by Harold Coyle
When he found what he was looking for, he depressed the radio transmit button and called the other scout that was doing the same thing. "Kilo Nine Five, this is Kilo Five Three. I have a Gepard near the head of the column, three vehicles behind the lead. Over."
There was a pause while the observer in the other scout looked and confirmed. "Roger, Five Three. I see 'em. I've got nothing in the middle or rear. How 'bout you? Over."
Traversing the joy stick that controlled the instrument dome, Messinger scanned the entire length of the column a second time. When he was finished, he looked up from his sight, rubbed his eyes, and then put his head back down against the brow pads of the sight again before responding. "Negative. The Gepard in the front is the only gun I see." He was about to say that he would take out the self-propelled Gepard antiaircraft gun but thought better of it. He was senior officer on the scene. He needed to keep himself out of the fight, exercising command and control for as long as possible. The other scout could deal with the Gepard, leaving him free to watch for other air defense systems they might have missed while keeping an eye on the attack of the Apache helicopters and the German reactions. With that decided, Messinger directed the scout to stand by to fire on the Gepard while ordering the commander of the Apache company, waiting in firing positions some five thousand meters away on the other side of the road, to stand by to commence firing.
When all was ready, he initiated the ambush with a simple, almost casual call to the scout. "Okay, Nine Five, let her fly."
When he was set, the observer in the scout helicopter with the call sign Nine Five hit the laser designator button, watched for it to illuminate the target, then fired a Hellfire missile. Once the Hellfire was clear of the trees and screaming in toward the Gepard, German air guards up and down the column began to yell their warnings to their vehicle commanders, who in turn relayed the warning throughout the column via radio. Though that warning came too late for the Gepard, which received Kilo Nine Five's Hellfire square on the side of the turret that housed the twin 37mm anti-aircraft guns, other vehicles began to turn away from the attack right into the sights of the waiting Apaches. Without any need for orders, the commander of the five Apaches gave his order to engage and joined the fight himself by launching a Hellfire at a Leopard tank that he had been tracking.
With the attack coming from the direction that the fleeing vehicles had thought was away from danger, the surprise and chaos created had the desired effect. The commanders of the vehicles that survived the first volley ordered their drivers to turn their individual vehicles this way or that, to back up, or to stop and assess what was happening. The result was momentary confusion and loss of command and control. Some vehicles, their commanders and drivers trying to look in all directions at once, plowed into each other. Adding to the general confusion were clouds of smoke created when tanks fired smoke grenades in all directions. Here and there trucks ran off the road rather than be crushed by tanks wildly seeking safety as Marders dropped their ramps so that the precious infantry could scramble out and seek safety on the ground rather than remain boxed up in what might soon become a death trap. During this initial confusion, when none of the surviving German commanders could make sense out of what was going on or exert their authority, the Apaches launched a second volley, adding to the confusion and cutting down more leaders in midstride as they tried to sort out their commands.
From afar, Messinger watched. By now both he and scout Kilo Nine Five were long forgotten by the Germans on the road. The massed Apache attack was far too overwhelming to ignore. Though satisfied with the results of the initial strike and the confusion that reigned, Messinger knew it would soon end. Already he could see commanders of individual Leopard tanks turning to fight. Though a tank main-gun round was not the most effective anti-aircraft weapon, the sophisticated computer-driven fire-control system of the Leopard, like the American M-1A1 tank, gave them teeth that could not be ignored. Realizing that the longer he allowed the Apaches to continue the engagement the more the Germans would be able to respond, Messinger ordered the Apache company commander to fire one more volley and then break off the attack. Though he could have stayed and taken out more vehicles, to do so would have increased his chances of losing aircraft and crews that could not be replaced. Since there were more columns further down the highway, all racing north in an effort to save the 2nd Panzer Division, Messinger knew he could repeat this performance again later somewhere else against another unwary column. For now, a dozen or more kills, a major highway temporarily blocked, a column scattered and in disorder, and the flow of combat forces north momentarily halted was good enough to accomplish what the 14th Armored Cavalry Regiment was tasked to do. When Messinger saw the last of the Hellfire missiles detonate on the rear deck of a Leopard tank and heard the Apache company commander announce over the radio that he and his company were out of there and en route to their next battle position, Messinger lifted his head from his sight and turned to Perkins. "Okay, Larry. We've done enough damage here. Let's head south and see if we can do it again." With that, Larry Perkins allowed the OH-58D to drop down a few feet before he twisted its tail boom a quarter turn with a flick of his hand holding the collective, pointed the nose of the helicopter south and right into the gunsight of a German attack helicopter's gunner. The German gunner, seeing that his quarry was about to flee, let fly a stream of 20mm rounds at Messinger's aircraft. Though it had been a hasty shot, the German gunner's initial aim had been good enough. In a matter of a couple of seconds the crew compartment of Messinger's helicopter was shredded by a hail of 20mm high-explosive rounds, serving to remind anyone who cared to think about what had just happened that in war even the craftiest hunter can in the twinkling of an eye become the hunted.
CHAPTER 16
20 JANUARY
Though the evening briefing was a short affair that night, the information in it weighed heavy on Big Al Malin. Even if Big Al had been able to sit through it, none of the staff officers could have sat in one place for more than ten minutes without nodding off to sleep. For despite every effort to rotate the staff officers and enlisted staff members at the Tenth Corps command post in and out for rest, there were few who managed to snatch any meaningful sleep. It was not because things were going bad. On the contrary, the situation was for the most part conforming to the plan that this very staff had formulated and put into motion some thirty-six hours before. The fighting and maneuvering of both German and American forces then in progress was pretty much yielding the results that Big Al had hoped for.
The real problem wearing at Big Al and his staff was a problem that all senior officers in the modern age faced. Though he gave the orders, though he had the authority to initiate battles and determine when and where those battles would be fought, he did not, could not, do the fighting. At that moment Big Al or his staff didn't have much say over what happened. Neither he nor his staff, with all of its sophisticated communications equipment and collective knowledge, wisdom, and experience, could do anything to tilt the scale of the company and platoon battles being waged in the valleys, hills, forests, and towns of central Germany. The corps staff could order more fire support to assist a unit in contact in the form of attack helicopters or artillery. They could augment those units with reinforcements. But the one thing that Big Al and his staff could not do was to gain release through combat from their fears, apprehensions, and stresses.
Big Al's orders had set the divisions in motion. The divisions had issued their own orders that had sent their brigades attacking in just about every direction possible. Brigades had tasked their subordinate battalions to attack in a set direction with a definitive objective or to defend a key piece of terrain. From there the orders were transmitted to company commanders. At that level, in the confined spaces of darkened personnel carriers, the company commander issued his own instructions to a group of platoon leaders who were just as cold, tired, dirty, and confused as the soldiers that they were about to lead into battle. When that was finishe
d, those young lieutenants or senior sergeants charged with closing with and destroying the enemy by use of fire, maneuver, and shock effect were left to wander on their own back to where their soldiers waited to hear the orders that for many would be a death sentence.
Often during the long, terrible wait for information and news from the units in contact and the results of those contacts, Big Al would stare at the map in his operations van. Every blue symbol on that map meant something to him. They were not simply marks on a plastic overlay; they were flesh and blood. They were his soldiers. That his orders determined how many of the soldiers represented by those symbols lived and how many died bothered Big Al greatly. So he like any competent commander did his best to ensure that he had all the information he needed to make sound, intelligent decisions. Though reams of information flooded into the corps headquarters every hour, only a shockingly small amount meant anything to the primary decision makers. It took time to collect a skilled staff to sift through and sort that critical information that Big Al would use when modifying his plans or issuing new orders.
Until that was done, Big Al was left to struggle with his conscience, his fears, his personal battle, and watch the symbols on the map as they were moved from one place to another.
The operations map in front of him presented a picture that almost staggered the imagination. Throughout central Germany, units of the Tenth Corps were playing out a drama that defied definition or description. There were no longer front lines, rear boundaries, or flanks. There was at that moment no main effort, no center of gravity. All the corps staff could report to Big Al that night was a series of widely separated attacks under the control of brigade and battalion commanders that were attempting to achieve the objectives that Big Al had outlined the day before. To the west, the 1st Brigade of the 55th Mech Infantry Division was attacking south against the 10th Panzer Division's 3rd Brigade. The 55th's 2nd Brigade was attacking to the west while its 3rd Brigade was attacking, under the control of the 4th Armored Division, to the north and northeast in an effort to keep the 2nd Panzer Division's 1st and 3rd Brigades from Unking up. Dixon's 1st Brigade was also attacking the 2nd Panzer Division's 3rd Brigade in one direction while putting pressure on the 2nd Panzer's 2nd Brigade and attacking the division's service support units in the opposite direction. Dixon's sister brigade, the 2nd Brigade, was doing likewise some fifteen kilometers away, sending one battalion northeast to hit the 2nd Panzer's 2nd Brigade, holding one battalion in place to fix the 2nd Panzer's 3rd Brigade, and attacking south with a third battalion against the 2nd Panzer's 1st Brigade. It was, one assistant operations officer dryly stated in a vain effort at humor while briefing, a high-tech barroom brawl.
The idea that he was unable to go somewhere to influence at least one of the chains of seemingly disjointed battles that the brigades of his corps were engaged in wore on Big Al's nerves as staff officer after staff officer stood up to brief him and the primary staff officers. The staff, in turn, was beginning to feel the pressure of having their commander standing about with nothing to do, watching them or staring at the operations map. They were used to receiving Big Al's guidance and then being left to deal with it while he visited units or division command posts. It was, one staff officer commented, like having a bear watching campers cooking their dinner.
Though Big Al tried hard to stay out of his staff's hair, the corps chief of staff felt the need to keep his commander entertained. This resulted in a steady stream of staff officers pulled from their normal duties and sent to update the corps commander on one thing or another. Though the staff officers did keep their commander informed and did receive some additional guidance, the wear and tear on each other's nerves was telling. Some of the staff officers were even betting how long it would take before Big Al finally blew a gasket and dumped on someone.
The victim of that eruption, quite innocently, turned out to be an artillery major. Midway through the evening briefing, while the major, an assistant fire coordination officer, was briefing, Big Al caught the attention of the chief of staff. Using the index finger of his right hand, Big Al made a small circular motion, indicating that he wanted the chief of staff to speed up the briefing. The chief shifted in his seat and cleared his throat in an effort to catch the fire support officer's attention.
The young major, caught up in his briefing, failed to notice Big Al's signal to the chief of staff and missed the meaning of the chief's cues. So rather than speed up or skip to the summary, the young major continued to dump hordes of numbers and heaps of data and information onto his reluctant audience like a tenured professor delivering a stale lecture. Though Big Al had no doubt that all the information being delivered had some importance to someone somewhere, the parade of digits and the major's monotone voice grated on Big Al's worn nerves like a child dragging his fingernails across a blackboard.
When it became obvious that the message had not gotten through, Big Al, unable to hold himself back and unwilling to give his chief a second chance, stood up, gave the chief a perfunctory "Thank you," and began to walk out of the van. Though he knew his actions were rude and that the young major who had been briefing would catch hell for pissing off the old man, Big Al had bigger concerns on his mind. With his face distorted in anger, anger at his inability to do something more positive, more active, Big Al made his way through masses of staff officers who practically beat each other to death as they tried to get out of his way. Followed by his aide, who had been caught off guard and was trying to keep up with his boss while fumbling with helmets, jackets, and a notebook, Big Al fled the corps command post and out into the night.
When he caught up to Big Al, the aide found him outside the protective wire that surrounded the command post. Standing on the side of the road, Big Al stood alone watching a convoy of trucks and field ambulances go by. Moving around to the side, the aide made his presence known simply by placing himself so that his movement would be caught by Big Al's peripheral vision. Aides were trained to do that, to make their presence known without interrupting or interfering with conversations or reflective moments. Stopping a few paces short, the aide waited for Big Al to reach out and motion for the parka and helmet that the aide carried. But there was no movement, no beckoning call. There was only the silence of the bitterly cold night punctured by the steady grinding of trucks passing by and generators humming about the corps command post. In the faint light of dimmed headlights, the aide could see that Big Al's face was still screwed up like a twisted mass of raw nerves. He stood there alone, intently watching the trucks go by, one after the other, as they slowly inched their way north. Though the aide had no idea what was going on in his commander's mind, he knew that Big Al had come here to escape.
After being in the warm vans that made up the corps command post all day, crunched in with other people and unable to go outside much, the cold night air sent a chill through the aide. Concerned that his boss was also cold, the aide moved closer to Big Al and prepared to hand him his parka. But at the last minute he stopped short. When he saw that Big Al's expression didn't change, the aide stepped back and waited. Though Big Al was cold, the aide also knew that there was something that was bothering his commander and that he was deep in thought. Good aides learned quickly when to say something and when not to. They learned when their commander wanted them and when they were expected to melt away into the background and wait quietly for their commander to summon them. It was time, the aide realized, to become a shadow.
The string of ambulances moving north did nothing to calm Big Al's concerns or feelings of inadequacy. In fact they only served to heighten his depression, for here, right in front of his face, were the by-products of his actions. The ambulances and trucks of a hospital unit were a terrible reminder that what he was doing in the command post behind him was no training exercise, no drill. The decisions that he made and the orders that his staff issued in his name were paid for in blood by the soldiers that his government and country had entrusted into his care. How terrible, Big A
l thought, if after all was said and done his best intentions didn't measure up to their sacrifice. How terrible.
From the cab of the truck where Hilary Cole sat she could see the figures of two men standing on the side of the road. One man, a very short one with no helmet or jacket on, just stood there and watched as her truck went by. Though she couldn't see his face, his stance, with his arms folded across his chest, made him look important. The second man, holding a parka in one hand and a helmet in the other, stood a few feet away from the short man, as if he were waiting for the short man to notice him. Though she didn't know who the two men were, it was obvious that the short one was important.
But, Cole thought, he wasn't important to her, especially not at that moment. What was important was that she had an opportunity to escape the horrors of the day for a little while. There in the heated cab of the truck the steady hum of the engine served to drown out the screams that still rang in her ears. Though not the most comfortable seat she had ever had, Cole found it good enough. She rolled a blanket that she had brought along with her and placed it against the window beside her. When she had it set the way she wanted it, Cole leaned against it and folded her arms. With luck she would be asleep in a few minutes. It was important, she knew, that she take advantage of this opportunity to sleep, for she knew that once they stopped there would be much to do. Not only would the wounded they had taken along from their last site still need care, but there would no doubt be new wounded waiting. The battles, she had been told, had yet to reach their climax. That, for her and the other nurses, translated to more wounded, more suffering, more nightmares.
As she slowly drifted off to sleep, Cole wondered if the short man on the side of the road had anything to do with the battles. And if he did, she wondered if he really understood what his orders really meant to the soldiers who suffered as a result of those orders. Probably not, she thought. After all, if he did and he could see the suffering that his orders caused, he couldn't possibly issue them. No one could send men to their death or certain mutilation if he had seen it himself. No sane human that had seen what she had seen all day could continue to send men into battle. No, Cole thought as she drifted off to sleep, General So-and-So back there, warm and pampered in his little command post, had no idea of what his great plans cost. None.
