THE TEN THOUSAND

by Harold Coyle

  Angered at being the subject of a joke and at his momentary loss of self-control, Buhle turned on Ilvanich. Stomping his foot, Buhle shouted, "What do you intend to do with me and my men?"

  Shrugging as he tossed Buhle's pistol into the bushes behind him, Ilvanich grunted. "I don't care what you and your men do. For all I care, they can go to hell. Now please step aside or we will be forced to run you over." Lifting his arm above his head, Ilvanich waved it in a circular motion and shouted, "All right, mount up and prepare to move. Spread the word down the line." Like an echo, Ilvanich's orders were relayed from ranger to ranger until from the very end of the column came three long blasts from Lieutenant Fitzhugh's truck.

  With a casual motion of his pistol, Ilvanich signaled Buhle to move out of the way. Pape, on the other side, did likewise to Buhle's driver, who surrendered his seat to Pape. After seating himself in Buhle's place, Ilvanich turned to the still angry German captain. "I wouldn't be so hard on myself. I imagine that somewhere out there tonight one of your units is doing the same thing to one of ours. It's like that in war, you know."

  Buhle couldn't tell if Ilvanich was trying to make him feel better or simply rubbing his nose in his own mess. Not that it made a difference. The fact was that he was still angry at himself and at the strange American commander for making fun of him in what was the most embarrassing moment of his life.

  As he watched his supply trucks roll away into the darkness with their precious cargoes, now driven by the American rangers, Buhle wondered how he could explain losing them all without a single shot being fired in their defense. It would be several more minutes, after the sound of the last truck disappeared into the bitterly cold night, that Buhle realized that he had neither a map nor a flashlight. He and his men, stripped of their warm trucks, weapons, cargo, and purpose in life, were now reduced to a hopelessly lost and downcast mob of stragglers left to be brutalized by the weather and tossed about in the swirling storm of a very confused and vicious battle.

  While Buhle stood in the middle of a deserted road wondering what to do next, his friend Seydlitz was busy running his company. Refreshed and under the impression that all was at least in some measure getting back to normal, Seydlitz made his rounds of his company positions as soon as Buhle and his supply column had departed. Upon returning to his own tank, Seydlitz's gunner informed him that the brigade operations officer had been trying to contact him. Pulling himself up back onto his own tank took most of Seydlitz's remaining energy. Though his mind was more alert, his body was far from refreshed. Pulling his crewman's helmet down over his dirty hair now snarled in knots, he didn't bother to tuck it all in and under the earphones. Standing on the back deck of his tank and leaning over the turret roof, Seydlitz looked down his open hatch to make sure that the radio transmitter was set to the brigade frequency before he began his broadcast. Satisfied, he keyed the radio, held it down for a moment, and then called the brigade operations officer. "Danzig Five Zero, this is Leo Four Seven. Danzig Five Zero, this is Leo Four Seven. Over."

  There was no pause from the brigade operations officer. It was as if he had been sitting at the radio far off in the rear somewhere waiting for Seydlitz's call. "Leo Four Seven, this is Danzig Five Zero. You have a change of mission. Over."

  Expecting nothing more than a request for a simple situation update, the quick response by the operations officer himself and the announcement that he was going to issue him an order caught Seydlitz off guard. Knowing that he would need his map and something to write on, Seydlitz yelled to his gunner to toss him up his map, his notebook, and a flashlight. Spreading the map out as far as he could, Seydlitz opened his notebook to the first page free of scribbling and notes and prepared to write. That his flashlight wasn't shielded from the enemy across the way didn't escape the notice of Seydlitz's gunner. Quickly, as his commander prepared to receive his order, the gunner pulled a poncho out from a storage rack. Standing on top of the turret roof, the gunner held it up so he and the poncho stood between the American positions and Seydlitz. Seeing what his gunner was doing, Seydlitz looked up and muttered a quick "Thank you" before rekeying the transmit lever on his crewman's helmet. "Danzig Five Zero, this is Leo Four Seven. Ready. Over."

  "Leo, this is Danzig. The enemy forces that had been attacking your position have shifted their main efforts to the east. They are now hitting Düsseldorf and have forced Düsseldorf north of Autobahn E40. We must do something to relieve this pressure. Your mission will be to leave your present location, infiltrate to the north toward Bad Hersfeld, and conduct mounted raids throughout the enemy rear. Over."

  Düsseldorf, the code name given the 2nd Panzer Division's 2nd Brigade, was supposed to be a supporting attack. Why he and his company were being sacrificed in such an obvious suicide mission to support a supporting attack didn't make sense to Seydlitz. To be sure that he was understanding his orders properly, Seydlitz rephrased them and asked for correction if necessary. "This is Leo. I am to move my unit north through enemy lines toward Bad Hersfeld and Autobahn E40, attacking enemy rear units as I go. Is that correct? Over."

  "Leo, this is Danzig. That is correct. Over."

  Seydlitz paused again to think. There was no mistake. He was being sacrificed to save someone's ass. Deciding that he'd be damned if he was going to go riding about in circles waiting to be pinned and wiped out, Seydlitz shot back to the brigade operations officer, "Danzig, this is Leo. How long do you want me to keep up my raids and where am I to go after I have done all that I can? Over."

  The pause on the other end of the radio confirmed Seydlitz's suspicions. The bastards, he thought, hadn't thought about that. He and his company were truly being sent on a death ride. The gunner, listening to the exchange, looked down at Seydlitz. In the soft glow of Seydlitz's flashlight, the gunner's face betrayed the dark thoughts that were running through his mind. Finally the brigade operations officer responded. "Leo, this is Danzig. You are to use your own discretion as to how long you stay in the enemy's rear. Targets are your choice. When you feel you have done as much as you can, attempt to break out to the east, moving north of Autobahn E40, and link up with Düsseldorf. Over."

  That, Seydlitz thought, was shit. Of course, he didn't take into account that the entire 2nd Panzer Division's situation was rapidly deteriorating. He couldn't. Left manning a thin outpost line on his own all day, Seydlitz had no idea what was happening even five kilometers from where he sat. That his superiors were rapidly losing all hope of cutting off the American march to the north and defeating them never occurred to Seydlitz. At no time did it enter Seydlitz's mind that instead of victory the fight now revolved around individual brigades, short on supplies and attacked from several directions at once, fighting for their very existence. Even the fact that the brigade staff of the 1st Brigade, which Seydlitz now was attached to, were issuing him orders that seemed pointless and suicidal didn't alert Seydlitz to the seriousness of their situation. Nor did it occur to him that the staff officers at brigade were just as tired and just as confused as he himself was. In the German Army, one expected the higher headquarters to be in control, to be able to think clearly and issue orders that were sound and well thought out. The idea that staff officers were only human and, like him, susceptible to exhaustion and error was the furthest thing from Seydlitz's mind. They were in charge and had to know what was going on. They had to.

  Still Seydlitz instinctively continued to prod the brigade operations officer. "Danzig, this is Leo. When do you want this operation to commence? Over."

  Tiring of Seydlitz's questions and anxious to join a briefing that the brigade commander was about to hold with the commanders and staff of the brigade a few meters from where he sat, the operations officer became terse with Seydlitz. "When you are ready, over." Then as an afterthought the operations officer added, "What is your fuel status? Over."

  That he had been ordered to execute a mission such as this without first being asked if his unit was physically capable of executing it did not escape
Seydlitz's attention. "This is Leo. We completed rearming and refueling an hour ago. Over."

  The brigade operations officer's voice betrayed surprise. "Leo, who provided you with this fuel and where did they go?"

  Why, Seydlitz wondered, was this so important? Were there problems that he wasn't aware of? Perhaps. But this was not the time to ask such questions. Instead he simply responded, "The supply column from my own battalion, of course. They left here some time ago headed to the assembly area my commander told me he was moving into. Over."

  While Seydlitz waited for a response, the brigade operations officer turned to one of his sergeants and told him to check with the 26th Panzer Battalion to see if their supply column had arrived. As the sergeant was doing that, the operations officer returned to Seydlitz. "Leo, do you have any further questions? Over."

  Taking a minute to look at his map and his skimpy notes, Seydlitz came to the conclusion that he had all he was going to get. The fact was the orders were sufficiently open to allow him almost unlimited freedom of action. To ask for more guidance might result in additional restrictions or orders that would eliminate that freedom. If he played this right, there was the chance that he and his company would survive the night. Satisfied, Seydlitz responded that he needed nothing more and then signed off.

  Stretching as he looked down on his map, Seydlitz allowed himself to mutter a few curses and heard his gunner chuckle. "That good, Herr Hauptmann?"

  Seydlitz, aware that he had erred by showing his displeasure with brigade in front of his gunner, looked up. There was, he realized, no hiding the truth. Seydlitz looked down at his map. "Oh, far better than you can imagine, Sergeant. I have no idea where the enemy is, no idea where our 2nd Brigade is, no idea what fire support is available, and no idea if anyone outside the 1st Brigade staff, in particular the Luftwaffe, knows that we will be going into the enemy rear. In short, we will be crawling out of the shitter into the asshole of the American Tenth Corps." Then with a tired smile Seydlitz looked up at his gunner. "Provided, of course, we can find where that asshole begins."

  As Seydlitz prepared to translate his brigade operations officer's sketchy order into action, the sergeant on duty in the 4th Armored Division's division artillery intelligence section came bounding out of his armored command post carrier over to where a captain from the operations section sat. "We've got the bastards. We finally got a good fix on that German brigade command post south of Bad Hersfeld. Here are the coordinates, sir." Without waiting for a response, the intelligence sergeant went over to the wall map behind the captain and made a mark where the division's radio intercept unit, known as a collection and jamming unit or CJ platoon for short, determined the enemy brigade command post was.

  Slowly the captain, tired from a long day made longer by two relocations of the command post done when he should have been sleeping, got up and walked over to the map. After looking at the newly plotted location, he thought for a minute. "We sure it's the brigade command post?"

  The intelligence sergeant, anxious to have something to do that was meaningful, nodded. "Positive, sir. The enemy unit that's located seventeen kilometers south of Bad Hersfeld hasn't moved all day. The latest intercept was a long conversation between it and the brigade headquarters. The officer in charge of the CJ platoon thinks it was an operations order of some kind."

  The captain raised an eyebrow. "Thinks?"

  "Well, sir, the message was encrypted. We couldn't break it, but they talked long enough to get a good fix on the transmitter that we believe is the brigade headquarters."

  The captain folded his arms. He knew about the enemy unit seventeen kilometers south of Bad Hersfeld. During the day several batteries of artillery had fired missions on its location twice with no noticeable effect. Its location and durability made everyone believe it was a front-line battalion or cavalry unit. Because the responses from the other unit or headquarters had been short, the collection and jamming platoon had never had enough time to get a good fix on what everyone assumed was the higher headquarters, probably the 2nd Panzer Division's 1st Brigade. Looking at the map, the captain decided that it was pointless to go after the front-line unit again. If it survived twice, odds were it would survive again. Having made his decision, the captain turned to his own operations section. "Sergeant Mears, get a copy of these new grids and pass them on to the MLRS battery. Have them dump a spill on those grids."

  The intelligence sergeant thought about that. One spill, twelve rockets or one pod of a multiple rocket launcher, would be devastating, but maybe not devastating enough. Knowing that his boss had been waiting to catch the command post of the German 1st Panzer Brigade all day, the sergeant was determined to make sure that it got nailed good and proper now that they had it. "Sir, this is an enemy brigade command post, the command post of the lead enemy brigade that's controlling the enemy units threatening to cut off Autobahn A7. Don't you think we should dump more on them, just to be sure?"

  The artillery captain thought about that while looking at the red brigade symbol on the map and its location. With a smile he nodded his head. "You're right. They do deserve everything we've got. Sergeant Mears, let's fuck 'em over real good. Three spills, followed up immediately with a battalion time on target from the eight-inch battalion."

  The intelligence sergeant glanced over at the sergeant sitting in front of the TACFIRE computer. Both sergeants were grinning as the TACFIRE sergeant gave the intelligence sergeant a wink before he turned to input the necessary data for the fire mission. "On the way, sir."

  Through the magic of computers and digital communications, Sergeant Mears communicated with rocket and gun batteries spread out all over the 4th Armored Division's area. The computer, accepting the grid and target description provided by Mears, determined all firing data needed by both the rockets and the eight-inch howitzers, relaying that data in seconds. When the computers of all firing units reported back to Mears's computer that they were ready, the same computer system gave the order to fire and initiated an artillery strike that would effectively wipe out the commander and staff officers that had given Seydlitz his last orders for the day.

  21 JANUARY

  When she woke again, Hilary Cole was completely disoriented. Looking around, it took several seconds for it to sink in that they hadn't moved from where they had stopped hours ago. When she went to sit upright, a sharp burning pain, caused by a muscle cramp and leaning against the door of the truck with only a thin Army blanket for padding, shot through her right arm. Pausing, Cole let the pain subside before she moved again. While she waited, she looked down at her watch. Three a.m. Four hours' sleep. She had been able to get four hours of uninterrupted sleep. That was the most sleep she had been able to get in one sitting since they had left Slovakia.

  That adventure seemed years ago instead of just two weeks. Two weeks of traveling through hell, a hell that tonight looked an awful lot like a deserted forest road.

  Ready, Cole finished sitting upright. When she did, she realized that she had a headache as well as a body racked with pain. Still she was thankful that no one had bothered her during the last four hours. That thought was soon replaced with one of concern for the wounded. How were they doing? Realizing that it would be a while before she would be able to go back to sleep, Cole decided to get out, stretch her legs, find some aspirin, and check on the wounded that were in the six ambulances immediately behind the truck she was traveling in. Looking over at the driver, who was sound asleep, Cole slowly opened her door.

  Even before she had it fully opened, the blast of cold air hit her. It didn't bother her. Rather, it felt good, refreshing. Pushing on the door, Cole carefully swung her legs out and searched for the running board of the truck. When the toe of her boot found it, she slipped down, turned to face the driver, now stirring, and then closed the door as quietly as she could. When she was sure it was secure, Cole lowered herself to the ground, pulled her parka around her, zipped it up, and flipped the hood up over her head. Though she was sure she loo
ked like something out of a Russian fashion magazine, Cole was warm and well protected from the cold night air.

  As she moved over to the shoulder of the road, the pale moonlight allowed her to see the line of trucks that stretched off into the distance almost to a bend in the road. The trucks in front of her hospital's lead vehicle carried strange boatlike contraptions. An engineer unit, she thought. Had to be. They carried all kinds of unusual stuff like that. In front of the dozen or so engineer trucks at that bend there was an MP humvee parked in the center of the road. A lone MP sat upright manning the M-60 machine gun mounted on top of the humvee's roof while another MP, bundled up against the cold, slowly walked back and forth across the road in front of the humvee. With his rifle slung over his shoulder, Cole couldn't tell if he was on guard or waiting for someone and simply walking to and fro to stay warm.

  No matter, Cole thought. They knew what they were doing. And she knew what she had to do. Turning her back on the MPs and the engineers, Cole began to walk toward the first ambulance. In doing so, she missed seeing the lone roving guard freeze in place, listening to a noise in the distance while he unslung his rifle.

  Crashing through a series of logging trails and unpaved farm roads some six kilometers northwest of Bad Hersfeld, Seydlitz was beginning to realize that his orders, which seemed so absurdly simple, were becoming harder and harder to carry out. After backing his tanks out of position in pairs, he reassembled his company and began to infiltrate them en masse as he had been ordered. Though his attempts to contact brigade and notify them of his departure went unanswered, Seydlitz didn't care. He had his orders and he had verified them. Now all he had to do was to carry them out as he saw fit.