As the Americans prepared their second volley, the more alert T-72 crews opened fire. While the Russian-designed guns on the T-72s weren’t as accurate at twenty-five hundred meters as the Abrams, the distance was within their effective range. One of the Abrams that had taken up position in the stand of rocks sustained a catastrophic hit, smoke and flame billowing into the sky. Another sagged on its tracks with a mobility hit. It would be going nowhere. In defiance the wounded tank fired again, destroying the T-72 that had damaged it. Another sabot round from his forces hit the Abrams and smoke began to escape from its hatches, along with the tank’s crewmen. The fortuitous turn of events did not last, however.
The eleven M1s remaining in the fight threw another volley at his exposed forces, then another seconds later. A quick count told Colonel Abdulamir that he had lost close to thirty tanks and BMPs in less than a minute, almost half of his brigade’s strength.
It was time for Dillon to stop worrying about fighting his tank and start looking at how the company was doing. “Okay, Tommy. Get us back in the hole. Bick, fire and adjust.”
“Roger, moving back,” called Thompson. C-66 backed up, reared skyward, and slid into its hiding position.
“I’ve got the gun, sir,” called Sergeant Bickel.
“Roger, I’m going up to take a look around.”
Dillon climbed into his cupola and threw his binos to his face. Trying to see the big picture through a tank sight was difficult. Even in wide field of view, only segments of the battlefield could be seen.
As Dillon watched from his position behind First Platoon, he saw Wyatt’s tanks pull from their holes and throw a volley of rounds toward a cluster of retreating vehicles. Dillon watched as an Iraqi T-72 was hit just below the turret line on its side. The entire turret, including the gun tube, flipped a hundred feet into the air. It looked like a giant frying pan turning end over end.
Colonel Abdulamir correctly surmised that it was time to withdraw his forces. The position was too exposed and the Americans would continue to overmatch his combat power. If he could save what was left of his forces in the support by fire positions and consolidate them with the assault battalion waiting north of them, he would still have a significant combat force to draw into the fight later when the Third Brigade of the Tawakalna arrived. Lifting his radio, he called his battalion commanders. “All units withdraw now. Regroup at the assault position.”
The Iraqis were pulling back. Dillon saw a mass of vehicles to the north, just beyond main gun range. It had to be the assault force that had been waiting for the breach to go in. He made a mental note of the location and looked at his map, placing a finger on a blue cross with an alphanumeric note next to it. Great. Dumphy already had a preplotted target on the position.
“Steel Fist, Steel 6.”
“Steel Fist.”
“This is Six. I’ve got thirty-plus tanks and BMPs, vicinity target Alpha Sierra four four zero three. What’s left of their support-by-fire element is working its way back to the same location. Fire the group target. Over.”
“This is Steel Fist. Already done. We should be receiving a shot call momentarily, over.”
I love that guy, thought Dillon. “Roger. Steel Six, out.”
“Identify tank,” Dillon heard Bickel call over the intercom. “Driver, move out.”
Dillon was thrown backward into his hatch as Sergeant Bickel guided C-66 out of its hole to engage the target. Tracing the gun tube’s orientation, Dillon saw their intended victim. A T-72 had reversed course and headed north. Its main gun was still oriented south, however. More than that, it was pointing at them. Just as they were about to level off to engage the Iraqi tank, their own mount ground to a halt. C-66 was stuck halfway out of its hole, pointing into the air.
Dillon keyed the intercom. “Thompson! What the fuck, over.”
The crew could hear the effort of their driver in the forward compartment. “Transmission . . . stuck. Stand by. I’m . . . working on it.”
With the front of the tank obstructing his view, Dillon had to lean far out over the right side in order to get a look downrange. Pulling his binoculars up, he saw the Iraqi tank stop and make a slight gun tube adjustment. The stricken American tank was too tempting a target for them to ignore. Oh . . . shit. “Bick, can you engage from here?”
“Negative! I’m looking at the sky until we level out.”
A boom to Dillon’s right caused him to turn. One of his First Platoon crews had seen C-66’s predicament and snapped a shot at the enemy tank zeroing in on Dillon and his men. Looking back toward the Iraqi T-72, Dillon saw the shot had been a near miss. The enemy tank was now maneuvering to get out of direct fire range.
“That should keep the bastards off the Old Man’s ass long enough for them to get clear,” said Staff Sergeant Rudy Vallejo, the tank commander of C-12. “Driver, back up and get us to our alternate position. That’s our third shot from up here. We need to get down.”
“Too late, Vee,” said his gunner as he peered into his sight. “Dude’s wingman just showed, and he looks hungry.”
Swinging his binoculars up and in a line with the gun tube, fresh sweat popped from Vallejo’s brow. The NCO knew the smart thing was to get his tank back in the hole, but a glance in Dillon’s direction confirmed that C-66 was still a sitting duck. “Roger, engage him.”
“On the way . . .”
C-12’s cannon cracked. The velocity of the sabot exiting the gun tube erupted the sand in front of the Abrams into a cloud of dust.
“All right, get us out of here, move!”
Dillon saw the second Iraqi tank explode as the red streak that was a sabot round from C-12 reached it. He thanked himself for the hours he’d forced his crews to undergo gunnery training back in Colorado, to include midnights in the gunnery simulator when that was all that was available. The depleted uranium dart hit the Iraqi tank with the force of an eleven-ton truck moving seventy miles per hour, all of the force concentrated into an area less than an inch in diameter.
“Thompson, any progress down there?”
“Working it, sir!” came the driver’s reply. “You bitch,” Thompson continued as he labored unseen in the driver’s compartment. “I treat you . . . good. I . . . baby you. And you pull . . . this shit! Why I oughta—”
The tank shook as the force of a nearby explosion rolled over it.
Dillon switched his attention between the tank that had fired, the returning Iraqi crew that Vallejo had near-missed earlier, and the tank that was now in flames . . . C-12. “Goddamn it,” he said softly to himself.
The Iraqi crew, the immediate threat gone, turned back to C-66.
Dillon saw the 125mm gun slowly swing their way. “Brace yourselves!”
The sabot scoured their turret with a sound like giant talons raking over steel.
Thompson’s voice over the intercom rose in intensity. “You . . . piece . . . of . . . shit!” A horrible grinding sounded from the M1A1’s transmission as the tank rocked forward and leveled out in a cloud of dust.
The crew of the T-72 didn’t know what was wrong with the American tank, nor did they care. It was an outlet for the frustrations and fears that had gripped them over the past minutes.
“Target!” cried the Iraqi tank commander, seeing sparks fly as their round struck the side of the accursed Americans. “Put another round into him, gunner. I’ve seen no secondary explosions.”
“Prepared to fire, waiting for a round!” called the gunner, keeping his sights on the stricken tank. Unlike the American crews, who used a soldier to feed the forty-pound main gun rounds into the breech, their T-72 utilized an autoloader. When a round was expended, another was automatically fed into the breech. While it had its upsides, the autoloader was slow. It seemed to be taking forever at the moment.
The tank commander’s eyes grew as he saw the steel monster that was their target lunge into the air and settle in a storm of dust. “The tank is moving! Hurry!”
“I can see that . . . waiting
for the round to be fed . . . all right, ready!”
“Fire!”
C-66 leveled out and the dust began to clear.
Thompson was in the middle of congratulating himself when he felt their tank rock as Sergeant Bickel fired. Throwing the tank in reverse, he saw a puff of smoke from the T-72. Thompson rotated his twist-grip throttles to the stops in an attempt to gain acceleration.
The two rounds passed within a foot of one another, one going south, the other north. The Iraqi sabot overshot its target by inches. The American round struck the T-72 below the turret ring, lifting the tank two feet off the ground and spinning it ninety degrees.
The Iraqi tank commander screamed at his crew over the intercom, flames beginning to lick at his feet. “Fire! Get out! Everyone out now!”
Hearing no response from his gunner, he looked across the turret toward his longtime friend. They’d been together since the last days of the Iran-Iraq War, enjoying many good times and enduring hardships together. A piece of shrapnel, ripped from their engine as the depleted uranium projectile passed through it, had pierced his eye. The gunner now jerked spasmodically in death.
An overpowering stench mixed with the smells of cordite, diesel fuel, and sweat, creating a sickening odor in the tight confines of the crew compartment. The tank commander realized it was the stench of the dead man’s bowels releasing and retched into his own lap. Further coherent thought fled as he grasped the handle of his hatch to escape the deathtrap.
Dillon watched the enemy tank lurch to a stop, smoke spilling from its hatches. He shook his head, watching the helpless vehicle. They couldn’t take any chances. Just because the tank was immobilized didn’t mean that it couldn’t still engage them or some other friendly. He didn’t intend to lose anyone else today.
“Reengage.”
Bickel continued watching the doomed tank through the sight, his reticle lying dead center over it. “Roger. Identified.”
Hunter already had a sabot round in the tube. The loader threw the arming handle back and moved from the breech’s recoil path. “Up!”
“Driver, move out.”
C-66 lunged forward, this time all systems functioning perfectly.
“Driver, stop!” Sergeant Bickel had been looking through his auxiliary sight. Once he saw the horizon instead of the sky, he knew his optics were ready and switched back to his electronic sight.
“I’ve still got him, sir. . . .”
Looking through the sight extension, Dillon saw the reticle come to rest on the Iraqi tank.
Should he allow the enemy crew a few seconds to escape? Were they even now attempting to reengage C-66? Questions flooded Dillon’s mind as he watched the crippled vehicle smolder.
“Fire,” said Dillon quietly.
The Iraqi tank commander threw his hatch open and began scrambling from the burning vehicle. As one leg cleared the hatch, a giant hand seemed to lift him from the turret and throw him high into the air. He felt no pain, only an odd sensation of weightlessness as he heard the sound of the second sabot round impacting his tank. He hit the hard desert floor with a dull thud thirty feet from his burning vehicle.
His first sensation was an awareness that he could not move his limbs. He didn’t know that this was because his spine had snapped on impact with the ground. The tank commander also noticed a peculiar odor. Allah, have mercy on me, he thought, finally realizing that he was on fire.
Slowly and painfully he turned his head southward, searching for his Angel of Death. He caught a final glimpse of the American tank as it slid into the earth, hidden once more. It was the last thing he saw because the flames had now worked their way up his body and above his shoulders, finally devouring his face and eyes.
Dillon and Bickel watched the death throes of the Iraqi tank silently. Only they could see the tank commander’s death throes. Both had the same thought—That was almost us. After a few seconds, Dillon broke the spell.
“Crew report.”
Each crew member checked in, calling out the status of their systems. The tank was good.
“Bick, do you see anything else?”
The gunner took his eyes from his sight and looked back, shaking his head. “Negative, not in weapons range.”
He turned to the loader and gestured upward. “Hunter, go topside. Check the exterior for damage.”
The loader quickly unsnapped his communication cord from his CVC, grasped the lip of his hatch, and heaved himself out of the turret. Dillon yelled after him. “And stay the hell down!”
He turned his attention to the driver. “Tommy, as soon as we get out of this mess, get a mechanic onboard and check out the transmission. I don’t ever want another close call like that.”
A sheepish voice replied. “Roger.”
“Okay, Sergeant Bickel, continue to scan. I’m going up for a look around.”
“I’ve got it, sir.”
Dillon climbed into his cupola and put out a guideons call.
“This is Red One,” Bluto replied lethargically. “Slant three. Engaged and destroyed eleven tanks, four BMPs, over.”
“White Four. Slant is three. Engaged and destroyed nine tanks, five BMPs, over.”
“Blue Four. Slant three. Engaged and destroyed seven tanks, three BMPs, over.”
Dillon listened stoically as the reports came in. They’d been in combat less than an hour and already he’d lost four tanks. He wouldn’t know how many men that translated to until the first sergeant consolidated the medical reports. He knew Vallejo and his men were gone. Takahashi’s crew as well.
“Steel Five. Engaged and destroyed two tanks, one BMP, over.”
Dillon knew Mason would be jotting the figures in his ever-present notebook. “Roger, Steel Five. Add three tanks to your total and forward the report higher. Make sure they’re working an ammunition resupply. Also, find out what the plan is to get us some tanks and crews, over.”
“This is Steel Five, wilco. Going higher.”
Colonel Hassan Abdulamir was a good commander. Because of this, he did not dwell on his personal fate. He was sure that his superiors would not look kindly upon today’s results. He had for all intents and purposes lost two combat battalions—two elite Republican Guard battalions—to what appeared to be a single company. Six companies of tanks and mechanized infantry. All lost, most dead. As he watched vehicles struggle to reach the assault force’s position and its promise of safety, a tear ran slowly down his face. So many men.
If only he could get some fire support. He was sure that another thirty-minute prep on the American company, now that their location was pinpointed, would be enough to ensure success. But his direct support guns had disappeared from the radio in midtransmission. He supposed American counterbattery fires, most probably MLRS rockets, had hit them. At any rate, he had no artillery. Nor any air support. And as usual, the Americans ruled the skies.
For now, he would not send more of his troops forward to certain death. Abdulamir wiped the tear from his face with a deliberate gesture. There was nothing he could do for those already lost, but he still had over a battalion remaining under his command. Those men could still do battle another day. It was time to save what he could of his force.
“Steel Fist, Steel Six, over.”
“Steel Fist.”
Dillon was about to blow a gasket. They’d destroyed two-thirds of a Republican Guard brigade and now could only sit and watch as the last battalion was practically laagering just out of main gun range. The only tool available to him was indirect fires, and he couldn’t seem to get them, despite the fact that he allegedly had priority.
“Steel Fist, Steel Six. Status on fire mission, target four four zero three, over.”
“This is Steel Fist. Brigade shifted the guns to 2-35’s sector for a few minutes, apparently they’re encountering some problems over there. We just got priority back and should be receiving splash notification any . . . stand by . . .”
Jesus, thought Dillon. Couldn’t this ever be easy? Just
once?
“Steel Six, Steel Fist . . . shot, over.”
“Shot, out.”
While he waited for the artillery rounds to complete their time of flight, Dillon opened the sponson box to his right and removed his canteen. He took a quick pull, rinsing his mouth and spitting it over the side of the tank. He then allowed himself the luxury of drinking for the first time in the past hour and a half. Reaching forward, he removed the OD green handkerchief always tied to the base of his .50 caliber mount. Pouring water on the rag, he rubbed it across his face, eyes, and neck.
Quickly stowing the canteen and handkerchief, Dillon got back to business. Through his binoculars, he could clearly see over thirty enemy vehicles sitting just outside his company’s direct fire range. His eyes came to rest on a BMP infantry fighting vehicle clustered with antennas—a sure sign that it was a command track. The figure in the top of the vehicle was looking through binoculars as well, right at him. Slowly the figure lowered his binoculars and rendered a salute to Dillon, one warrior acknowledging to another that the good fight had been fought. He then turned to the growing number of vehicles behind him and gestured north. They were displacing. God, we’re gonna lose them. Overhead, Dillon heard the much-anticipated fire mission finally going in.
Dumphy’s voice rang through Dillon’s CVC.
“Splash, over.”
Dillon continued to gaze at the mass of enemy vehicles while pushing his CVC’s selector switch forward to transmit. “Splash, out.”
Colonel Hassan Abdulamir dropped his salute. Somehow he’d known the figure standing opposite him in the M1A1 turret was the American company commander. He should hate the man for the death and destruction he’d been responsible for, yet somehow he could not. Like himself, the American officer was following orders and doing what was necessary to ensure his unit’s survival. Abdulamir felt more kinship with that commander, a fellow soldier, than he did with the generals and politicians in Baghdad.
Tin Soldiers Page 18
