Tin Soldiers

by Michael Farmer

  The colonel frowned. “Sir?”

  General Hamza looked at the colonel as if he were the son of a leper. I really must get a new operations officer, he thought, not for the first time. This one has no mind for tactics. “Colonel, it is obvious the Americans believe we will attack in the west. This is clear from the fact that they have sent a large number of vehicles to reinforce that position. They attempted to accomplish this before dawn so we would not know, but we caught them at it. Now we will reinforce their belief by attacking in the west, but only with the remnants of the brigade that attacked last night. The remainder of our division will attack where they pulled their reinforcements from, for there they will now be weak!” The general jabbed his finger into the center of the American forces—into the heart of Cold Steel’s battle position.

  Cold Steel Battle Position, Northern Kuwait

  22 October, 0620 Hours Local

  Dillon looked again toward the rocky, furrowed ground previously occupied by Third Platoon. As a battle position the terrain stank, but it was better than nothing. And that was what Third Platoon would have if they didn’t make it back soon, for they’d be caught in the open. It was too soon to know if Jones’s ruse had been successful—but if the Iraqis had bitten on the bait, the Tawakalna would be rolling straight at them.

  Dillon closed his eyes and conducted a mental review. When the enemy division attacked, it would be with three brigades. Each of the enemy brigades had roughly the same number of combat vehicles as 3rd Brigade. What it amounted to was they’d better kill a lot more of the enemy than the enemy killed of them. In the past they’d counted on superior weapons and ammunition to accomplish this type of destruction, but the new Iraqi tank rounds were a wild card. No one had known about that capability. Now the sides were on a much more equal footing, though the American tanks still possessed a significant technological advantage in optics and shooting on the move. Still, somewhere on the intelligence side there had been a major hole that was just now being discovered—the hard way.

  The fight would be sequential once it began. When the lead Republican Guard brigade was within range of the American howitzers, the friendly artillery would begin hammering it. This enemy brigade would continue to receive indirect fire until they closed into direct fire range of the 3rd Brigade’s tanks and Bradleys, roughly two and a half miles forward of Steel’s position. Friendly air would interdict the trailing Iraqi brigades, along with more indirect fires. This would separate the lead brigade in time and space from his follow-on forces.

  The Americans had an imaginary line in the sand running thirty-seven hundred meters forward of the friendly fighting positions. Once the enemy crossed this line, which was marked on the ground by orange aircraft recognition panels, the Bradleys would open up with their TOWs. These wire-guided tank killers served two purposes: to strip off a few of the enemy tanks early in the fight and to force the Iraqis to break up their formations. The new WAM mines would force the enemy armor to turn in order to avoid them . . . assuming they were seen. While these minefields could be easily bypassed, this exposed the enemy armor’s vulnerable flanks to the mech infantry’s Bradley gunners.

  When the enemy closed to three thousand meters, select tank crews would begin engaging. These “sniper crews” would be the best shooting tanks from each unit. They would engage the lead enemy tanks at long range while their wingmen observed for them. At twenty-five hundred meters the M1A1s would enter the fight in a mass. The tanks would use platoon and company volley fires to whittle down the enemy in chunks. The obstacles would be thicker now. Combinations of minefields, tank ditches, and razor-sharp concertina wire would force the enemy along the routes the Americans wanted them to take. If the enemy wanted to use the blocked routes they would have to breach the obstacle belts—a costly operation in time, equipment, and men as they would be under direct and indirect fire during the entire operation.

  At two thousand meters the Bradleys’ 25mm cannon fires would begin stitching the enemy’s infantry carriers while the M1A1s continued working over the T-72s.

  Dillon, like all commanders, knew that battles rarely happened as planned. The plan was a basis for change. And of course, the enemy gets a vote. The Iraqis wouldn’t idly roll into the friendly engagement area to be killed, but would engage the American positions with preparatory artillery until their own forces rolled into danger at close range. At this point the enemy armor would attempt to close the distance between themselves and their objective as rapidly as possible, knowing they had precious few minutes before the American forces got their shit together following the arty firestorm that had fallen on them. If the Iraqis could significantly close on the U.S. positions, they would take away one of the American advantages, which was superior accuracy at longer distances. A final option in the Iraqis’ pocket was the use of chemical munitions, likely delivered by some type of indirect fire system. As he’d told his men, the intel folks didn’t think it was likely, but the possibility still remained.

  Dillon thumbed the CVC’s radio switch. “Steel Five, Steel Six. SITREP on your move.”

  Mason’s voice rumbled through the helmet’s receiver.

  “Steel Six, Steel Five, E. T.A. zero two minutes, over.”

  “Roger, Steel Five. Cut back your speed. We’ve got a few minutes and I don’t want dust clouds trailing up to your positions. Let me know when you’ve reoccupied and are REDCON-One, over.”

  “Steel Five, wilco.”

  Dillon reached forward, giving his .50 caliber machine gun one last check, then settled back. He wouldn’t have to wait long.

  Kuwait International Airport, Kuwait

  22 October, 0625 Hours Local

  In the early-morning light a ragged group of soldiers worked at arranging the bodies of America’s first casualties of the new war on the airport tarmac. Nobody noticed as a military cargo vehicle pulled alongside. The NCO in charge of the detail looked down the rows of body bags and at the silver caskets awaiting them off to one side. Fifteen dead so far.

  “All right!” he yelled in an attempt to be heard over the constant noise of arriving and departing aircraft. “You will check each body bag for an identification tag. You will then move the body to the casket with the matching name stenciled on its cover. Don’t close the covers until I come through and verify a match.” The sergeant paused, pointing to a C-130 two hundred meters down the flight line. “Once complete, we’ll secure the caskets and move them one at a time by forklift to that aircraft. That aircraft will transport the remains stateside. Questions?”

  “Yeah,” called a sullen voice from behind the NCO.

  The sergeant turned. He recognized the speaker. A troublemaker. One of those soldiers who bitched about everything and felt like the world owed him something for nothing. He, like most of the other members of the detail, had been sent from other units. The NCO shook his head. What did he expect, that the field units were going to send back their best and brightest as the war was just heating up? Not likely.

  The NCO put his hands on his hips. “What is it?”

  “Why the fuck we gotta do this, Sarge? Isn’t this the fuckin’ air force’s job? I thought they was responsible for loading shit on planes.”

  The NCO turned crimson. “Listen up, fuckstick. These soldiers died at the front while chickenshits like you found every excuse in the book to stay as far from the fighting as they could. . . .”

  As the sergeant continued, a squad of soldiers wearing maroon berets quickly exited the cargo vehicle alongside the group. Each of the soldiers had silver jump wings pinned to the left breast of their desert utility uniforms. In contrast to the detail of slovenly soldiers, these moved with a sense of grace, power, and pride. At their lead was a giant captain.

  “Now you will move these bodies,” said the NCOIC of the transport detail, his finger an inch from the face of the troublemaker, “and you will show the proper respect while doing so. And if you don’t, so help me God, you piece of human shit, I’m going to rip your
. . .”

  It was at this point the NCO decided that it would be worth the stripe he’d lose to kick the shit out of the soldier in question. As his arm cocked back and began to flash forward, it was caught in a viselike grip, its forward motion stopped cold.

  The NCO wheeled and found himself looking into the chest of the big captain. The sergeant had a pleading look on his face. “I know what I’m doing, sir. Let me handle this. It’s NCO business.”

  Captain Jack Kelly had heard enough of the exchange between the sergeant and the ragbag to get the gist of what was occurring. He shook his head, but the expression on his face was not unkind. “That’s all right, Sergeant. We’ve got it. Dismiss your detail. I’m sure there’s something else they can do on the flight line to make themselves useful.”

  The NCO looked at the name tag. “Kelly . . . we’ve got a Sergeant Major Kelly—” He stopped midsentence, understanding dawning in his eyes. “Sir . . . is the sergeant major . . . ?”

  Kelly looked at the NCO and nodded slowly. “My father. Would you want this scum responsible for your dad’s remains?”

  The sergeant looked at the motley detail and shook his head. “No, sir. I would not. Follow me.” He moved down the row of body bags, stopping close to the end of the line.

  Captain Jack Kelly looked down at the body bag the NCO had stopped next to. The tag identified the remains as KELLY, JACKSON E., SGM. Kelly reached down to the zipper.

  The NCO grabbed his shoulder. “Sir, I’m afraid it’s against regulations to—”

  The look Jack Kelly Jr. gave the man was enough to freeze the rest of the sentence in the NCO’s throat and make him remove his hand as though it had been shocked.

  Kelly wasn’t prepared for the sight that greeted him as he unzipped the body bag. He’d tried to steel himself against it, but it did no good now that he was face-to-face with the evidence of how brutally his father had died.

  He softly touched the cheek, as he had so often sitting in his father’s lap as a child. Kelly’s squad of Airborne troopers formed a protective perimeter around their commander. The soldiers couldn’t shield Kelly from the emotional turmoil ripping through him, but they’d be damned if outsiders would be allowed to see their commander’s pain. Turning their backs, the men allowed Kelly a few moments of privacy.

  Jack reached inside his father’s shirt. The blood had dried and stiffened the uniform material. Slowly he grasped the dog tag chain and pulled it out. Somewhere in the system they’d already taken one of the tags. Well, they could live without the other. He detached it from the chain, after pulling his own chain out, and attached his father’s tag next to his own. He then reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. With a shaking hand, Jack withdrew a photo of his newborn son. He placed the picture into his father’s hand, a hand that he knew so well, and folded the stiff fingers around it.

  “He’ll be proud of you, Dad,” Kelly whispered. “I’ll make sure of that. And . . . don’t worry about Mom. I’ll take care of her . . . I promise. I . . . know we have always had a hard time talking . . . really talking. But, I just want you to know, I couldn’t have asked for more in a father . . . and I . . . I love you. Good-bye, Dad.” Kelly slowly zipped the body bag shut, but remained kneeling over it as he regained control of his emotions.

  When he finally stood, his first sergeant spun and faced him. “Sir, we’d be proud if you’d let us take care of your father for you now.”

  Kelly nodded once quickly. “Thanks, Top. Carry on.”

  Kelly’s men began loading the bodies into the caskets, beginning with the sergeant major’s. After they completed this task, the caskets were moved to the waiting forklift—all but Sergeant Major Kelly’s. Captain Kelly’s men agreed without a spoken word that his casket would be carried to the waiting aircraft by an honor guard of Airborne.

  CHAPTER 9

  Battle Met

  Phase Line Sheridan, Northern Kuwait

  22 October, 0630 Hours Local

  The scout sergeant held the binos to his face again, then reached behind him with an open hand. “Give me the handset, Ramirez.”

  The soldier slapped it into his palm. “Sergeant Cole—they comin’?”

  Cole ignored the question as he continued observing north. He put the binos down and pulled a marker from his pocket. Bending over the map spread on the ground in front of him, the NCO annotated the location and information he’d just observed. Satisfied, Cole lifted the binos to his eyes and the handset to his mouth.

  “Lighthorse Six, Lighthorse Two-Six, over.”

  “Lighthorse Six, over.”

  “This is Two-Six. I’m observing a large formation of armored vehicles, vicinity TRP Delta-One. Approximately four zero T-72 tanks and two zero BMPs. They are moving slowly southwest, appear to be attacking into 2-35 sector. Tell Lightning to fire group target Alpha five one Golf. I can adjust, over.”

  “This is Six, roger. Stand by.”

  As he waited for his platoon leader to request the indirect fire mission through task force fire support channels, Cole heard a whistling directly overhead. He grabbed Ramirez by the neck and shoved him face first into the sand. The rounds impacted five hundred meters away.

  Cole released the scout. “Sorry, Ramirez. Didn’t know how close that was going to be.”

  The young corporal spit sand out of his mouth. “That’s okay. I’m sure you meant well.”

  Cole turned toward the area of the artillery’s impact.

  “Lighthorse Six, this is Lighthorse Two-Six. I am observing indirect fires, vicinity battle position four-zero, over.”

  The artillery continued falling in the area, all of it directed at Task Force 2-35’s position. Damn but those poor bastards were being pounded. Hadn’t they had enough? Cole picked up the binos for another look north. The enemy force had all but stopped while waiting for their artillery to finish softening up 2-35.

  “Lighthorse Six, Two-Six. Tell Lightning to fire that group now! The enemy force is stationary. I say again stationary, over.”

  The seconds ticked by.

  “Lighthorse Two-Six, Lighthorse Six. Shot, over.”

  By reflex, Cole responded, “Shot, out.”

  Ramirez tugged at his NCO’s sleeve as Cole observed the target area to see the outcome of the fire mission on the large mass of Iraqi vehicles.

  Cole held up a hand as he continued to peer through the binos. “Stand by, Ramirez. I’m busy.”

  “But, Sergeant Cole—”

  Cole held up a warning finger. “Stand—by—Ramirez. It can wait.”

  As Cole continued watching the enemy formation, he heard heavy diesel engine noises. He looked to his right. “Ramirez?”

  “Yeah, Sergeant Cole?”

  “Were you trying to tell me that you saw a bunch of vehicles to the east of the first group?”

  Ramirez put down the spare set of binos he’d been utilizing. “Uh-huh.”

  “And that they were headed this way?”

  “Yep.”

  Cole’s pulse quickened. “Start getting our shit together and prepare to make a run for the Hummer.”

  “Roger.” Ramirez began policing up the ammo, maps, radio batteries, and other equipment that were the bread and butter of a scout observation post.

  Cole jumped back to the radio. As he was picking up the handset to send the new spot report, the radio came to life.

  “Two-Six, this is Six. Splash, over.”

  Shit. He’d forgotten entirely about the fire mission. He turned to Ramirez. “Get the hell outta here. I’m right behind you.”

  Ramirez shook his head doggedly. “I’ll wait for you.”

  Cole started to argue, then held up a finger for what seemed the umpteenth time in the past hour. “This is Two-Six. Splash, out.” He held up the binos in time to see the first group of vehicles disappear in a mass of dust and smoke. Group artillery targets consisted of multiple targets, all fired at once. There was a lot of shit falling on the bad guys, which was good. But it m
ade it damned difficult to determine if anything was actually being hit.

  “Six, Two-Six. Tell Lightning to repeat, I say again, repeat the mission. Break . . . Six, currently observing a second group of vehicles, roughly same size and composition as first group, maybe a little larger. Vicinity TRP Echo-Two and moving south. We’ve got to move. Estimate the lead vehicles will be on top of our current position in less than one zero minutes, over.”

  “This is Six. Good copy. Move to alternate post now. Call me when set. Out.”

  Cole threw the radio onto his back and grabbed his M16. “Goddamn it, Ramirez! When I tell you to do something, I don’t have time to argue. . . .”

  Green tracers stitched a line between Cole and Ramirez. Both men bolted south toward the wadi in which their Hummer was hidden. Behind them they heard the roaring diesel engine of a Russian-made BRDM scout car. Apparently the Iraqi recon forward of the enemy unit had been watching the American scouts and had worked their way close enough to engage.

  Ramirez, younger and more agile, was in the lead. Cole looked over his shoulder in time to see the BRDM pop over an intervisibility line three hundred meters behind them. Shit. Green tracers again streaked from the vehicle’s 7.62mm machine gun. In what seemed like slow motion, Cole saw Ramirez reach for his calf, then stagger and go down as if a giant hand had swatted him on the back. Cole sprinted toward his fallen scout.

  As the BRDM gunner watched, the faster of the two soldiers fell. He released his trigger. Praise Allah. Now for the other one. He shifted his sight picture slightly as the second American ran to aid his fallen comrade. The gunner hesitated. He did not like shooting a man coming to the aid of a friend.

  “Why do you hesitate?” demanded his vehicle commander. “Fire your weapon!”

  En shallah, thought the gunner, looking once again into his sight and bringing the second American into its picture. Allah’s will be done.