We will be nothing more than steel pillboxes dotting the road and easy prey for attack aircraft or a counterattack. We must stop now and laager here into a defensive position until fuel arrives. We should go forward only when we can do so with all the tanks and with some measure of assurance that we will not run out of fuel in the middle of a battle.”
“I cannot halt the attack. I do not have the authority to do that,”
the regimental commander said.
The battalion commander shot back, slightly agitated now, “Comrade, either we stop the attack now, while we are still together and have some fuel to maneuver with, or we wait until the lack of fuel stops us when we are not.
Your only choice, Comrade Colonel, is whether you want the regiment to be together and have some fighting capability or whether you want it to be scattered to the four winds. The lack of fuel has already stopped us.”
With a sigh, the regimental commander acknowledged that the other was right. Before he returned to his command vehicle, he ordered the battalion commander to assume a defensive posture to the west. The battalion immediately behind would swing to the east and do likewise.
With the regimental commander gone, Vorishnov turned to his battalion commander and asked the question that neither of them had the answer for:
“Now what?”
Northeast of Saadatabad, Iran 0355 Hours, 9 July (0025 Hours, 9 July,
GMT
)
The
AWACS
controller had been tracking a single-aircraft plot for over fifteen minutes, coming from the northeast. At first he thought very little of it. The plane was flying relatively slowly and very low.
Then it dawned upon him that it was a recon flight. He informed the commander and immediately began to search the area for fighters providing high cover.
There was none. Both he and the commander thought that odd. Sending in recon without cover was not a normal practice. A single one without air cover was as good as dead. Satisfied that all was as it appeared, the commander ordered the alert fighters from Bandar Abbas to scramble and intercept. The order of the day was to keep the Soviets from getting any air recon through.
The Army was maneuvering about, doing something really weird, and didn’t want the Russians to catch on before they were ready.
The order to scramble caught Martain dozing. The entire squadron was dead on its ass after yesterday. Omaha Flight alone had gone up eight times, four of them in the ground-attack role, three times to provide cover for their own air-recon flights and once to squash a Russian recon flight. The men and the machines of the squadron were reaching their limits. Martain had once thought he would never reach the point where he would hate flying.
He had been wrong. After yesterday, he was sick of it.
Mechanically, he and his wingman did their preflight. Though the ground crew tried, they too dragged as they did their thing to get the two F-15s airborne. Because of exhaustion, the whole procedure took far longer than normal. When the F-15s were finally up and Martain checked in with the
AWACS
controller, the controller sneered, “Good morning. Hated to wake you guys up so early.”
Martain was livid. “Cut the crap, clown, and give me a vector.”
The commander on the
AWACS
, monitoring the transmission, got on both of them and ordered them to restrict 258 transmissions to proper radio procedures. Martain was about to tell him to fuck off, too, but decided against that. No need to piss off a full-bird colonel that early in the morning.
Following the instructions from the controller, Omaha Flight closed on the boggy. Once they were in the area, Martain’s wizzo switched on the radar and began to search for their target. They had no trouble finding it, for the boggy continued on a straight-line course, flying low and slow. While his wingman covered him, Martain went down after the boggy. As he tracked it, the wizzo called out, “Hey, Ed, this guy’s a real zombie. He just keeps flying low and dumb. Let’s play with him for a while.”
Martain thought about it but decided against it. “Screw that, Frank.
This is too easy. Let’s just bounce this clown and get back. No doubt today is going to be a real zoo, just like yesterday.”
The wizzo agreed and gave Martain the final information he needed for the setup. Martain took over, aligned his sights. When he heard the tone telling him he had missile lock, he held his fire for a moment.
The boggy continued to fly straight and low, making no attempt to evade. “Jesus,
Frank. That guy must be asleep. Or he’s in a real hurry to meet his maker.”
“Well, Ed, if that’s so, go ahead, make his day.”
Without further hesitation, Martain launched a shortrange Sidewinder air-to-air missile. Both he and the wizzo tracked it until it hit. In the predawn darkness, there was a slight explosion ahead and below them. Immediately after that, the plot disappeared, indicating that Martain had made his tenth confirmed kill.
Men willingly believe what they want to.
-
JULIUS
CAESAR
Saadatabad, Iran 0440 Hours, 9 July (0110 Hours, 9 July,
GMT
) When the orders to attack were received by the 2nd Brigade, the brigade staff had no doubt that the staff of the 13th Corps was hallucinating.
The orders came by courier shortly before 1900 hours at a brigade CP
that was shadow of its former self. Most of the wheeled vehicles were still unaccounted for or lost. The signal platoon, unable to break down its multichannel equipment in time, lost much of it. The
TOC
itself, while it had not lost any of its M-577 command-post tracks, had little of its equipment left. Personnel losses were equally staggering. Many of the brigade staff who had not been on duty at the time of the attack were either dead, wounded or missing.
Worse than the physical losses, bad as they were, was the psychological damage. The survivors suddenly found themselves face to face with the reality of war. “Battle” was no longer a paper drill of moving little markers about on a map or writing orders. The idea that their primary task was the cool analytical process of thinking about and debating tactics had been smashed. They had seen the face of war. It was the shattered remains of a body left in the dirt.
It was
Major Price, a first-class runner and all round jock, reduced to a helpless cripple with a severed spine. It was the smell of fear and the look of panic in the eyes of people with whom they had worked for so long. And, worse, it was the realization that only the dead had seen an end to the suffering and horror.
This was the brigade staff-stunned by their introduction to combat, left with three M-577 command-post tracks, operating with an ad hoc communications lash-up which was less than adequate-that received the order to attack. Their reactions, though slow at first, were surprisingly positive. The senior officers and NCOs led by example and deed. “You’re a soldier, start acting like one” was heard time and again. Old habits and training prevailed as the staff began to function. The brigade commander, along with the brigade S-3 and the assistant S-2, Amanda Matthews, analyzed the mission and developed several courses of action based on the enemy situation as they knew it.
The status of subordinate units, their locations and their needs were reported and fed to the command group as the plan evolved. Orders went out to the units, instructing them to break contact with the enemy and move to tactical assembly areas. Combat-support elements were drawn into the plan and began to. position themselves. Coordination to refuel and rearm the combat elements was effected.
The corps commander arrived shortly before midnight for the express purpose of ensuring that the brigade fully understood his intent and their role in the counteroffensive. With the brigade commander and his staff, Lieutenant
General Weir reviewed the entire operation: The main Soviet offensive continued south toward Saadatabad with two divisions abreast, one division moving along the road and a second division to the west. The third Soviet division, heavily attrited by its attack and the combined efforts of the
Air Force and attack helicopters, was now following the two lead divisions.
Despite the fact that all the Soviet divisions were less than full strength and were experiencing difficulties with resupply, they were still more than capable of overpowering any defense the corps could create. There simply was not enough ground-combat power available to stop the Soviets. Therefore, Weir stated with a gleam in his eye, “Since we cannot hold ‘em, we must attack.”
The reserve brigade from the 17th Airborne Division had the task of delaying the Soviet forces moving south against Saadatabad. With priority on all close air support from the Air Force until the 2nd Brigade actually made contact, they would act as a matador’s cape being waved in front of bull. Their job was to hold the bull’s attention and keep it in check, or at least controlled. In addition to providing close air support to the reserve airborne brigade’s delay-and-deception role, the Air Force had the task of gaining air superiority and keeping Soviet tactical air recon in check. Nothing could be done to counter the Soviet surveillance satellites.
The best anyone could do was hope that the operation would develop too rapidly for the strategic-intelligence people in the Soviet Union to figure out what they were seeing and provide that information down through the chain to the 28th Combined Arms Army.
In this operation the 2nd Brigade would be the matador’s sword. While the
Soviets pushed south, the 2nd Brigade, reinforced and supported by all Army aviation as well as Navy and Marine air, would make an end run and attack the Soviets in the rear. Like a rapier, they would drive for the heart.
Moving east from Saadatabad along an axis running through Soltanabad to
Dasht-a Bar to Aliabad, the 2nd Brigade would cut the Soviets’ main supply route and tear up its rear areas. With air superiority all but guaranteed-thanks to the high cost in aircraft that resulted from the Soviets’ late-afternoon all-out effort to save the 127th Tank Regiment-most of the operation could be conducted under clear skies and against a half-blind enemy.
Weir continuously stressed how critical the situation was. If they failed, there would be no fall-back positions, no second chance. If they succeeded, maybe they could hold on till the rest of 10th Corps arrived. Everything was being risked on a winner-take-all proposition.
“To 262 succeed,” he said, “this operation calls for a little deception, some fast maneuvering and ruthless execution.” He told the brigade commander that once the 2nd Brigade was in the Soviets’ rear, they were to avoid enemy strong points but rip up support facilities and units with “the finesse of a chain-saw murderer.”
Not all was gloom and doom. Both of the maneuver battalions had suffered little in the fighting on the eighth. Both would begin the operation with over 90 percent of their assigned personnel and equipment available. The brigade’s third tank battalion, the 4th Battalion of the 4th Armor, was assembling just north of Bandar Abbas.
Sufficient pressure had finally been brought to bear on those reluctant to draw from the
NATO
war stocks. Tanks drawn from storage sites in Germany and Holland were being flown in by C-5 transports, one at a time. That operation, Weir explained, was costly in human terms as well as in resources. Two of the overworked C-5s, long overdue for routine maintenance, had already gone down with a loss of crew and cargo. The losses, however, were considered acceptable. Although the 4th of the 4th would be unable to participate in the initial part of the operation that was about to commence, it would be ready for any follow-on missions.
By the time Weir left, initial reports from the maneuver battalions were coming in. No resistance had been encountered as units hit their checkpoints on time and intact. The brigade staff, put back on track by the brigade XO, was functioning. Though communications were still shaky and stretched to the limit, they worked. The battle, planned and coordinated by
Corps, orchestrated and controlled by Brigade, was now in the hands of the warriors.
Five Kilometers North of Dasht-a Bar, Iran 0500 Hours, 9 July (0130
Hours, 9 July,
GMT
)
The scout platoon, well forward and spread out like a great net, crossed the line of departure. They were the forward screen, sent in advance to find and fix the enemy. Behind them, at a distance of two kilometers, the battalion’s lead companies, Alpha and Bravo, were in the process of deploying; they would be followed by Charlie and Delta. The 3rd of the 4th Armor would be in a box formation when all companies had completed their deployment. In this formation the battalion presented a formidable front as well as good all-round protection.
In the early-morning light Major Dixon watched the companies as they began to spread out. From his vantage point on an M-1 tank behind Alpha Company, he could see three of the four units. Only Delta was hidden from his view by dust and terrain. The battalion commander, now riding in the Bradley that had belonged to Dixon, was between Bravo and Delta Companies. In a surprising move, the battalion commander had asked Dixon whether he would mind giving up his Bradley. An old cavalryman, he did not like operating from the tank. Dixon, with the
BMP
incident still fresh in his mind, gladly consented to the swap.
When the main body came up to and crossed the line of departure, Dixon was at ease. With sixty-one tons of tank wrapped around him, and a 105mm gun, he felt invincible. He stood on the commander’s platform, his upper torso out of the tank, hands grasping the cupola, body swaying with the motion of the tank. The M-2 .50caliber machine gun was turned out to the right in order to give him an unobstructed view.
He was standing far too high in the hatch, but didn’t care. He needed to see what was going on. As he explained to his assistant on many occasions, “Ya gotta see what’s happening in order to exercise command and control.”