Brigade perimeter were legendary.

  Jones shook his head. “No, Sergeant Major, I think I’m going to go forward and check the battle positions myself. I just seem to get in the way around here.”

  Kelly felt a sudden surge of affection for his commander. He knew Jones hated being stuck at his headquarters and away from his troops. If he didn’t have a reason to go out and see his men, he’d make one up. Nonetheless, he worried about the man. He was a big target for enemy troops, and the fact that his vehicle had several antennas atop it was a dead giveaway to any seasoned soldier that someone important was inside.

  “Sir, you be careful out there. Leave your Hummer and take that Bradley the guys in Doha scrounged for you.”

  Jones saluted smartly. “Acknowledged, Sergeant Major. And thanks again for the coffee and smokes.”

  “Sure thing, sir. Part of the job,” said Kelly as he donned his helmet and walked out of the operations center.

  Kelly had taken two steps when he recognized a short, thin sergeant making his way toward the TOC.

  “Sergeant O’Keefe? What the hell are you doing here? Can’t First Brigade find enough to keep you busy?”

  The young NCO pulled up short on hearing his name called. “Hello, Sergeant Major!”

  The men shook hands warmly. “Well, O’Keefe? Glad to see you here, but how the hell did you manage it?”

  O’Keefe looked embarrassed. “My company had just sent me to the brigade S3 shop after that last exercise against Captain Dillon’s platoons. Well, I talked to the sergeant major—he and I go way back—and I told him how I had it from a pretty reliable source that our brigade would be the next one rotating over here to Kuwait, probably sometime next spring. Further, I told him that if I went as a rep with Third Brigade, it could sure help when the time came for our own brigade to deploy for a similar exercise. He couldn’t help seeing the logic in my reasoning and arranged for me to join you.” The NCO held his arms in the air. “So here I am.”

  Kelly couldn’t help smiling. Although some would deny it—particularly to their wives—there weren’t many soldiers who could resist the siren call of an operational deployment. Especially a field soldier such as O’Keefe. Kelly knew, of course, that O’Keefe had lied through his teeth to the 1st Brigade Sergeant Major.

  “So what do we have you doing?” asked Kelly.

  O’Keefe noticeably deflated. He mumbled something unintelligible.

  Kelly leaned closer. “What’s that?”

  The young NCO looked noticeably embarrassed. “Damn it, Sergeant Major, I’m the night radio operator at the TOC! I might add that it’s a very important duty! Okay?”

  Kelly howled with laughter. He knew how it galled O’Keefe not being behind the sight of a combat vehicle. Then a thought struck him. “O’Keefe, it just might be your lucky day.”

  O’Keefe looked at Kelly shrewdly. When senior NCOs began talking favors, it was best to listen carefully, because there was generally more to it than met the eye. “How so, Sergeant Major?”

  “How’d you like to get back on a Bradley?”

  O’Keefe was tempted to whoop with delight, but held himself in check. “Gunner or vehicle commander?”

  “Primarily gunner, but sort of both.”

  The light came on. O’Keefe shook his head. “Okay, I get it. No way. I’ve baby-sat lieutenants half my career. No more platoon leader tracks. Too much of a headache. As soon as I get one of those guys trained, they yank him from under me and send me a new one. Uh-uh.”

  Kelly rolled his eyes. “Will you shut up a minute? Not a platoon leader’s Bradley—the commander’s.”

  “Colonel Jones has a Brad?”

  Kelly nodded. “Yeah, an old friend of his at the draw yard in Doha insisted that he take it. I concurred. All we have to do is find a crew to man it. So far I’ve got a driver and a couple of radio operators. I’d take it as a personal favor if you’d act as the Old Man’s gunner. It would make me feel better about his running back and forth on the front lines if I knew a good man was watching his back.”

  O’Keefe rolled the idea around in his mind. Generally, he didn’t like getting any closer to the flagpole than necessary. But . . . it would get him back in a gunner’s seat and off the graveyard shift at the brigade TOC. Plus he’d heard good things about Jones. He nodded to himself, then looked at Kelly and held out his hand.

  “Deal.”

  Kelly smiled and grabbed O’Keefe’s hand. A weight lifted from his shoulders . . . or at least lightened. “Good shit. He’s pulling out in a few minutes. Grab your gear and hop on the track.”

  He was talking to O’Keefe’s back, as the young sergeant had already started running toward the operations center to grab his gear.

  “Wilco, Sergeant Major!” O’Keefe yelled over his shoulder.

  Kelly couldn’t help but get caught up in O’Keefe’s enthusiasm. His smile grew and his pace took on a spring as he continued moving toward the perimeter of the headquarters compound.

  3rd Brigade, 4th ID TOC, Northern Kuwait

  21 October, 1545 Hours Local

  Jones turned back to the maps for a final look. Satisfied, he turned and began donning his combat gear to head to the front lines.

  “Hey, Smitty,” he said to the “runner” who passed as a gofer in the operations center. “Could you go tell my crew to get the Brad warmed up. I’ll be there and ready to roll in ten minutes.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the corporal. He turned and walked out as a high-pitched whistling sounded. The next thing he was aware of was Jones grabbing him and throwing him into a sandbagged bunker just outside the TOC.

  “Get your head down goddamn it or that arty’s going to take it off!” screamed the colonel in his ear.

  Both men lifted a few inches off the ground as the artillery hit three hundred meters away. The barrage lasted thirty seconds, then moved west.

  The brigade executive officer rushed out of the relative safety of one of the lightly armored M577 command and control tracks. He searched frantically until he saw Jones.

  “Sir, are you all right?” yelled the major.

  Jones stood. “Yeah,” he said, brushing himself off. “This is just a prelude. Harassing fires spread around the rear area. The big stuff is still to come. Get with the fire support cell and see if they’re going to be able to get any counterbattery fires off.”

  As the XO turned back to the headquarters vehicles, Jones glanced over at Corporal Smith. The soldier was just starting to peer over the edge of the sandbags. “You all right, Smitty?” asked the colonel.

  “Yes, sir,” answered the young soldier. Smith was obviously not all right. He was still shaking.

  “All right, soldier, take a deep breath,” said Jones. He made sure the corporal was looking him directly in the eyes. “I still need that Brad, son. Get moving.” Jones watched the boy move off and breathed a little easier. You never knew how someone was going to react to his first taste of war. A lot of soldiers went their entire careers without ever experiencing what that kid just had.

  Jones turned toward the operations track and yelled to the crew inside. “I need a SITREP on damage to the headquarters before I leave.” The colo
nel paused. “And I want to know the number of casualties before you give me anything else.”

  “Already working it, sir,” came a reply from inside the vehicle.

  “Medic! Medic!” came a scream from a few hundred feet away.

  Jones began a trot toward the disturbance. As he got closer, he slowed.

  Ah, shit, thought Jones.

  A group of soldiers was grouped around a prone figure. Jones gently pulled the sergeant who had been screaming for a medic away from the remains of what had once been an American soldier.

  “We need a medic over here now!” screamed the young NCO.

  “There’s nothing we can do for him,” said Jones gently. “We’ve got to let the medics work on the casualties they can still help.”

  For the first time the sergeant looked at the man pulling him back from the body. His eyes widened on recognizing the eagle of a full colonel on the right collar of the BDU blouse. “But, sir, you don’t understand. He was running around out here helping me get my guys to cover. If he hadn’t stopped to help us, he’d have been in the bunker. He wouldn’t be dead.”

  Jones had to break his eyes away from the sergeant’s stare. He choked on his first attempt at a reply. “Yeah. I know, son. That’s the kind of soldier Kelly was. Now help me find something to cover him with.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Prelude to a Kiss

  Cold Steel Battle Position, Northern Kuwait

  21 October, 2000 Hours Local

  In the darkness Cold Steel’s battle position looked abandoned. For now, the majority of the company’s tanks had pulled back into hide positions. In this way, any enemy recon that made it into C Company’s sector would have difficulty establishing exactly where the company was defending. Only three tanks occupied their fighting holes at the moment, one in each of the three platoon battle positions. These tanks scanned with thermals to ensure the area remained secure until Dillon brought the rest of the company forward before first light.

  Dillon’s lieutenants gathered around his tank. He’d wanted to bring all his tank commanders in, but knew he couldn’t afford to have that much of the company’s leadership pulled away from last-minute combat checks. He’d depend on the platoon leaders to relay his message.

  Leaning against his tank, C-66, Dillon closed his eyes and took in the heavy smells of burning fuel and large mechanized war machines that always accompanied tank units. The muffled clink of track on sprockets as M1A1s moved in the darkness, about their preparations. God, this seemed so much like the countless field exercises they’d drilled . . . yet it was so very different.

  He opened his eyes and tried to make out the faces of the nearby men. They waited for inspirational words, needing them like a starving man needs a meal, but nothing came to Dillon. He had never been in a position like this as a young lieutenant and could only imagine the thoughts running through their minds. Most of them had entered the army less than a year ago, and now the security of a nation and their men’s lives depended in large part on the decisions they would make over the course of the next few days.

  It was getting too dark to see them clearly, but Dillon felt their stares as he began speaking. “I’m proud of the way you and your men have gotten in here and busted ass to get this defense set. Very proud. No one could have done more in the time we’ve had.”

  He paused, praying the words they needed to hear would come. “I know you’re having doubts over whether or not you can handle the shit that’s coming down. That’s natural. Know this. I have faith in you. I have faith in your NCOs. I have faith in your men. I have faith in this company. Just do the things that we’ve been trained to do. Thad, where are you?”

  Mason’s grumble sounded behind Dillon. “Here, sir.”

  Dillon turned on the voice in the darkness. “Thad, if I go down, this company is yours. No time for doubts. You grab the bull by the balls and take it where it needs to go.”

  “Roger, sir,” replied the big executive officer quietly.

  Dillon turned on his other lieutenants. “The same goes for the rest of you, and for your men. Lives are going to be lost if no one is willing to get on the radio and make decisions. Is that understood?”

  A chorus of “rogers” sprang from the night.

  “I’ve heard some of your men talking about how this is going to be easy—how the Arabs can’t fight. Do not underestimate your enemy. Give him the benefit of the doubt and you’ll be less likely to make stupid mistakes. We may be better than anyone in the world one on one, but, gentlemen . . . this is going to be far from one on one. Make every round count.”

  Dillon knew his lieutenants were dangling on his every word and hoping something magical would come from his lips that would guarantee their own survival along with their men, if only they listened closely. But it was too late for that. Those magic words were the ones that had been spoken during the previous months of training—the words that had been spoken during After Action Reviews, when their mistakes were exposed and solutions for fixing them were brought out. Dillon hoped the lessons had taken hold.

  Bluto broke in. “Sir, any change to Team Knight’s withdrawal plan? They still coming through us?”

  “Yeah, Bluto. But you guys are going to have to keep an ear to the radio. Remember, they’re not pulling until they’ve destroyed the recon from the lead Republican Guard brigade. If that brigade attacks one of the other task force sectors, the call will be made on whether Knight’s staying forward a while longer or pulling back. Either way, they’re coming through us. You have their withdrawal route, Dagger, on your overlays. Ensure your tank commanders do as well. Don’t think that the rehearsal we conducted earlier is going to make it simple. Those guys are likely to be pulling back under fire and it will not be the stately parade of vehicles coming back that you saw then. They will be hauling ass, disorganized, and the radio will be a clusterfuck with everybody and his brother thinking that his traffic is the traffic that needs to be heard by everyone else in the task force. Don’t add to the madness. Stay calm. Stay cool. Keep control of your platoon nets, and keep someone monitoring the company net for my call—either you or your platoon sergeant. Other questions?”

  Doc called out, “Changes to the chemical situation, sir?”

  Dillon involuntarily shivered. Doc had broached the subject that all soldiers hated. Chemical warfare. Fighting an enemy that not only had a chemical capability, but who’d shown a willingness to use it. “No. Right now we don’t expect them to use chemicals. Per the plan, have everyone in their chemical overgarments by zero three hundred hours and keep your protective masks within arm’s reach. The intel guys say that if they use anything, it will be nonpersistent and that they’ll save it until just before the main attack. Probably. We’re in a good position because the brigade has positioned one of its Fox chemical recon sections forward, between Team Mech and us. If any chemical hits in this area, we’ll know fast.”

  Absolute silence.

  “Look, if it makes you feel any better, Aref is no idiot. He knows that if he uses chemicals, the United States will bomb him back to the Stone Age and fuck what the rest of the world thinks. It is therefore highly unlikely that we’ll see any. But we’ll be prepared, just in case. Anything else?” Dillon hoped he had alleviated some of their fears regarding the chemical threat. They had enough to worry about already. Himself, he wasn’t sure that the Iraqi leader was playing with a full deck of cards. That made him unpredictable.

  No one had further questions. Dillon nodded to himself in the darkness. His unit was as ready as it would ever be. “All right then, mount up and—”

  A baritone voice sounded behind Dillon. “Sir, if Imay. . .”

  “Yeah, Thad, what do you have?”

  “Sir, I know it’ll sound a little unusual, especially from me, but could we . . . uh . . . say a prayer? I kind of promised my momma that if it looked like, well, you know . . .”

  Dillon smiled. “Sure, Thad. I’ll take all the help I can get. Just keep in mind th
at God is on the side of the tank with the tightest boresight.”

  The leadership of Cold Steel formed a small semicircle in front of C-66. Without comment, Dillon’s crew silently descended from the tank and fell in with the group of men. Mason stepped forward and his deep voice led the assembled warriors.

  “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name . . .”

  Anvil Battle Position, Northern Kuwait

  21 October, 2330 Hours Local

  Lieutenant Colonel Rob Estes’s tank slowed to a crawl two hundred meters behind Anvil’s position. He was having second thoughts about A Company occupying this critical piece of terrain. More to the point, he was having second thoughts about Captain Dan Malloy being in charge of this critical piece of terrain. To an extent, you could blame Dan himself for shying away from the jobs that would have given him the experience he’d likely need before the night was over. The truth was, if they hadn’t deployed, it would have never been an issue. Dan would have done an adequate job performing his daily duties at Fort Carson, would have received an adequate command evaluation report, and would have continued his march deep into the army’s logistical circles.

  Estes had minimized the situation to the extent that he could—he’d placed Malloy in the least vulnerable position within the Iron Tiger’s sector. At least it had appeared so when he and Barnett constructed the plan. They’d expected most of the action to come from the center. Anvil had been placed on the task force left flank to tie in with 2-35 Armor. Now that the Iraqis likely had a good idea of 2-35’s disposition, Anvil’s position adjacent to them was critical. If an enemy force made it through 2-35 Armor on the Iron Tigers’ left, the first thing they’d run into would be Malloy and Anvil.

  “Anvil Six, Tiger Six, over,” Estes called as his tank ground to a stop.

  “Tiger Six, this is Anvil Five. Anvil Six is on the ground, over.”

  Estes smiled. Anvil Five was First Lieutenant Bob Waters, the A Company executive officer. One of the wiser moves he’d made as battalion commander, thought Estes, was to team Waters with Malloy. Waters was thirty years old; he had come up through the ranks. He had been a staff sergeant commanding his own tank when someone with an eye for talent suggested he go to Officer’s Candidate School. Waters was experienced and calm, traits that would be vital once bullets started flying.