by Harold Coyle
Instead of a mutilated car and body parts all over the street, Kozak saw that the slick road had in fact saved the Germans, allowing the German police car to bounce back down the street when her slow-moving Bradley hit it. From her perch, Kozak watched the driver of the German police car slowly open his door and, moving slowly, get out.
Rather than become excited, Reusch could only stand in the middle of the street looking first at his police car and then at the American Bradley that had almost run him and his car over. How he survived was at that moment beyond him. Not that it was important, other than the fact that something had saved him. Turning to face his attacker, Reusch realized for the first time that the front of his pants and his right pants leg were wet. In the excitement of the moment, he hadn't noticed the warm urine running down his leg. Only the cold night air hitting his wet pants caused him to notice. After looking down at his pants, Reusch looked back up at the Bradley, its commander now leaning out of an open hatch. Quickly replacing his shock and embarrassment with anger, Reusch began to step forward, toward the Bradley. As he did so, he mechanically unsnapped the flap of the holster for his pistol.
Even in the pale light of the streetlamps and falling snow, Kozak couldn't help but notice that the German policeman's look of shock had changed to one of anger. His sudden turn toward her and the unsnapping of his holster caused Kozak to ease back down into the safety of the turret just as her gunner, Sergeant Danny Wolf, was sticking his head up to see what was going on. When he saw the angry policeman, his right hand resting on the butt of an unseen pistol, advancing on C60 like Gary Cooper in High Noon, Wolf stopped. "Looks like the natives are restless, Captain."
Kozak simply shrugged off Wolf's concern. "Well, we knew someone was bound to get upset." Looking over at him, she added, "After all, most Germans don't take too kindly to having their country invaded."
Wolf, still watching the policeman as he stopped just off to one side of C60, chuckled. "I don't see why they should get so emotional over something like that. Hasn't everyone invaded Germany at least once?"
Unable to restrain herself at Wolf's attempt at humor at a time like this, after a long, tense rail movement through the Czech mountains and into Germany, Kozak laughed. "True, that's quite true. I guess they just don't see the humor in the situation."
As if his brush with death and his involuntary urination weren't enough to upset and anger Reusch, the sight of the Americans who had almost killed him laughing caused him to lose control. Pulling his pistol out, Reusch held it pointed at the Bradley commander and began to shout at the top of his lungs for him to dismount and surrender himself. He didn't realize, of course, that not only was the Bradley commander a woman, but that even if she wasn't, she was under orders to meet force with like force.
Seeing that things were getting out of hand, and sure that her laughing wasn't helping the situation any, Kozak dropped what Wolf called her official Commander Nancy face into place. Keeping one eye on the screaming German, Kozak slowly began to lower herself into the safety of the turret. When she knew her driver, Terri Tish, could hear her without the aid of the intercom, Kozak ordered Tish to slowly begin to move forward. Though she hoped that the German policeman would get the idea and move his police car, Kozak didn't much care what happened. Already the column of tanks and Bradleys coming up from the rail yard was backing up behind her, waiting to get out of Pegnitz and move to their blocking positions to the west of Grafenwöhr.
With one eye on the angry German policeman and the other on the street ahead, Kozak guided her Bradley forward. When it made contact with the police car turned broadside in the street, she noticed a second policeman, his head bleeding, jump out of the passenger side. The second policeman paused once he was clear of his derelict vehicle and watched the Bradley begin to crush it. Looking at his doomed car, then at the parade of armored vehicles coming up from the rail yard, he decided that this was more than they could handle. Turning on his heel, he began to flee down the street and out of sight.
An excited cry from Wolf, just as the police car began to crinkle and rip under the treads of the Bradley, caused Kozak to see what he was up to. Glancing over her shoulder, away from the irate policeman who was still screaming and waving his pistol about, Kozak noticed that Wolf had a grin from ear to ear. When he saw his commander looking at him, his smile grew larger. "I always wanted to do this, Captain. I just wish we could've gotten some pictures to send home."
Though she felt like saying something, Kozak didn't. It was at this point useless to try to explain to Wolf the seriousness of what they were doing, that they would be lucky if after this they would be able to send themselves home. Shaking her head, she looked back at the policeman, now standing on the side of the street watching as Bradley C60 finished grinding his police car into compressed scrap.
Though he was tempted to shoot the commander of the American Bradley, Reusch decided not to. Instead, he stood there and watched his police car reduced to a mass of twisted metal. It wasn't that he had any particular affection for the car. It was no different than any other police car operated by the police in Pegnitz. What really bothered Reusch was the total disregard for his authority and the blatant disrespect the Americans had shown him. It was the image of the American perched high above him laughing as he tried to perform his most difficult duties that upset Reusch the most. When he had seen that and realized that they were laughing at him, Reusch wanted to shoot him. And he would have too had he been able to control his anger enough to steady his shaking arm.
That he would have been gunned down in a matter of seconds didn't matter to him at first. His state of mind, and the minds of many Germans for days to come, would be unable to make the mental transition from peace to war instantaneously. Such things, as Big Al knew and counted on, took time. Even Reusch, standing in the street of Pegnitz waving his fist defiantly at the column of Bradleys and tanks as they rolled by him, failed to comprehend the deadly seriousness that the warlike Americans carried into this enterprise. Reusch's confusion and inability to deal effectively with the situation because of a lack of understanding and precedent were to be repeated time after time as Germans going about their daily routines ran into the lead elements of the Tenth Corps as it spilled out of the Czech mountains and into the peaceful, snow-covered river valleys of Bavaria.
Almost as if it were a routine occurrence, the guard opened the gate for the Territorial Army regional headquarters. Merging in with the line of cars waiting to enter the military compound, the driver of Scott Dixon's M-1A1 tank turned off the street crowded with early-morning traffic and rolled through the gate into the compound as if he were just another commuter going to work. Dixon, riding high in the commander's hatch with the confidence that war machines like the M-1A1 Abrams transmit to their crews like a battery supplies energy, gave the German gate guard a smart salute as he went by. Ignoring the stares of the reserve soldiers and officers of the German Territorial Army scurrying about in the predawn darkness of the neat, well-laid-out compound, Dixon directed his driver around the circular drive to the headquarters building. Cerro, riding high in the hatch of the M-577 command post carrier, followed Dixon's tank. Together, they represented the advance command post of the 1st Brigade, 4th Armored Division. Even more importantly, as they moved through the German Territorial Army compound, they represented the first test of official military reaction to the Tenth Corps march to the sea.
Scott Dixon and everyone in his small advance command post group understood the significance of what they were doing. Who went and how they traveled were all considered and discussed. Dixon favored a small party, but one that had a little punch. One tank, though not constituting by European standards much of a combat force, was sufficient to convey the message that they came ready to fight. Any more tanks, Dixon pointed out, would have been an outright invasion. Coming in anything smaller than a tank could have been interpreted as a bluff. Even the timing was critical. If they had come storming into Bayreuth and the regional head
quarters before the alarm was spread, none of the key players would have been at their posts. By allowing them time to assemble and assess the situation, Dixon would be able to save a great deal of time explaining things and would be greeted with leaders who were awake and at least felt they were in control.
Bringing his tank to a halt in front of the main entrance of the headquarters building, Dixon took his time in dismounting, making great show of the fact that he was in no rush and did not feel threatened. Standing erect on the turret roof, Dixon towered above everyone as he made a great show of his indifference to the comings and goings of the German reservists who had been recalled to halt the invasion of their country by Dixon's command. By the time he had removed his armored crewman's helmet, replaced it with his Kevlar helmet, and pulled on his web belt and load-bearing harness, Hal Cerro was on the ground waiting dutifully for Dixon next to a German Army captain.
When Dixon finished climbing down, Cerro introduced the captain as the military region's Regular Army adjutant. Exchanging salutes, then handshakes, the adjutant led both Dixon and Cerro to the commander of the military region. Behind them, they left the gunner and loader of Dixon's tank up and manning the machine guns at the commander's and loader's position of the tank. Both guns, leveled and manned by alert soldiers with stern no-nonsense expressions on their faces, served as a reminder to anyone who saw them of the potential for open and armed conflict.
Rather than being led to the operations center, which didn't surprise Dixon but disappointed Cerro, who wanted to see what his counterparts had posted on their maps, Dixon and Cerro were taken to the commander's office. They were greeted there by the military region commander; the mayor of Bayreuth, chief's of the city and state police for the area, and several other officers and civilian officials standing along the rear wall of the commander's office who were not introduced. The differences between the two groups were stark. Dixon in full battle gear looked and smelled the part of the combat commander just in from the field. The faint smell of diesel fumes that permeated his mud-splattered green, brown, and black field uniform contrasted sharply with the neat, freshly pressed gray dress blouse and tie of the German officers and the somber dark business suits of the city officials. After the principals were offered seats and served coffee, the German commander, Colonel Dieter Stahl, began by asking what exactly the Americans intended to do.
Dixon, hoping that Stahl had done his homework, took a sip of coffee before setting his cup down and answering. "You have, Colonel, no doubt heard the broadcast transmitted from Pizen by our Armed Forces Radio Network this morning." When Stahl nodded, Dixon continued. "That, Colonel, is Lieutenant General A. M. Malin's Fehdebrief to the German people."
Stahl's smile and nodding head told Dixon that he understood perfectly. The mayor of Bayreuth, however, was unfamiliar with the medieval term and asked Stahl in German what Dixon meant by a Fehdebrief. Apologizing for the interruption, Stahl turned to the mayor and in German explained. "During the Thirty Years' War and before, when marauding expeditions moved freely about Germany, the leader of the expedition, normally a knight, was obligated under the accepted codes of chivalry to deliver a formal challenge, or Fehdebrief, to the local inhabitants that explained and justified the knight's actions. If the local inhabitants chose not to accept the knight's explanations for his actions as articulated in the Fehdebrief and resisted the knight, that knight, under those rules of chivalry, was free to wage cruel and destructive war on those inhabitants. If, on the other hand, the inhabitants chose to cooperate, the knight was obliged by the same code of chivalry to protect both the persons and the property of the region through which the knight's army passed. In our cold, cruel world of impersonal and scientific warfare, we would call Lieutenant General Malin's Fehdebrief an ultimatum."
Turning to Dixon, the mayor, whose English didn't match Stahl's, tried to make sure that he fully understood what the American colonel's intentions were. "You are, then, as I understand this, threatening us. You are telling us that if we do not cooperate, that if we attempt to defend our country against your aggression, you will devastate our communities. Is that the purpose of this Fehdebrief?"
Having anticipated this line of discussion, Dixon had already framed his response. When he spoke, he did so in an even, measured manner. "Please understand that it is not General Malin's intent to rain death and destruction down on Germany. We are not here to punish. To do so would be a waste of time and resources. It would be counterproductive to our true goal, which is to move the Tenth Corps to the coast where our Navy can evacuate us as a complete and coherent fighting force. You only need to consult with Colonel Stahl, your own military expert. He will tell you that General Malin has neither the resources nor the time to lay waste to your nation and make it to the coast. To stop and destroy things just because we can would cause the people of Germany to rise up in a blood feud against us. Even if General Malin's real intent was to devastate Germany just for the sake of destroying things, I can assure you that no officer or soldier in the Tenth Corps would follow such orders. We are not animals. Our argument is not with the German people. So long as they do nothing to hinder our march to the sea, my soldiers will do nothing to harm them or their property. The damage caused by accident will be, as always, paid for by the government of the United States. We have been ordered by General Malin to use the same procedures and criteria for determining and processing damage claims by Germans due to our operations that we have used during past training exercises."
After listening to Dixon's explanation, and while the mayor considered what Dixon had said, Stahl began to carefully probe Dixon while laying out the position he was in. "You realize, Colonel Dixon, that I am under orders to resist your incursions and contain you as best we can until the Bundeswehr can redeploy. How can I, a soldier like you, do anything other than follow my orders. To do otherwise, to allow you to violate our national sovereignty and do nothing, would be treason."
Again Dixon was ready. "Who, Colonel Stahl, would you be betraying?"
Stahl looked at Dixon with a quizzical look on his face before responding. "Why, I would be disobeying my orders. I would betray Germany."
Dixon switched tactics. Leaning forward for dramatic effect, he looked into Stahl's eyes as he spoke with a clear, sharp voice. "Whose Germany, Colonel Stahl? Chancellor Ruff's Germany, the Germany of his dreams and ambitions? The Parliament, who are at this very minute debating the constitutional right of Chancellor Ruff's authority and actions? The mayor's Germany, one of working people and their families who have had no say in the past weeks over Chancellor Ruff's provocative actions and unreasonable demands upon my government? Or your Germany, a theoretical Germany that knows only blind duty to orders and traditions? Who, Colonel, will you be betraying, and, more importantly, what will the cost be to Germany if you do not?"
The mayor looked at Dixon, then at Stahl, as everyone in the room waited for him to respond. When he did, it was obvious that he was unsure of himself, that his comments were as much his thoughts as they were statements. "How can you possibly expect me to do other than follow my orders? You, Colonel Dixon, are a soldier. You know that we are expected to obey orders and do what we can on behalf of our nations. We are not like other people, free to pick those orders that please us and disregard those that do not suit us. If we were free to do so, anarchy would prevail."
"We are not, Colonel Stahl, machines. We are not puppets unable to think and act on our own. On the contrary, we are humans, with the ability to think and a conscience to guide that thinking. It is these qualities that we, senior officers in our respective armies, are selected for. While we do have our duty as prescribed by oaths of office, regulations, and orders written in black and white by men in distant capitals, we each are expected to interpret the solemn duties of our office and execute our orders using the high moral and ethical standards that our society has instilled in us." Dixon paused, leaning back in his seat. "I myself am guilty of disobeying the orders of my President. Sh
e ordered General Malin to lay down our weapons and leave Europe without them. She was wrong in her assessment of the situation and wrong to give such an order."
Shifting slightly in his seat, Dixon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and holding his hands palms up out toward Stahl. "While I could easily hide behind those orders and blame her, I know she was wrong and that to follow her orders would have terrible consequences for the United States today and in the future. Just as Xenophon knew in 400 B.C. that it would have been a mistake to disarm his ten thousand and trust the Persian King, every officer in the Tenth Corps knows in their hearts that it would be wrong for us to allow the United States to capitulate in the face of nuclear blackmail. If we follow our President's orders and allow Germany to strip the United States of its military machine, other nations will follow suit. Every petty nation will seek to obtain nuclear weapons, legally and illegally, in order to threaten both its friends and enemies. Yes, I had my orders. But," Dixon added as he sat upright, bringing his hands to rest on the arms of his chair, "I also had my duty to those under my command and those we were pledged to defend. In all good conscience, I could not follow orders that were morally wrong. I do not ask you to betray your nation. I ask you to allow your conscience to guide your decision."
For several minutes there was silence. While the lesser German officials standing in the rear of the room who understood English finished translating Dixon's speech to those who didn't, the mayor looked at Stahl, then Dixon, then back to Stahl. Finally he asked Stahl if he could, in fact, refuse to do as Berlin had dictated.
Stahl studied Dixon's face for several moments before he answered. He knew that the American colonel's response had been well thought out and weighted for maximum effect. Stahl had come to realize that Dixon, though not saying so, had intentionally been hammering away at the question that had been debated in the Bundeswehr since its inception in 1955. The concept that a soldier was honor-bound to obey orders without question had allowed the German Army to be drawn into helping the Nazis create the nightmare that led ultimately to the death of over seven and a half million Germans and the near total destruction of Germany. Revival of the old Prussian concept that an officer was responsible for his actions and was expected to use his conscience in determining right from wrong had been the cornerstone of the Bundeswehr from its birth, its hedge against the recurrence of another nightmare. The American colonel, Stahl saw, was reminding him in a very circumspect way of the terrible results of a war caused by an army that had turned a blind eye to its moral obligations to the people it was pledged to defend. Without publicly rubbing his nose in the crimes of his fathers, Dixon was reminding Stahl of their terrible consequences.
