The
BTR
was a total loss. Flames were now shooting from the open hatches.
A man trying to pull out the body of one of the crewmen was beaten back by the heat of the flames. Looking around, Vorishnov saw the battalion’s second officer sitting on the ground next to a sprawled out body. Vorishnov went over to him.
He could see that the second officer, a young intelligence captain, was hit in the shoulder and bleeding. His helmet was off and his face was quite pale. Speckles of blood seemed to cover his tunic. No doubt he was going into shock: As Vorishnov knelt down next to the young captain, he noticed that the body on the ground was that of the political officer. He knew this only from the insignia-the body was without a head.
“Alexis,” Vorishnov asked, “are you hit anywhere else?”
The second officer only shook his head in response. He was obviously losing blood.
“Come, we must get that arm tended to.”
As Vorishnov helped him up the captain spoke hesitantly, his voice barely audible. “We .. . we were walking away from the
BTR
, talking about the delay. We heard the planes begin to fire. We both turned to see what the noise was. Then I looked toward Lieutenant Teplov, just as he was hit. A round hit him in the head and exploded. It .. .” The second officer stared into Vorishnov’s eyes before he continued. “His head just exploded. It blew apart, all over me. It just .. . it blew apart.” As he talked, the captain ran his hands down his tunic, which, Vorishnov realized, was spattered not only with blood but also with scraps of human brain tissue. The young man’s eyes were wide and showed his bewilderment and shock. “We must help him. How are we going to fix him, Comrade Major? His head is gone. What are we going to do,
Comrade?”
Vorishnov cradled the captain’s face gently in his hands and spoke softly, the way his father had spoken to him when he was a boy and was hurt or confused. “Lieutenant Teplov is dead. He has done his duty.
We must now take care of you. There is nothing we can do for him. Do you understand?”
Tears welled up in the captain’s eyes as reality began to take hold. He looked into the major’s eyes for a moment, then nodded that he understood.
“Good,” Vorishnov said. “Let us tend to your arm.” With that, he led the second officer away from the smashed
BTR
and the shattered remains of the political officer.
South of HajJiabad, Iran 0915 Hours, 8 July (0545 Hours, 8 July,
GMT
) Throughout the initial phase of the engagement that morning it had been difficult to believe there was a real life battle going on, a battle that involved killing and dying. Everything had been working so well, too well.
The American maneuver battalions submitted their reports on enemy activities and their own status as if this were nothing more than a training exercise.
Militaryintelligence units operating well forward were picking up all the information they needed to show that the main attack was coming into the 3rd of the 4th Armor’s sector. That battalion’s reports confirmed that and the battalion’s success in defeating the attack.
Everything suddenly changed when the truth was finally known. The discovery of Soviet forces in the rear of the sector of the 1st of the 503rd Infantry, coupled with Brigade’s inability to raise that battalion, caused concerns at Brigade and near-panic in 3rd of the 4th Armor. The commander of that armored battalion wanted to withdraw immediately toward Tarom. With the infantry battalion penetrated, he saw no way he could hold where he was. The brigade commander, unsure of how bad things really were, wanted the situation clarified before he began giving ground. Besides, even if the 1st of the 503rd Infantry had been penetrated, Brigade could still shift the 1st of the 29th Mech from the east into the infantry battalion’s sector and counterattack. At least that was what the brigade commander wanted. Initial orders to execute that contingency plan were issued. Units began to shift in compliance.
Well to the north, Soviet electronic-warfare units waged a different, silent and unseen war. With electronic equipment that rivaled the best that the West had to offer, Soviet intelligence officers and technicians listened to the airwaves, scanning the full spectrum of FM, HF and AM radio waves. When they caught a transmission in progress, they locked onto it and studied it. Although they could not understand what was being said over the various American command radio nets because of speech secure equipment, they could determine which nets were brigade command, which were battalion command and so on. When the traffic on the command nets suddenly increased, followed shortly by an apparent shifting of forces from the mech infantry battalion’s sector in the east, Soviet electronic-warfare units went into action.
Some of the American locations that FM radio emissions were coming from had already been pinpointed through radio direction-finding and targeted for attack by artillery. But the Soviets held back, waiting for the right moment when disruption or loss of the American command-and-control elements would have maximum effect. With the situation now changing rapidly, the decision was made to take out selected targets.
Orders went out to the Soviet artillery battalions to fire on some of those locations. Other radio nets were simply jammed with high volumes of interference. Some of the 245 jamming was silent jamming, a technique whereby the subscribers to the radio net do not hear any unusual noise or see any effect until they try to transmit over their radio; when they do try but cannot make contact, they often assume their radio is not operating or that terrain is blocking the transmission. Other radio nets were jammed with loud noises and unusual sounds designed to annoy the listener. Regardless of the means used to jam or interfere, the results were the same: commanders could no longer control their subordinate commands or pass information.
The artillery attack (called a fire strike by the Soviets) that had been directed against 2nd Brigade’s headquarters was a rude awakening for the brigade staff. The calm, businesslike atmosphere was suddenly smashed as heavy artillery projectiles screamed in and burst nearby.
Because the FM radio antennas were located away from the actual command post, the incoming rounds did not hit squarely on the tactical operations center. The effects, however, were devastating just the same. Chunks of shrapnel, some no larger than a pin, others the size of a fist, carried by overpowering bursts, ripped through the canvas sides of the
TOC
extensions. Maps, paper, books, phones and people were brushed aside. The staff, once they were down on the ground, remained there, covering their ears or their heads as round after round detonated and sent its own wave of heat, dirt and shrapnel into the
TOC
.
Though the attack lasted less than two minutes, it transformed the
TOC
from a neat, orderly command-and control node to a tangled heap of paper, tables, wire and assorted equipment. Moans from the wounded broke the stillness as the staff began to untangle themselves from the debris. Lieutenant Matthews pulled herself up and looked around. The canvas sides of the extensions were shredded and hanging limply from the support poles. The situation map was hanging at an angle from one of its supports. Field desks were overturned, their contents scattered about and mixed with the contents of tables and other desks. Other staff officers and NCOs were also picking themselves up. Some, however, were not.
Matthews began to help those around her by clearing off debris and giving them a hand. When she went to help her boss, Major Price, get up, she noticed the bright-red spot on his back. Bending down, she turned his face toward her. His eyes were shut tightly; his face was frozen ‘in pain. He let out a scream, then yelled not to move him.
Matthews stopped, unsure what to do. She called for the S-2
NCO
.
Master Sergeant Trent came over and, kneeling next to the major, asked how badly he was hit. Without opening his eyes, Price replied that he couldn’t move his legs or feel them. Trent looked at Price’s back.
Carefully he ripped the
BDU
shirt. A deep gash ran across the major’s lower back. Trent thought the spine might have been severed and said so.
Matthews, fighting back nausea, told them she would get some help. She stood and looked around. Others were beginning to move about and help one another. When she saw the brigade XO, she went over to where he stood. He seemed unaffected by the calamity that had befallen the
TOC
.
Standing in the middle of the remains of it, he was directing the brigade signal officer to sort out their communications status.
Matthews waited till he was done before she told him about Major Price.
The XO sent her out to find a medic while he walked over to where Price was.
Outside the
TOC
not much had changed. In the distance Matthews could see numerous shell holes where the antennas had been. Men from the signal platoon were already scurrying about, putting up spare antennas and checking cable connections. Matthews headed for the medical team assigned to the command post. As she approached its area, located on the far side of a small rise that separated the
TOC
from where the CP’s admin-support vehicles were, she heard the sound of tracked vehicles.
The ambulance, which was a tracked vehicle, she thought, was cranking up and coming to the
TOC
. She had almost reached there when the scream “BMPs!” from that direction told her she was wrong. Matthews froze for a moment and
-listened:- A burst of machine-gun fire, joined by the sound of small-caliber cannon confirmed her fears. The Soviets had somehow managed to penetrate into the brigade’s rear and were attacking the CP.
Her immediate instinct, to turn and run, was overridden by the urge to see exactly what was going on so that she could render an accurate report. Dropping down, she rapidly crawled up to the top of the rise and looked over.
To her front she saw six BMPs moving forward in a loose formation.
Trucks and personnel from the headquarters company were scattering about in an effort to escape them. The BMPs, given so many easy targets, slowed or stopped and fired wildly at whatever happened to be in their sights. They obviously did not know that there was a CP on the other side of the hill.
Having seen all she needed, Matthews ran back to the
TOC
. The XO had heard the firing and was already directing the remaining staff to throw what was really critical into the M-577 tracked command-post carriers and get ready to move. Matthews reported to him what she had seen. He thought about it for a moment, then told her to get the S-2’s M-577
track ready and moving.
She asked about Major Price, reminding the XO that they couldn’t move him.
He barked at her, telling her to get the M-577 out of there.
At the back of the S-2 track she saw Sergeant Trent and another
NCO
, who had managed to get Major Price strapped onto a long wooden table and were in the process of carrying him into the track. Matthews gave a hand as best she could as they eased the major down onto the floor.
Despite the fact that he was in a great deal of pain, he did not scream. He clawed at the edges of the table while the lieutenant and two sergeants bounced and bumped it against the side of the track. His face was contorted in pain.
His knuckles were white. But he did not scream.
Once they were in, Trent yelled to the driver to crank the track up and raise the back ramp. Matthews looked about and saw that the intelligence situation map was already loaded. She turned to Trent, told him to wait a moment and ran out of the track. The S-3 track was already pulling away, leaving the shredded extensions and support poles as well as field desks and unnecessary paper and books.
Matthews looked around what had been the S-2 area and grabbed a couple of books and binders. The sound of machine-gun fire grew closer.
Sergeant
Trent’s yells hastened her search. She looked down at the mass of papers scattered about the ground and decided that efforts to recover more would be useless.
She turned and ran up to the crew door located on the rear ramp, which was now up and locked. With a heave she dumped the books she held in her arms into the open door and then hopped in after them. Sergeant Trent grabbed her arm and pulled her in as he yelled to the driver to move out and follow the S-3 track. Matthews, lying on the floor of the track as it began to move and bounce away, saw through the open crew door a
BMP
come over the rise. It began to fire at them. With effort, Trent was finally able to close that door just before a burst of machine-gun rounds tapped on the outside of the ramp.
For a moment, all was silent except for the sound of the M-577’s engine, the grinding of its tracks and the heavy breathing of its occupants. The four people in the rear sat or lay where they were in the dark interior of the command-post carrier, drained by the close escape. None of them knew what was going on outside, let alone with the battle, a battle now obviously out of control and being lost.
Headquarters, 13th Corps, Bandar Abbas, Iran 1345 Hours, 8 July (1015
Hours, 8 July,
GMT
)
Despite his better judgment, Lieutenant General Weir had gone into the corps operations center when he got word that the Soviet attack had begun. Anxiously he watched the situation turn sour. Successive cups of coffee did nothing to calm him as the corps staff, already used to a string of disasters, thrashed about in a futile attempt to gain an understanding of what was happening. Weir, pacing and fuming, saw Air Force and Army air units thrown into the fray without coordination at widely
scattered targets and enemy concentrations, most of which were not an immediate threat to the 2nd Brigade. Orders to withdraw the entire brigade to Tarom were canceled and then put back into effect twice in the space of one hour.
The deputy corps commander, a major general, went from staff section to staff section in an effort to influence the situation. He alternated between yelling at the corps signal officer and the operations of cer whom he threatened to relieve of his duties unless he got a handle on the situation. Sometime during midmorning the deputy commander received word that the corps commander, who was at the forward corps command post at