Team Yankee

by Harold Coyle

  The Air Base was swarming with activity. At one of the intersections, the bus was stopped while a line of trucks rolled by, coming up from the flight line and heading to a back gate. In the trucks were U.S. troops, reinforcements from the States deployed under the REFORGER program. Pat guessed that the dependents would fly back on the same planes that were bringing these troops in. Maybe this nightmare was almost over. At least they were now at the last stop on this side of the Atlantic. Instead of going to the terminal, however, the buses dropped them off at the post gym. There were already a large number of people there. On the gym floor, rows of cots with blankets were set up. As at the post theater, the families were grouped by unit. Some of the women from the battalion who had come up on the first group of buses had established an area for the families from each of the units. The new arrivals were told that since the terminal was already overflowing with evacuees, they had been sent to the gym until it was their turn to go. Pat was told that the Air Force personnel running the evacuation were better and more helpful than the Army community personnel but were having difficulties dealing with all the incoming families that were being dumped at Rhein-Main. One Air Force officer had told them that the people in the gym probably wouldn't leave until the morning.

  This depressed Pat. She, like the other wives and mothers, was ready to go. They had finally geared themselves up for the final leap. Now, they had to spend a night in an open gym with hundreds of other dejected and anxious people. It seemed that every new move only added more stress and pressure. The situation, however deplorable, had to be endured. Pat decided that she could hold out a little longer. She had to. A little group was beginning to depend on her. And it was growing. Jane Ortelli, the wife of Sean's tank driver, joined them. She was nineteen years old and had never been out of the state of New Jersey until she came over to Germany. Jane stood at the side before boarding the bus, clutching her four-month-old baby as she would a teddy bear, for security and comfort. Pat went over to her and insisted that she join them since they were all going on the same bus. Jane was thankful and relieved.

  A little girl named Debby had also joined the group. Debby's only parent was a medic who had been deployed to the border with everyone else. Fran Wilson had volunteered to escort the eight-year-old girl back to the States where her grandparents would meet her.

  Pat and her group established themselves a little area by taking eight of the cots and pushing them together. The four adults stationed themselves on the corner cots and put the children in the middle. Jane kept her baby with her, not wanting to part for a moment with the only thing of value she had on earth. Sarah, overcoming her fears, insisted on having her own cot, just like her brothers. Sean and Debby stayed together. Sean, despite being a year younger, took over the role of big brother and helped Debby. He tried to explain everything to her like his father had to him, even though he had no idea what he was talking about. Debby would listen intently to every word as if it were gospel, then ask Sean another question. But at least Debby was talking now and seemed to be more at ease. Kurt insisted on staying near his buddy Sue. He was enjoying all the attention Sue was giving him.

  There was little rest that night. Fear, apprehension, discomfort, and a desire to get on with the evacuation kept the adults awake while the adventure of the trip kept the children alert and active. Some of the adults talked in hushed voices, seeking company and escape from their fears. Others simply withdrew into themselves, no longer able to cope with the grim reality they found themselves in. Pat prayed that all this would end tomorrow. It had to. There was only so much more that she could give and hold back. It had to end, soon. Only exhaustion allowed her to get a few hours sleep.

  Movement to the terminal began early. Groups left in the order in which they arrived. Pat and her little group had time for breakfast before their turn. Everyone was tired. It had been nearly impossible for anyone to get a good night's rest. Cold meals, little sleep, overcrowded conditions, wearing the same clothes they had slept in, and the trauma of the whole ordeal had worn women and children down to the point of exhaustion. Pat could not remember a time when she had been more tired and miserable. The ride to the terminal was a quiet one.

  The passage of thousands of evacuees before them had left its mark on the terminal. The clean, modern building that had greeted Pat and Sean on their arrival in Germany was now strewn with litter and discarded blankets and clothes. Those who had left the gym before them were inside the terminal mixing with the evacuees that had spent the night there.

  Looking- around as they entered, Pat decided that, though the gym had been miserable, staying here would have been worse.

  At the door, an airman took their names, gave them a roster number and directed them to the second floor where they would wait until their numbers were called. From the second floor at least they could look out onto the airfield and watch the aircraft coming in. To one side of the flight line there were trucks and buses waiting to pick up the newly arrived troops arriving from the States. Pat and the children watched as a large C-141 transport taxied to a stop. Its large clamshell doors opened, reminding Pat of an alligator. As soon as the cargo ramp was down, troops began to double time out and fall in on their NCOs, forming squads and platoons. Once formed, they began to move to the trucks and load up. While the troops were still deplaning, Air Force personnel scrambled out to service the aircraft. A fuel tanker lumbered up and began to refuel the aircraft. Everyone seemed anxious to get the C-141 turned around and on its way.

  A female voice began to call out roster numbers over the PA and give instructions. None of Pat's little group heard their numbers called. So they stayed where they were and watched the lucky ones move onto the airfield, form into two lines, and move out to the C-141. The ground crew finished up and moved into position to service the next aircraft that was already coming in, a huge C-5. The sight of that plane caused excitement. Fran turned to Pat and said she was sure they would be able to get on that one. Inside, Pat prayed that would happen.

  For a moment there was almost total silence in the valley in front of Team Yankee's positions. It was a dull, numb silence that comes after you have endured prolonged exposure to a deafening noise. The crackle and popping of small arms ammunition igniting in the burning Soviet tracks, with an occasional rumble as a main gun round cooked off, was all the noise that rose from the valley. Distance and CVCs hid the moans and screams of agony of those wounded or burning to death in their disabled tracks. The report of a machine gun from the right alerted Bannon to the fact that not all the Soviets were hors de combat. He watched as a stream of tracers struck short, then climbed into a group of four Russians trying to make their way back up the hill. As soon as the firer found the range, he let go a long burst in the center of the group. While some rounds kicked up dirt, a few found their mark, causing the Russians to either spin around, drop and roll back downhill, or simply plop down.

  For a moment he thought of ordering the firing to stop. The Russians had suffered enough.

  But quickly this humanitarian thought gave way to cold, practical, professional considerations. If these survivors were allowed to live, they would only fall in on equipment in storage or being produced. Team Yankee would never see them again, but another NATO company would. They were at war, a war the Soviets had started. The Soviets must pay.

  Reports started to come in over the company net as other tanks began to search out and destroy the Russian fugitives. Both tank platoons reported in with no losses, a total main gun expenditure of thirty-seven rounds, and inflated kill reports. Only the launcher on one of the ITVs had been hit and destroyed. The ITV crew was untouched and the track was still operational. But without its launcher and sight, the ITV was worthless to the Team. Bannon instructed Uleski to have that crew pass all the TOW rounds that it could handle to the operational ITV, then have the damaged ITV report back to the maintenance collection point.

  He then called the battalion S-3 and passed the Team situation report, or SITREP,
to him.

  With the reports and status of the unit in hand, Bannon ordered the Team to cease fire and move to alternate firing positions. The smoke screen along the crest of the far hill was lifting, and the third company of the Soviet motorized rifle battalion was unaccounted for. The possibilities of where it was and what it was doing ran through his mind. The lead units, instead of having eight tanks and twenty BMPs, had had only five tanks and fifteen BMPs. Perhaps the Soviet motorized battalion had suffered so many losses in their fight with the cavalry that it had merged all its companies into two weak, composite companies. Or perhaps, listening to the demise of the rest of the battalion had convinced the third company commander that he stood a better chance against the KGB than against the Americans. Or perhaps the Soviet company commander decided to stop on the crest of the hill and engage his yet-unseen opponent in a long-range duel once the smoke cleared and while he waited for reinforcements. Whatever the case, it was now his move. The Team prepared to parry that move.

  While Bannon was pondering the larger tactical questions, Kelp stood up in his hatch. Using the binoculars, he surveyed the carnage he had helped create. As Kelp looked, Folk slowly traversed the turret, doing likewise. Ortelli, because the valley was hidden from his view by the berm that protected 66's hull, asked the other two crewmen to describe the scene.

  Talking in hushed voices so as not to disturb their commander's train of thought, Folk and Kelp described the scene in a gruesome, if colorful, manner. Folk was particularly proud of "his" destruction of the T-72 with mine roller and made sure that Kelp identified it.

  Ortelli wanted to come up and see what it looked like but knew better than to ask. He dropped hints but received no response. At times, it was difficult to be the crew of the Team commander's tank. Bannon was seldom there to help in the maintenance of the tank or weapons. Yet the tank, radios, and gear always had to be ready whenever he came running up and climbed aboard, or there was. hell to pay. And the crew had to be straighter and more correct than the crews in other tanks. It's not that team commanders are ogres.

  Commanders share an easier and closer relationship with their crew than they do with other tankers in the company. But the commander is still the commander and this thought is never far from the crew's, or commander's, minds.

  Uleski was only beginning to calm down. He felt drained, physically and mentally. It was all he could do to lift his canteen and take a mouthful of water. Swishing this around for a moment, he spit it out over the side of the tank. The taste of vomit still lingered, but it wasn't nearly as bad. After replacing his canteen, he sat there for a moment and watched the crewmen from the ITVs move from one track to the other, carrying rounds to the undamaged vehicle. It was late afternoon, the sun was softly filtering down through the trees. Except for an occasional pop or bang from ammunition cooking off in the valley below, all was quiet, all peaceful. The XO thought about how nice it would be if it could be over, just for a day, just an hour, just enough time for him to pull himself together. A blinding flash and an overwhelming blast struck Uleski and knocked him back. Instinctively, he allowed himself to drop down to the turret floor as the soft green image of the forest disintegrated into flames and explosions.

  The Soviet major was completely flustered. Nothing, absolutely nothing had gone right that day. First, the traffic regulators had misdirected their column before the attack. They had almost crossed the border before the scheduled attack time. It took the rest of the morning to get them turned around and back to their proper place. Then the resistance of the American cavalry was far greater than expected. The division's second echelon, to which the major's battalion belonged, had to be committed before the division's first objective was reached. The delay required a complete revision of the plan, a plan that had been drilled and practiced for months. Artillery units were now in the wrong place and did not have the detailed fire plans needed to support a breakthrough attack properly. And to top off the whole day, the major's battalion commander had managed to get himself killed, leaving the major in command.

  The major was in a dark mood. Not even the sight of burning American equipment cheered him. He had already seen far too much destroyed Soviet equipment. His orders and mission kept running through his mind. They were simple enough-cross a major valley, advance up a small side valley, and seize the regiment's objective, an intersection where two autobahns met. But the major had not been given any time to plan properly, recon, or coordinate for artillery support. The regimental commander, under pressure from his commander, merely told the major to move as rapidly as possible and that all the artillery planning would be taken care of for him. Even the battalion's political officer balked when they were told that a battalion, attacking in the same place earlier, had failed. There was, however, nothing to do but to follow orders and hope for the best. The major put all his faith in the effects of the chemical weapons being used and his attack from an unexpected direction. As they neared the line of departure, he took one more look around at the mass of vehicles huddled near his and then closed his hatch.

  Bannon's wandering thoughts were jarred back to the present by the impacts of artillery to his left on Team Yankee's hill. He could not see anything but had no doubt that the headquarters position and possibly the 2nd Platoon position were under fire. A second attack was starting. "GAS! GAS! GAS!" The muffled cry by someone in a protective mask on the Team net electrified the crew of 66.

  As one, they tore open their protective mask cases and scrambled to mask. First, the CVC came off. Then the mask, chin first, emplaced. Once on securely, the hood had to be pulled over. Next, the CVC placed back on and the protective mask's mike jack plugged into the CVC. All this had to be done in less than twenty seconds.

  "ROMEO 25-THIS IS TANGO 77-SHELL REPOVER."

  "TANGO 77-THIS IS ROMEO 25-SEND IT."

  "THIS IS TANGO 77-HE AND GAS IMPACTING FROM 190896 TO 199893-CALIBER AND NUMBER OF ROUNDS UNKNOWN-OVER."

  From the coordinates given, Bannon knew that the 2nd Platoon leader, who was making the report, and his platoon were safe. But the XO and the ITVs were catching hell. Because the Soviets were only firing up the hilltop and not at the actual positions of the Team's two tank platoons, it was obvious that they did not know for sure where the Team was. The Soviets were firing blind. While that was good for the Team overall, Bannon had no doubt that that thought was cold comfort for Uleski and his people. Provided, of course, that Uleski was still alive.

  "TANGO 77-THIS IS ROMEO 25-1 NEED AN NBC-1 REPORT AS SOON AS POSSIBLE-OVER."

  "ROMEO 25-THIS IS TANGO 77-WE'RE WORKING IT UP NOW-OVER."

  The Team had not been informed by battalion that the Soviets were using chemical weapons. It may have been an oversight on their part. Just in case, Bannon needed to pass on information about the attack as soon as possible. This new aspect only promised to make their existence more intolerable. Bannon decided not to wait for the complete report from 2nd Platoon before informing battalion. This information caused a great deal of concern on the battalion net. Judging from the pitch of the voices and the excited chatter, Team Yankee had been the first unit within the brigade to be hit by chemical weapons. The snap analysis was that the Soviets were anxious to make a breakthrough and were getting desperate. The chemical attack, the massive artillery barrage, and the loss of contact with the XO and the ITVs seemed to signal a change in the Team's fortunes.

  The shadows in the valley were getting long. Early evening was upon them, and there was no end of the Soviet attack in sight. The barrage on the hill had been going on unabated for ten minutes without letup. The 2nd Platoon sent up its NBC-1 report indicating that the Soviets were using GB, a nonpersistent blood agent. While that particular agent would not last once the attack was over, GB broke down the protective mask filters rapidly, making them useless. The Team would need to change filters quickly or suffer mass casualties in the next chemical attack.

  To Bannon's surprise, another Soviet artillery unit began to lay down a massive
smoke screen just in front of the Team's positions. They were going to attack soon. Bannon had expected the Soviets to wait until night to attack. But apparently they were being pushed by their commanders to break through and could not wait. Not that night would have made much of a difference. The gunners in the tank platoons and those manning the Dragons in the Mech Platoon were already switching to their thermal sights. The smoke screen the Soviet gunners were arduously building would offer the attacking force scant protection, if any.

  The 2nd Platoon reported the new attack first. At a range of 2500 meters, the Soviet vehicles appeared as green blobs in the thermal sights. The Soviets were emerging from the tree line on the hill to the Team's right front, across from Team Bravo. They were either going to go straight into the village or through Team Bravo's position. Bannon informed the battalion S-3 of the enemy's appearance and direction of attack. The S-3 replied that Team Bravo was in no shape to fight. With only two functional tanks and three Dragon teams, Bravo would be pressed to protect itself, let alone stop a determined attack. Team Yankee would have to do the major portion of the fighting again.

  Because of the range and the quality of the image produced on the thermal sight, it was impossible to distinguish which of the attacking blobs were tanks and which were BMPs.

  Bannon ordered the 2nd Platoon to engage the lead vehicles with SABOT, assuming that the Soviets would lead off with tanks. The 3rd Platoon was to fire over the village at the center and rear of the attacking formation as it came out from the tree line. They would engage with HEAT on the assumption that the BMPs would follow their doctrine. The Mech Platoon stood ready to catch anything that got through. With no time left for a coordinated ambush like the one the Team had used for the first echelon, Bannon gave the platoons permission to fire and then began to work on getting some friendly artillery into the act.