by James Rosone
Lieutenant Colonel Grant Johnson, of the 1/8 Cav “Mustangs,” walked over to a table in the tent with several thermoses of black liquid gold, pouring himself a second cup of coffee before heading over to brief his company commanders on the latest set of orders they’d just been given. They were finally going back on the offensive. Intelligence reported a major fuel shortage in the Russian Army right now, and the division commander believed this would be a good time to hit the enemy.
“Listen up, everyone,” Johnson announced. “Division has finally given us the green light to attack. Our battalion has been given the task of slicing through the countryside to hit an Indian regiment marshaled roughly 116 kilometers to the southeast of Kraków. The goal is to position a blocking force behind the Russian units in the Kraków pocket and either crush them or force them into surrender. I want everyone to take a few minutes and review the maps and the disposition of the enemy units in the area. The battalion is going to move out in the next hour, so get your men ready to roll.”
His men smiled from ear to ear. They were obviously excited to finally get some payback for all the harassing artillery fire they’d had to endure the past week while being holed up in the rear, waiting for their chance to pounce.
*******
Captain Jason Diss had been the Delta Company commanding officer or CO for nearly twenty months. He was the senior captain in the battalion and would probably be promoted to major at the rate the division had been losing officers. The only reason he hadn’t already been promoted was that the battalion CO needed him and the other senior captain to continue to train and mentor the never-ending supply of second lieutenants who were arriving to the brigade fresh from Armor Basic Officer Leader Course. Big Army was pushing through officers of all stripes at a prodigious rate, which meant there was a lot of pressure on the captains and majors to help get these young officers up to speed.
Walking back to where his company had been staging, he quickly huddled his platoon leaders and NCOs, so he could go over their objectives and the battalions. He wanted everyone on the same sheet of music when the band started to play. Once the shooting started, plans had a way of going out the door, so it was imperative that every one of his officers and NCOs knew what the overall plan was, so they could adjust accordingly when needed, in case his own tank was hit or disabled.
After finishing his brief, Captain Diss trudged over to his tank and proceeded to take care of a few hygiene needs before the festivities started. It could be days before he had another chance to shave, and as the CO, he really needed to make sure he was setting the ever-present military discipline and grooming standard.
Diss yawned and leaned for a moment against his tank, which had been dubbed Warhorse. He smiled at the sight of the seven black rings on the tank’s barrel, each one denoting a vehicle kill.
“I’m sure we’ll rack up a few more before the day’s out,” he thought.
He took a moment to brush his teeth, then spat the residue out on the ground in front of him. Then he grabbed his canteen and sloshed some water around in his mouth before he made the puddle in front of him a little larger.
“Well, at least I’ll be able to handle the smell of my own breath today,” Diss thought with a chuckle.
He pulled the portable electric shaver from his toiletry bag and ran the vibrating blades across the stubble that had grown in during the evening. He hated the grooming standard, but he wasn’t about to let the command sergeant major say something to him about it. Captain Diss mulled over the day’s plan of action in his head while he moved the razor back and forth. His company was going to be advancing to contact with the Indian 10th Armored Regiment. Their orders were to breach the enemy lines and push deep in to the enemy’s rear area and cause as much havoc as possible.
A voice suddenly intruded in on his thoughts. “You ready to get moving, Captain?” inquired his gunner, Sergeant Dakota Winters.
Placing the last few items back in his bag, Diss looked up with a grin on his face. “Yup. Sergeant Major won’t gig me today,” he replied as he ran his hand across the now stubble-free skin on his face.
“Screw the grooming standard,” Winters said. He tossed his own razor into his toiletry bag.
The sergeant then placed his foot in the cable stirrup hanging from the bottom of the front ballistic skirt, reached for the metal handle welded to the top of the fender and pulled himself up on the hull of the tank. He climbed onto the turret and dropped down the loader's hatch. Captain Diss followed suit, and less than a minute later, he’d plopped down in the commander’s position in the tank. Reaching over, he grabbed his CVC helmet and placed it firmly on his head before attaching the communications cord to the vehicle’s communications system.
Diss completed a quick crew report check with his crew before reaching out to the other vehicles in his company. “OK, guys. Let’s get this bad boy ready to go,” he said “It’s nearly time to roll out. Crew report!”
A few minutes went by as the individual crewmen in his tank ran through their various checks to make sure their targeting computers were up and running, the radios were set on the right frequencies for the day, and they had entered in the various navigational waypoints they’d be working off of for the next couple of days. Having completed their checks, all three crewmen reported ready. It was time to get moving.
Changing to the company net, Captain Diss called out, “This is Black Six to all Mustang elements. We’re moving out in five mikes. I want a wedge formation with Blue Platoon in the middle. Acknowledge and send Redcon status.”
“This is White One. Roger. Second Platoon is Redcon One,” replied Second Lieutenant Brett Horrigan, the commander of Second Platoon.
“This is Blue One. Acknowledged, and we are at Redcon One,” replied Second Lieutenant Tony Martin, the new officer in charge of Third Platoon. His platoon encompassed the attached infantry platoon in the Bradleys, and also had the company’s artillery liaison officer or LNO, riding in his own fire support team vehicle, a Bradley FIST. This was why Captain Diss wanted them placed in the center of their formation.
“This is Red One. Redcon One and ready to ‘get some,’” came back a young and overly zealous Second Lieutenant, Doug Welsh. He was the newest officer to the company, having just graduated armor school two weeks ago—and he was possibly just as young and dumb as his staff sergeant had described him.
“Excellent. Everyone’s ready to go,” Diss thought as his vehicle moved forward.
"Roger, Mustangs. Begin your movement," said Captain Diss.
In short order, his platoon of tanks quickly formed a wedge and moved down Highway 28 toward the small village of Zembrzyce. As his company of tanks and Bradleys continued to move toward the enemy, Captain Diss couldn’t help but think back to when they’d arrived as a fresh unit, before they’d suffered and lost so many men.
Their unit had arrived in Europe at the start of the New Year. By that time, the major fighting had largely ended, and the battle lines had stabilized. The war in Korea and China had stolen the attention from Europe, placing most of the European forces on defense. In the meantime, the constant probing attacks and retreats had cost their battalion more than a few tanks. Each time it would appear like they could punch through the enemy lines, they had beem ordered to withdraw. The division had not been given permission to go on the offensive. From the perspective of the soldiers, this was nothing more than wasting lives and tanks testing the enemy lines without being able to exploit vulnerabilities when they were found.
Captain Diss shook his head to pull himself out of that dark rabbit hole. He’d tried not to dwell on the losses they had taken up to this point, or the wasted opportunities of the past. Besides, they’d finally been given permission to do what tankers did best—go kill other tanks and murder unguarded infantry.
As their tank rumbled down the two-lane road, they heard several attack helicopters fly over their heads. His gunner keyed the intercom on his CVC helmet. “Captain Diss, how many enemy t
anks do you think we’ll find after those helicopters get done with them?” he asked.
Diss smiled. Sergeant Winters was clearly hoping they wouldn’t miss out on getting some payback. After months of sitting around, waiting for the summer offensive to start only to have it cancelled, the men were ginned up for a fight.
“From what the colonel said, there’s an entire regiment up there, so I’d say there’ll be plenty of tanks for us,” Captain Diss answered. “We just need to make sure they don’t get any lucky shots off at us.”
“As long as we don’t run up against any of those new Russian tanks, I think we’ll pulverize this unit,” said Sergeant Winters assertively. “They’re using T-90s, and we’ve already proven we can defeat them.”
Captain Diss retorted, “You’d better hope they’re using the Russian T-90s and not those new Arjun Mk-2 tanks. I heard they had a lot of help in developing those tanks from the Israelis in the 2000s, and the Israelis know how to build a tank.”
Twenty minutes went by uneventfully as their tank rumbled through the rolling hills and lightly forested area. Suddenly, the roaring sound of a jet engine caught their attention. “Whoa, what was that?” asked Specialist Trey Mann, the loader.
“Probably just a jet on his way to attack the Indians,” replied Winters, trying to calm the young kid. Specialist Trey Mann was the newest member to their platoon. He’d arrived as a replacement roughly five weeks ago.
Captain Diss opted to poke his head out of the tank to see if he could catch a glimpse at the aircraft that had just buzzed above them. He heard several jets—some sounded close, some were far off in the distance. Looking to his right, he saw one fighter explode in the air; that was the first time he’d seen a fighter plane die up close, and while it was spectacular to look at, it suddenly sent a shiver down his back.
“The enemy must be close,” he realized.
“All Mustangs, enemy planes in the vicinity. Expect enemy contact at any time,” announced another voice over the battalion net.
Returning his gaze to the front, Captain Diss caught site of the silhouette of rockets heading in their direction. Reaching for the talk button on his headset, he yelled over the company net. “Mustangs! Incoming rocket artillery!”
He quickly ducked back into the tank. The ground around his tank suddenly rocked hard from one explosion after another, shrapnel hitting their armor in multiple different places. Diss grabbed for anything that would help him stabilized himself as he prayed none of the rockets landed on him or any of his tankers.
Seconds later, Sergeant Winters yelled out, “Tanks to our front, 3,500 meters!”
Turning to look at the commander's sight extension, Captain Diss spotted a line of tanks deploying from a single file line to a full battle line to charge them. His heart skipped a beat when he realized the tanks he was looking at were not T-90s like they had hoped. These were the Indians’ best tanks, the Arjun Mk-2s.
“Holy crap, that’s a lot of tanks!” he realized with a gulp.
“Mustangs, Arjun Mk-2 tanks to our front, 3,500 meters,” he announced. “We are moving to engage. All units fall in on our position. I want all tanks to change formation and move to a line formation. We’re going to snipe at them while they advance. Engage when you see my tank fire!” he ordered.
Then Diss yelled to his FIST team, “Black Eight, this is Black Six. I need a fire mission. Get us some arty immediately!”
Turning to the battalion net, he sent a quick message to his commander. “Sir, we’ve got Arjun Mk-2s coming up as well as incoming artillery. Could we get some air support?”
“Copy that. I’ll see what I can do,” his commander replied.
Sergeant Winters waved to grab Diss’s attention. “Captain, those tanks are charging!” he yelled. “They’re crossing 3,200 meters.”
Looking into the commander's sight, Diss saw a cluster of Arjuns his gunner was tracking. He picked out the one with the most antennas on it, which was probably the company or battalion commander's tank. “Gunner, sabot tank!" he called.
"Identified!" exclaimed Sergeant Winters.
Specialist Mann pulled up on the arming handle since they’d been riding with a sabot already in the barrel. “Up!” he yelled.
"Fire!" screamed Diss.
"On the way!" Sergeant Winters shouted in reply.
Winters depressed the firing button.
Boom!
The cannon fired, recoiling inside the turret as the vehicle rocked back on the tank’s springs. The spent aft cap of the sabot round clanged on the turret floor as the turret filled with the smell of sulfuric fumes.
Diss watched the round fly out from his tank at a flat trajectory, crossing the distance in a couple of seconds. It smashed right into the enemy tank’s front glacis and bounced right off. “Damn it! It ricocheted,” he yelled. “Load another sabot. Winters, adjust for the speed of the enemy tank, and don’t hit the front turret.” He was mentally kicking himself. He should’ve known better than to aim for the thickest part of a tank’s armor.
The rest of Captain Diss’s troop began to fire now that he had led the way and fired the first shot. He watched the rounds fly toward the enemy. A couple of his fellow tankers also missed, but many more found their marks. Several of the enemy tanks took hits that caused the rear ammunition compartments to blow out. The enemy crews would then attempt to bail out, since their tanks were essentially dead and disabled.
“Sabot up!” shouted Captain Diss’s loader, who pulled up on the arming handle.
"Fire!" ordered Diss as he focused once again on the task at hand, the enemy tank still charging at him.
Boom!
An explosion rocketed their tank as an enemy tank round hit just in front of them, throwing shrapnel and rocks at their front armor.
“On the way!” yelled Winters. He depressed the firing button again.
Captain Diss said a prayer. He hoped they took that enemy tank out before it fired a second, more accurate shot at them.
This time, their round found its mark. The enemy tank took a direct hit. It slowly came to a halt. Seconds later, the top hatch opened up, and as Diss watched an enemy soldier try to get out of the vehicle, it blew up. A flaming jet of fire shot through the enemy soldier and the turret at least ten feet in the air for a couple of seconds before the entire tank was ripped apart by another explosion.
“Fire the smoke grenades! We need to generate some cover,” Diss shouted to the gunner. Meanwhile, the driver proceeded to back them up and move them to another firing position.
Captain Diss turned to look at his gunner. “Good hit, Winters! New target identified. Load sabot!” he shouted.
While Captain Diss’s company was steadily picking off the attackers, a steady stream of incoming enemy artillery rounds threatened their tanks, indicating they had stayed still in one place for too long.
“Mustangs, pop smoke and fall back two hundred meters,” he directed over the company net. They needed to obscure the enemy artillery observers and back out of their crosshairs.
Crump, crump, crump, crump!
Explosions continued to rock their area as pieces of shrapnel pinged off their armor shell.
"Tanner, back us out of this artillery," Diss said to his driver.
“Those tanks are now 2,800 meters!” Winters yelled over the roar of enemy artillery going off around them.
“This is all happening too fast,” Captain Diss worried.
Looking through the commander's sight extension, Captain Diss found the next target just as he observed a series of their own artillery rounds landing amongst the enemy tanks. Some of the rounds scored hits, while others missed their mark. Taking his eyes away from the commander's sight, he looked at Winters. “I need you to take over calling targets and engaging them. I have to start managing the company,” he said reluctantly. Then he turned and looked at the blue force tracker display of the disposition of his unit in relationship to the enemy and the terrain around them.
He nee
ded to get a status on his platoons and find out how many of his tanks had been hit. In all the confusion, he’d neglected his duty to make sure the other platoons were doing what they were supposed to do. As Captain Diss made contact with his platoon leaders, he learned that they’d lost two tanks in the recent enemy rocket artillery attack. One other tank had been destroyed, and one more damaged.
First, he ordered his medics and first sergeant to evacuate as many of the wounded as they could. Unfortunately, the dead would have to wait.
Then Captain Diss relayed the situation on the ground back to battalion headquarters. “Sir, requesting air strike on the enemy force advancing on us,” he urged.
While Captain Diss was in the middle of talking to his battalion commander, his tank was jarred hard. He knocked his head against the commander's extension, causing him to see stars. He instinctively pulled his left hand up to the side of his head. When he pulled it away, he noticed some blood on it.
“I must have cut my cheek,” he realized, still somewhat dazed.
“It bounced off our armor!” yelled one of his crew members.
Diss tried to regain his composure. It took a second for his mind to register what had just happened.
His battalion commander cut through the foggy thoughts Captain Diss was experiencing. “Delta Six, I’m ordering your unit to withdraw to Rally Point Beta. You guys are about to be overrun. Fall back now!” yelled his battalion commander.
Realizing his commander was right, Diss sent a message out to the rest of his troop to fall back to Rally Point Beta.
Their driver plugged in the coordinates, and they began a fighting retreat. As they wrestled their way back, they would eventually cross the next line of American tanks as they moved forward to take their place. Once Diss’s company was able to regroup, they’d charge right back into the action.
As Delta Company began the process of recovering their wounded and assessing their damage, his first sergeant’s vehicle stopped next to his tank, and First Sergeant Keene got out and proceeded to climb up to talk with him. Captain Diss pulled his CVC off and stood up in the turret.
