Team Yankee

by Harold Coyle

  They were going to die. They were all going to die. This trip was no longer one of inconvenience and discomfort. It had become a life and death ordeal. Any second now the next series of bombs could hit the terminal and they would all be dead. Pat was horrified.

  What had she ever done to deserve this? What harm had her children ever done to anyone?

  What purpose would their deaths serve? It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. Pat began to weep and rock Sarah in a vain attempt to comfort her baby.

  At the height of the bombing, an Air Force officer without a hat came running in from the flight line and began to run up the stairs. He noticed the group and stopped. He looked at them for a moment, then yelled, "YOU PEOPLE, FOLLOW ME. QUICKLY!"

  Pat looked at the officer, the other women looked at Pat. The officer reached down and grabbed Pat's arm. "COME ON. FOLLOW ME. I'M TAKING YOU OUT OF HERE NOW. "

  Pat thought anywhere would be better. There must be a shelter the officer was taking them to under the terminal. Pat got up and yelled to her group to follow the officer. Fran told him to carry Sean while she picked up Debby and began to follow. Pat waited to make sure that her group was in motion before she followed, taking up the rear.

  Pat reached the bottom of the stairs and turned the corner. To her horror she saw that the officer had gone out of the door and was running out onto the flight line. The rest of her group was following obediently. What were they doing? Was that man mad? Why are we going away from shelter? After a brief moment of hesitation, she ran after them. She had to. The officer had Sean and Sue had Kurt. She had to go.

  Once outside the pop-pop-pop, the detonations, and the gun that sounded like a chainsaw became louder. The giant C-5 that had been taxiing up to the terminal had been hit and was now burning and shaking from explosions, its huge wings drooping down to the ground like an injured bird: Together with the siren, it drowned out the officer's voice when he turned to scream something to them. Pat saw the C-141 beyond him. He was running straight for it.

  He was going to get them out of here. Pat's heart began to beat faster as she picked up her pace. A chance to survive. A chance to escape this madness. This was it. She would use whatever reserve she had left on this one last effort. All or nothing.

  The group ran. The officer began to swerve to avoid a shell crater on the flight line. The line of women followed. As they swerved around the next crater, Fran suddenly stopped dead, causing Sue to ram into her from behind. The officer saw her stop, turned, and ran back. Pat caught up and looked down.

  There in front of the women were the remains of several bodies tossed about the flight line.

  The brightly colored clothing was civilian, not military. Some of the people headed for the C-141 before the attack had been caught in the open and killed. The officer had come back for more evacuees to take their place.

  Pat looked up, saw the officer coming back with Sean. No, she wasn't going to let anything go wrong this time. Every step of the way during this evacuation had been screwed up.

  Now, when they were only a few feet away from their means of salvation, Pat was determined they were going to finish this trip. Pat pushed Fran and yelled at her to go. When Fran began to run, Pat pushed Sue along behind her. Jane followed. The officer stopped, let Fran catch up to him, then grabbed her with one arm and pulled her along. The crew chief of the C-141 came down the ramp and helped the women up. Another airman inside pushed them over to some empty nylon seats arranged along the sides and middle of the aircraft's cavernous body. As soon as they were all on board, the officer handed Sean to the crew chief who threw the boy on a seat and buckled him in. The officer then ran down the ramp and back to the terminal. He was halfway there when the closing ramp shut out the view of the shattered flight line.

  The crew chief and airman buckled in the new arrivals as the plane began to roll. The dark interior of the aircraft was full of women and children. Their sobs inside and the sound of the air attack outside were drowned out by the roar of the engines. It sounded and looked as if they were inside of a huge vacuum cleaner.

  The plane picked up speed. The pilot was just as anxious to leave as Pat was. The lift-off was quick and steep, causing a chain reaction as everyone was thrown sideways into the person seated next to her. When the pilot quickly leveled the plane, everyone was thrown back towards the front. The climb hadn't been much. Pat turned and looked out a small porthole-like window behind her. The plane was skimming along at tree top level and moving fast. The pilot apparently didn't want to go high and become mixed up in the air battle.

  Pat turned and surveyed her little group. There was a blank, emotionless stare on the face of every woman and child. They were drained, exhausted, listless. The climax of their ordeal had finally succeeded in beating the last bit of energy and emotion out of them. The long flight home was made in silence, only the steady drone of the engines filling the cavelike interior.

  Bannon was not ready to wake. It was too soon, far too soon to end his retreat from reality and misery. Even with the protective mask on and lying on the hard turret roof, the sleeping bag was too comfortable to surrender without a struggle. It was too damned soon to get up.

  But Folk was persistent. As soon as he registered a muffled obscenity and some independent movement on his commander's part, he stopped shaking. In less than thirty minutes it would be dawn. The second day of World War III; and just as difficult to greet as the first had been.

  The pain from sleeping on a hostile surface, the dullness of the mind from too little sleep, and the realization that this day would be no better than the last was a poor way to begin the day.

  Sitting up, he leaned forward and squinted at Folk, trying to see if he was masked. Satisfied that he wasn't, Bannon removed his protective mask, the cool morning air hitting his face.

  After sweating for two hours with the rubber mask against his skin, the air felt like a slap in the face. Looking around, he saw Kelp stowing his gear. Folk ordered Ortelli to crank up the tank. It was 0400. In the dark forest, the sound of other tracks doing likewise could be heard.

  At least some of the Team was awake and alert. As soon as Bannon was ready to climb down to his position, Folk slid to the gunner's position. Still groggy but at least functioning, the crew went through their checks while they waited for stand-to and the new dawn.

  Computer checks. Weapon checks. Thermal sight check. Engine readings and indications.

  Ammo stowage and count. The 66 tank was ready.

  Just before dawn, Lieutenant McAlister called. He and his platoon were observing a group of six to eight personnel in the woods across the valley from them. Early morning is the best time for detecting targets with the thermal sight because the ground and trees lack any warmth from the long absent sun. McAlister wanted to engage with the platoon's caliber .50s. Bannon vetoed that idea and opted to hit the intruders with artillery instead. That way they would cause the same amount of damage, or more, without having any of the Team's tanks expose themselves. His best guess was that the dismounted intruders were there in order to locate the Team and either call in and adjust artillery or engage with antitank guided missiles. Either way, they had to go.

  McAlister contacted the FIST Team. Using a known target reference point to shift from, he provided Unger with the location of the target and what the target was. Bannon cut into the conversation and instructed Unger to fire at least three volleys of artillery with mixed fuze settings of superquick and delayed. The superquick fuze setting would go off as soon as the round hit the tree branches, creating an air burst effect and showering shell fragments down on exposed personnel. The delayed fuze setting would burrow into the ground, hopefully getting anyone in foxholes. The FIST replied that he would try. Bannon told him to try hard.

  The call for fire took close to five minutes to process. At this hour, it was not surprising.

  Everyone waited impatiently, hoping that the Russians didn't leave before the artillery hit. It was almost as if they were preparing to
spring a prank on another fraternity. They knew it was coming and the other people didn't. But this prank was deadly. In a very few moments, some of the other "fraternity" brothers would be dead. The more, the better. Maybe they wouldn't come back.

  To the rear of Team Yankee the low rumble of the firing guns could be heard as the FIST called, "SHOT-OVER" on the Team net. McAlister replied, "SHOT-OUT." Unger's call of "SPLASH-OVER" was drowned out by the detonation of the impacting rounds.

  In an excited, high-pitched voice, McAlister called, "TARGET-FIRE FOR EFFECT-TARGET-FIRE FOR EFFECT." In the excitement of the moment, he forgot that they were, in fact, firing for effect. From 66, Bannon could see the impact through the trees.

  He wanted to move forward to observe but knew that would serve little purpose and unnecessarily expose 66. So he sat where he was, having to content his morbid curiosity by listening to McAlister's reports.

  The guns to the rear boomed again, followed by another series of impacts. The rounds with superquick fuze settings burst high in the trees with a brilliant orange ball of fire. For a split second, it lit the surrounding trees and area like a small sun. Then it died as fast as it had appeared. Anyone staring at the blast lost his night vision. In the place of clear images there was only the fading afterimage of the bright orange blasts engraved in their eyes. The final volley was no less spectacular.

  As Bannon waited for the results, he began to hope that the results would be worth the efforts of the artillery. More was involved than merely the act of making the calculations, preparing the rounds, laying the guns, and shooting twentyfour rounds. The firing battery now had to displace rapidly. If the Russians were alert, their target acquisition people would have picked up the flight of these incoming rounds. With some calculations of their own, they would be able to locate the guns and fire counter-battery fires. It was therefore important for the artillery to keep moving. Shoot'n scoot was a popular way of putting it. In modern combat you're either quick or you're dead. There is no middle ground.

  After observing the area for ten minutes, McAlister reported that neither he nor any other tank in his platoon could detect any more movement in the target area or to the left or right.

  Bannon therefore reported to battalion that they had engaged and probably killed eight dismounted personnel. Whatever those people had been doing or planning to do, they weren't going to do it to Team Yankee this morning. The efforts of the cannon cockers were rewarded.

  The Soviets were also placing demands on their artillerymen early that morning. The American guns barely had fallen silent when the sky to the east was lit up with distant flashes, followed by the now familiar rumble of enemy artillery. At first, Bannon thought that it was counterbattery fire searching out the guns that had just fired for the Team. But the distant crash of the impacting rounds drifted down from the north, not from the rear. After watching and listening to the barrage for five minutes and unable to detect any sign of letup, it became obvious that this was more than counterbattery fire. In all likelihood, it was the preparatory fire for the attack of the 28th Guards Tank Division.

  The night slowly gave way to the new dawn as the Soviet artillery preparation to the north continued. First Sergeant Harrert appeared with breakfast, passing the word to the track commanders to send half of their men at a time back for chow. At first Bannon was apprehensive about allowing the men to dismount for breakfast. He was fearful that the enemy would launch another holding attack against them as they had yesterday. If not a ground attack, he at least expected the Soviets to pin the battalion down with artillery. But nothing happened. Perhaps the Soviets didn't have any more units they could throw away in useless holding attacks. Perhaps the people the Team had hit with artillery across the valley were antitank guided missile teams or artillery forward observers who had the mission of pinning the battalion. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. As the platoon leaders began to gather for the early morning meeting, he gave up on the second guessing. No one was shooting at him or the Team right now and that was all that mattered.

  The leadership of Team Yankee gathered around the rear of the first sergeant's PC, map case and notebook tucked under arm, breakfast and coffee in hand as they had done just twenty-four hours earlier. But this morning there was a difference. The nervous apprehension of yesterday was gone. There was a slightly haggard and disheveled look from too little sleep and too much stress. That was to be expected. Today, however, there was also a look of confidence on everyone's face, a calm, steady look. In the words of

  Civil War veterans, they had seen the elephant and had changed forever. It didn't matter that they had been incredibly lucky, that the task had been simple and straightforward. It didn't matter that the new mission was going to turn the tables around and expose the Team to the same punishment that it had given to the Soviets. What did matter was that they had won their first battle and any doubts as to equipment, leadership, and each individual's perceived ability to face combat had been temporarily put aside. The Team was ready to move forward and tackle its new mission. The meeting started with a discussion of the previous day's action. Just as they had done numerous times after a training exercise, the leaders went over step by step what had happened. First the platoon leaders gave their account and observations. Then Bannon gave his. They briefly discussed what needed to be done better the next time. With that aside, Bannon issued the completed Team operations order that he had worked on earlier that morning. After he finished, Unger went over the fire-support plan in detail and answered any questions. Finished with that, Bannon informed the platoon leaders that he would visit each of them for a one-on-one brief back of their platoon plans. In the meantime, they were to prepare for the attack.

  As he prepared to turn the meeting over to the XO and first sergeant so that they could cover the Team's admin and maintenance chores, a call from battalion put an end to his plan to catch up on some sleep. There was going to be a meeting in thirty minutes at the battalion CP to go over the new mission. Not wanting to move 66 out of position, he decided to use Harrert's PC. While the platoon leaders moved and the PC prepared to roll, Bannon quickly shaved and washed his hands and face. Cleaning up was going to make him late, but it was a matter of pride that he look as sharp as possible. He might be miserable, but he didn't have to look miserable. Standards had to be preserved.

  The lack of change at the battalion CP struck Bannon as odd. He really couldn't say what should have been different. But something should have been. Back at Team Yankee he could feel the change that had occurred between yesterday morning and this morning. At the CP, all was still running as if a training exercise was being conducted. The M-577 command post vehicles were parked side by side with their canvas tent extensions set up and connected. A massive camouflage net covered the tracks and extensions. Around this was barbed wire with one entrance guarded by a soldier checking access passes as staff officers and other commanders entered the tactical operations center, or TOC. Somehow, things should have been different.

  While the outside was quiet and peaceful, the inside was utter chaos. There were staff officers and NCOs busily updating and preparing their maps and charts for the briefing.

  Team commanders were in one corner talking and joking. The battalion commander and his XO sat in the middle talking over maintenance and supply matters. All the running around, confusion, and last-minute preparation by the staff made Bannon wonder what they had been doing all night. But that wasn't really hard to figure out. The lack of haggard faces and bags under eyes betrayed the fact that late nights and little sleep were not part of their daily schedule. He wondered how long that would last.

  Off to one side by himself was First Lieutenant Peterson, formerly the XO, now the commander, of Team Bravo. In sharp contrast to the staff and the other commanders, his uniform and gear were dirty and disheveled, his expression gaunt and without emotion.

  Bannon watched for a few minutes while Peterson simply sat there, staring at his notebook.

  Everyone in the cr
owded TOG was making a valiant effort to ignore him, even to the point of taking the long way around if they had to go from one end of the center to the other. He had been under fire and his team had been hit hard. Those who hadn't "seen the elephant" yet didn't know how to treat him, so they left him alone. Ignored him was more correct.

  Bannon felt sorry for Peterson. Yesterday had been an emotional nut roll for Team Yankee despite the fact that he had been in command for ten months and had been training for what happened. It must have been hell for Peterson to watch his team get ripped to shreds, then be given the job of putting the remains together again. The treatment the staff was giving Peterson was, Bannon felt, cold and inappropriate.

  The battalion XO, Major Willard, began by going over the briefing sequence and then instructed the intelligence officer, or S-2, to start. With pointer in hand and every hair in place, he began to talk about the big picture. He talked about how the "hostile forces" had "initiated hostilities," how this combined arms army was driving here and that combined arms army was pushing there and some tank army was moving forward ready to exploit the penetration to our north.

  The situation in NORTHAG, or Northern Army Group, was grim. Soviet airborne forces had seized Bremerhafen. Soviet ground forces were making good progress and had broken through in several areas. In CENTAG, Central Army Group, the situation wasn't nearly as bad. Both forwarddeployed U.S. corps were in CENTAG. While one could immediately claim that U.S. forces made the difference, anyone who understood the overall strategy knew better. The terrain in NORTHAG was more conducive to massed, mobile warfare than the hilly, heavily forested south. The North German Plain provided a natural highway for armies to flow from the east to the west through Germany into Holland, Belgium, and France. By luck of the draw and post-World War II agreements, the U.S. had the easiest and least important area to defend. Bannon sat waiting patiently to hear about the enemy forces that were across the valley from the Team and the composition, locations, and strength of the forces in the area where the battalion was going to attack. He wanted to know about nuts and bolts, and the S-2 was lecturing on skyscrapers. When the S-2 finished and turned to sit down without mentioning a thing about the Soviet forces they faced or were going to face, Bannon half jumped out of his seat.