The regular crew of the tank was good but a real diverse lot. “From where he stood, Dixon could see the back of the gunner, a Sergeant Maxfield.
Maxfield had his eye glued to the gunner’s primary sight, scanning his assigned sector. With six years on active duty, he was due for promotion to staff sergeant and a tank of his own. The loader, a Specialist Four Wilard, was up in his hatch and facing to the rear, covering his assigned sector.
A farm boy from Idaho, Wilard was far too tall for tanks. When he stood erect on the turret floor, his whole head stuck out of the loader’s hatch.
During the road march he had a hell of a time staying alert. Only when Dixon told him that they were approaching the line of departure did Wilard’s vigilance increase.
The driver was a Private First Class Casper, a young black kid from New York
City. Dixon, born and raised in Virginia, had a hell of a time understanding him when he talked. But the man could drive, and that, Dixon decided, was all that mattered.
As they moved forward, Dixon listened to the radio and watched the high ground to the north and the south. So far, they had hit nothing, not even a screen line. That the Soviets’ flank was so open seemed incredible. The battalion commander and Dixon had cautioned the company commanders to watch out for Soviet fire sacks. Whole battalions, blundering forward blind and unwary, could be swallowed up in a matter of minutes by a wellplanned and -executed Soviet defense.
The terrain that 3rd of the 4th Armor was now moving into was made for such a defense. Dixon prayed that the deception being run by the 17th Airborne was working. If not, this would be the shortest counteroffensive in history.
Ten Kilometers South of Saadatabad, Iran 0700 Hours, 9 July (0330
Hours, 9 July,
GMT
)
The young engineer captain from Virginia stood on the edge of the antitank ditch and watched his last operational D-7 bulldozer as it scraped another two inches of dirt from the bottom. Two other dozers, broken down and idle due to a lack of spare parts, were being loaded onto flatbed trucks. Behind him a crew of engineers were placing round wooden blocks on the north lip of the antitank ditch, in the same pattern used in laying a surface mine field.
The engineers, along with hundreds of other engineers, had been busy all night creating defensive positions and obstacles that would never be used.
The men, used to hard work and doing things that ranged from not so smart to downright dumb, could not understand what in hell they were doing. First the captain told them that the Russians were charging down the road at full speed and the world was coming to an end; every man, he said, needed to do his job or the foothold held by the 13th Corps would fail.
Then he turned around and ordered them to plant a dummy mine field and dig ditches where there were no units. As hard as he tried, the captain could not make his men understand the importance of what they were doing.
Watching his men, he decided that it didn’t really matter what they thought. They had done the best they could, given the time and resources available. The Russians would either believe them or not. It was no longer in their hands.
Headquarters, 28th
CAA
, Aliabad, Iran 0730 Hours, 9 July (0400 Hours, 9
July,
GMT
)
The situation that the 28th Combined Arms Army faced was deplorable and at the same time pregnant with possibilities. The lack of fuel had brought the attack by both divisions to a screeching halt. Only enough fuel for the recon elements had been scraped up. Most of that had been obtained by siphoning fuel from vehicles belonging to the army’s second-echelon division. On orders from Colonel Sulvina, in the name of the army commander, the recon continued to push forward, maintaining contact, gathering information and searching out American weak points.
In all three tasks, they were successful. The information they provided confirmed the intelligence officer’s projection.
Light-infantry forces, in conjunction with massive close air support, were conducting a delaying action south toward Saadatabad. Agents and an occasional recon flight indicated a great deal of activity south of Saadatabad by engineer units.
Fuel, so simple a commodity, normally so plentiful, had become the key to success or failure. How ironic, Sulvina had thought. Here we are in the middle of a region that contains most of the world’s oil reserves, and we run out of fuel. History, no doubt, will laugh if we fail here. No one, however, was laughing that morning in the 28th
CAA
.
Everyone’s full attention and energies were 266 geared to obtaining the fuel and pushing it forward.
The Red Air Force, depleted by the previous day’s efforts, was being pressed by Front Headquarters to clear the skies and provide cover to transport aircraft flying fuel to makeshift airstrips or dropping it by parachute. Helicopters, loaded to maximum capacity, carried fuel drums right up to the front-line units. Despite continuous interference by and heavy losses to
American fighters, fuel was being delivered. Anything that could carry fuel was being used.
Not all units were being resupplied. Priority went to the lead divisions.
On the basis of the intelligence picture being painted for him by the army’s second officer, the army commander was gambling that two divisions would be sufficient to blow through the Americans’ final positions and reach the Strait of Hormuz. All other units had to manage with what they had. As a result of such draconian measures, fuel was beginning to reach the forward combat elements in sufficient quantities. By 0900 the lead regiments would be refueled and ready to move. The logistics officer promised that both first-echelon divisions would be refueled and on the move by noon, provided no calamity befell the army. To ensure synchronization of effort and to leave some time for errors, orders had gone out to the lead divisions to reinitiate the attack commencing at 1000 hours with those units that were then refueled. Saadatabad was designated as the army’s intermediate objective, with the final objective of the day being Qotbabad. Plans for a joint airborne and ground attack against Bandar Abbas on the eleventh of July were being worked out.
Both the commander of the 28th
CAA
and Sulvina were exhausted. Neither had slept for more than an hour since the beginning of the attack, on the eighth. Satisfied that all was being done and that the situation would soon be in hand, they walked out of the command post for a break.
Endless hours in an operations center with staff officers rushing about, radios blaring, phones ringing, and half a dozen conversations being conducted at the same time can best be likened to living in a pressure cooker. Stress and lack of sleep destroy a person’s ability to think clearly or work effectively. An occasional break, just a simple walk outside, is required every so often in order to maintain sanity and effectiveness. Outside, the two officers stood fifty meters from the command post, not far from anSA-8 surface-to-air antiaircraft-missile battery. Neither said anything. They smoked their cigarettes and let their minds go blank as they watched a convoy of fuel trucks move south along the highway. Both knew that was a good sign.
Five Kilometers East of Aliabad, Iran 0730 Hours, 9 July (0400 Hours, 9
July,
GMT
)
From his perch, Capell watched a convoy moving south along the main road.
With his binoculars he could see that many were fuel trucks and that the escort was light, very light. Before leaving his observation point and returning to his Bradley, he made one more sweep of the area.
Though he didn’t expect to see any, he searched for telltale signs of combat units or defenses. The only thing that came close was what appeared to be an air-defense unit equipped with missiles. They could do nothing to his scouts.
Satisfied, he slithered down off the rock pile he was on and trotted back to his Bradley, where he switched his radio to the battalion-command frequency and called the S-3. “Bravo Four-five, this is Mike Eight-eight.
Spot report. Over.”
“Mike Eight-eight, this is Bravo Four-five. Send it. Over.”
With the aid of a preprinted form in which he had filled in the blanks,
Capell began to send his report. “This is Mike Eight-eight. Two zero trucks with three BRDMs escorting moving south along the highway at grid four six five, nine eight five, and one air-defense unit located at three nine six, nine eight zero, time now. Request permission to engage. Over.”
After acknowledging, Dixon plotted the location on his map and considered
Capell’s request. “Mike Eight-eight, 268 this is Bravo Four-five. Do you see any other enemy units or activity? Over.”
Capell replied in the negative. Dixon called the battalion commander, who had been monitoring the transmissions. Dixon recommended that the scouts lead off the attack by hitting the convoy. The battalion commander concurred. They had gone as far as they could expect to go without being detected. It was time to go in and begin hacking away at the Russians.
Capell, tired of sneaking about and reporting, was looking forward to doing some serious fighting. He did not need to be told twice.
With the six Bradleys of his scout platoon on line, concealed behind a small hill crest, Capell prepared to attack. He stood high in the turret of his vehicle, waved his arm over his head and then dropped it, pointing in the direction of the convoy of fuel trucks. Yelling over his intercom, he ordered his driver, “Kick it in the ass!” The other track commanders in the platoon did likewise. Together, the six Bradleys lurched forward and began their attack.
The platoon crested the rise that had concealed them. Dead ahead, at a range of three kilometers, was the convoy. As the Bradleys began to accelerate, track commanders marked their targets and issued fire commands.
“Gunner-
HEAT
. Moving truck.”
With eyes glued to their sights and hands on their controls, the platoon’s gunners searched for their targets and yelled out,
“Identified!” when the first truck they saw was in their sight.
Automatically the track commanders let go of their controls and let the gunners prepare to do their thing.
Rapidly the platoon closed. Two kilometers. Drivers in the convoy and men at the SA-8 battery, their attention drawn by the huge clouds of dust to the east, watched the six tracked vehicles racing at them and wondered what they were doing. Sulvina and his commander also watched.
Sulvina was angry that a
BMP
company commander would allow such a flagrant waste of fuel. He was determined to find out who their commander was and personally rip his rank off him.
Fifteen hundred meters. Two Bradleys strained to keep up, while another slowed to maintain alignment. Capeli stood upright in his turret. With goggles down and olivedrab bandana covering his mouth and nose, he held on and swayed with the rocking of the Bradley as it rolled forward. He could almost feel adrenaline pumping into his system. With the sun to his back and their field of fire clear, he keyed the platoon radio net and yelled,
“Fire!”
The tracked vehicles charging from the east began to fire. In bewilderment and horror the Soviets at the SA-8 battery and Sulvina saw half a dozen fuel trucks explode. The crews of the BMPs must be insane-they were actually firing on their own trucks. Even when one of the officers from the
SA-8 battery, using his sight, yelled that they were Bradleys, Sulvina still could not move. His commander shared his disbelief, turning to Sulvina and yelling, “How can this be? Where did they come from?”
The truck drivers either panicked, stopping their trucks and bailing out, or turned away from the attacking Bradleys in an effort to escape.
There was no escape however, as the Bradleys raced forward and began to fire up the fuel trucks with their machine guns as well as the 25mm.
cannon. Capell turned the killing over to his gunner. Still standing upright in his open hatch, he scanned the area, keeping track of his platoon and searching for targets. Once the fuel trucks were disposed of, he intended to turn on the antiaircraft battery. Until then, he called for the battalion mortar platoon to fire on them.
The reality of the situation finally hit home when large caliber mortar rounds began to impact on the SA-8 battery. Crewmen, scurrying about in an effort to prepare their vehicles for movement, were cut down or ripped apart by the mortar shells. Sulvina turned away and raced for the command post. As he drew near, he yelled to several drivers to crank up the commander’s and his armored vehicles. He ran into the command center, pushing back young staff officers who were trying to go out to see what was happening.
Once inside, he yelled, “Ground attack. Grab critical items only and get to your vehicles. Rally at the 127th division’s command post.
Move.”
Not waiting for a response, he grabbed his map, a briefcase with orders and papers, and ran out to his waiting vehicle. The commander’s
BTR
was already moving off to the west. Sulvina waited only a few seconds in his own
BTR
for several staff officers to pile in before he ordered his driver to follow the commander’s carrier.
The movement of two BTRs and several trucks heading west caught Capell’s attention. He watched for a moment, then realized that he was probably looking at a command post of some sort. What a chance. What a fabulous chance. But there was nothing he could do. His platoon had driven among the burning trucks in pursuit of the survivors, and the smoke and confusion now frustrated his efforts to regain control. He called desperately over the radio for all tracks to rally on him and ordered his driver to stop.
Once stationary, he told his gunner to fire
TOWS
at the escaping BTRs before they disappeared. Capell watched as the
TOW
launcher slowly rose into the firing position, then locked. He looked back, to see that the first
BTR
had already disappeared. He ordered the gunner to aim at the second
BTR
. The gunner did so, but called out that he did not have a ready-to-fire light. Capell dropped down and looked. The safety was still on. He yelled to the gunner to switch his safety off.