Casca 20: Soldier of Gideon (7 page)

"
Dunno," Moynihan said, "they sure never did ask me. But when ye make captain, you make me sergeant, okay?"

Casca turned and yelled to
Lufti: "You want your scabbard, you better go get it. We got work to do over yonder."

Casca looked across the dunes to the next line of Arab
defenses. Three hundred yards of soft, scorching sand, and then a line of concrete and steel fortifications protecting machine guns, artillery, mortars. Egyptian tanks were now starting to move out from behind these defenses. "A lot of steel coming this way," he muttered.

"Yeah," Moynihan grunted, "the
Gyppos have got two tanks for every one of ours."

"Well, at least there won't be any more mines now that we're inside their perimeter."

"Yeah" Moynihan chuckled "that makes it almost a picnic, don't it?"

Three sergeants, two of them Israeli regulars and one an American mercenary, approached and saluted.
A grinning Sergeant Russell arrived, too, and in a few quick words Casca learned that he now had five squads, about fifty fit men, under his command, and that his wounded and dead were already in the good hands of the highly coordinated Israeli medics and need be of no concern to him.

Casca turned to Tommy as
Lufti came running toward them triumphantly waving his retrieved scabbard above his head. "Well, Sergeant Moynihan, do we wait for them to come to us, or...?"

`We're on our way, Captain," Moynihan shouted and
signaled to his men, grouping them around an Israeli tank that was moving forward.

Ahead of them some shells burst, then behind them, rather closer, but off to the right, and then closer still and off to the left.

"Jazus," Moynihan cursed, "they're gettin' our range pretty damn fast and not enough bleedin' cover to hide a pissant."

"Yeah," Casca grunted, looking unhappily across the bare expanse of shallow dunes. He gestured to his men, waving them to disperse. "Let's keep away from this heap of scrap iron it's only going to draw fire."

They moved barely in time as a near miss jolted the tank's tracks off its cogs, and it lurched helplessly to a standstill, slewing sidewise and presenting its largest bulk to the Egyptian gunners.

Casca hurried his men forward. He had been through this scenario before as a Panzer man in the mutual suicide pact between the Russians and the Germans that had subsequently been dignified with the title World War II.

And he had perceived early on that armor offered little real protection, that no matter how thick the steel, it would always be much easier to produce weapons to pierce the armor or disable the machine than to build mobile fortresses that could withstand such shells.

His Israeli comrades in the tank, he knew, were dead men already, and his only present concern was to try to ensure that as few as possible of his own men died with them.

He saw three successive shots from the crippled tank strike the concrete fortress ahead as the doomed tank crew traded shells with the Egyptians. One scored a direct hit and bounced off the curve of the concrete roof of the bunker, another bounced off to the other side, and a third zeroed in dead center at the point where the front wall of the bunker met the ground, exploding harmlessly against the foundations.

He glanced back to see a wild shot from far away, intended for a quite different target, explode in the sand between the tracks of the tank, and he shuddered for an instant at the thought of the high powered explosive and shrapnel ripping upward through the thin underbelly of the tank. He could easily visualize the scene, great chunks of meat being plastered about the tank interior in a hot, red rain. As the two survivors scrambled out of the hatch another wild shot exploded in the air above the turret. He was too far away,
thank all the gods, to see the horror of their astonished faces as the concussive effect burst their eardrums, blew their eyes out of their sockets, and mashed their brains in their pans.

"Great," he muttered to himself. "Three direct hits for the Israelis no effect. Three near misses for the Arabs we lose a million dollars' worth of
armor and half a dozen young lives."

As he moved forward with his men, his mind was quietly
analyzing the situation. All bad.

In their obsessive determination to eliminate the superior Egyptian Air Force, the Israelis had spared no planes to provide air cover for this attack. A handful of supply and
medivac helicopters were the only things aloft.

And the Israeli
armor consisted of mainly armored personnel carriers, Bren gun carriers, and light tanks. All relatively fast, but very lightly armored, and undergunned for the task of demolishing the massive concrete Egyptian bunkers, which had been armored almost to impregnability. And now Casca groaned in near despair almost directly to his front, a fresh column of Egyptian armor was moving out from behind the enormous concrete emplacements. He saw some APCs, some Bren gun carriers, and a lot of tanks, some British built Centurions, and many Russian made Stalins, much more heavily armored and with much higher firepower than the light Israeli tanks.

Casca glanced back at the line of advancing Israeli
armor and infantry. "Well," he muttered, "we've made it inside their outer perimeter, but so what? If this keeps up, we're all going to die on this side of their inner defenses."

The Egyptian guns were starting to wreak havoc amongst the advancing Israelis. For the securely placed Arab artillery, the Israeli
armor offered easy targets. Almost anywhere that an Arab shell might land, it had a good chance of inflicting injury on armor or man. Any near miss would blast off a tank track, or burst the tires of an APC, leaving the vehicle immobilized, its light armor vulnerable to the firepower of the Egyptian howitzers while its small caliber cannon ineffectively peppered the Arab concrete.

The only bits of good news were that there were no Egyptian aircraft in view, and that, as the Arab artillery was so
effectively decimating Israeli armor and infantry, little attention was being paid to his few foot soldiers who were now getting close to the bunkers.

Casca and his men were now well ahead of the advancing Israeli tanks, but were so insignificant amongst the rolling dunes that they were not drawing fire, not even from the now advancing Egyptian armor, which was training its guns on the opposing Israeli tanks.

Casca suddenly realized that the men in the
armored vehicles had a very limited perception of the field of action. For the brief moment that they were atop a dune, they could see, perhaps, two or three dunes ahead. But most of the time their view was limited to the dune trough that they were crossing at the time.

A hundred yards away to the left,
a stream of Egyptian armor, accompanied by infantry, spilled out from behind the concrete. Heavy Stalin tanks were in the lead, then came lighter armor, followed by APCs, and, in the rear, the commanding officer in a Bren gun carrier, all moving at the slow pace of the lead tanks, most of the infantry gathered about the middle of the column.

The genie of desperation fired Casca's brain, and, without further thought, he shouted to his men and turned to run along the dune trough across the Egyptian front toward the
armored column.

The sergeants could not see the point in Casca's move, but they followed anyway. For one thing, he was their officer. For another, as Moynihan muttered to
himself, what the hell else was there to do? If they kept moving forward, they would start drawing fire from the fortress, and their assault rifles were useless against the concrete ramparts that they were approaching.

Thirty yards from the slowly rolling BGC Casca opened fire, and his men followed suit.

The Egyptian crew swung from their front to respond. Designed in 1941, and improved every year since, the .303 caliber Bren gun on its super-sophisticated tripod was probably the most accurate submachine gun in the world. It scarcely bucked, did not ride up and away, but could be held on target with as little effort as a rifle.

Which was just what Casca was counting on.

The first several rounds from the Bren naturally went astray, but the gunner quickly corrected his aim and soon took out one of Casca's Israelis. As his finger tightened on the trigger, bullet after bullet slammed through the unlucky soldier's falling body, and then successive rounds hammered through the empty space where he had been standing.

Casca fired his Uzi from the hip, concentrating its scattered fire on the Bren crew, and giving thanks that the weaponry was not reversed.

The few Arab soldiers on foot who had lagged this far back were hopelessly outnumbered by Casca's men, and all fell quickly to the sands.

The light
armor shields of the gun carrier gave its crew something to hide behind, and they made that mistake, only now and then braving the rain of lead from the Uzis to fire at the Israelis; and then only daring short, hopeful bursts before seeking cover again.

Meanwhile, the Bren gunner kept his weapon on full automatic, the rapid fire weapon squandering his ammunition both when he missed and when he hit, using the whole magazine to accomplish the three or four deaths he could have achieved with a few rounds.

In the instant that the Egyptian attempted the magazine change, Casca and his men were alongside the vehicle, firing at point blank range.

Atef
Lufti again discarded his precious silver scabbard. He wielded the shotel in a great overhand arc, reaching over the side armor and beyond the man nearest to him, to take the driver through the chest, the point of the steeply curved scimitar entering through the man's heart to emerge through his back in the region of his kidneys.

The officer next to the driver fired his pistol in all haste, but the side
armor shield was between him and Lufti. The bullet ricocheted from the steel, the flash and the explosion at such immediate range disconcerting him just long enough for Atef to recover his shotel. The razor sharp outer edge effortlessly sliced open the officer's throat as Atef withdrew it backhand from the driver's chest. And he continued the round arm sweep to hack open the throat of one of the men by the Bren gun in the center of the vehicle.

Casca,
Glennon, and a number of others were clambering over the armored tailgate, shooting at point blank range, clubbing, stabbing, punching, and kicking as they eliminated the crew and took over the vehicle.

Billy
Glennon booted the dying driver from his seat, giving thanks that his body had protected the controls and wiring from all the flying lead.

He flopped happily into the seat and was wrenching the wheel around to swerve away from the Egyptian line when Casca shouted: "Let's take these in front before we leave."

At the trigger of the Bren, Moynihan was ready to comply. He switched the weapon to semiautomatic and fired rapidly into the backs of the men in the APC ahead. Elevating the barrel slightly, he wreaked similar butchery on those in the APC climbing the farther face of the dune. With the accompanying fire from half a dozen Uzis, the entire personnel of both APCs was accounted for.

Casca tapped
Glennon on the shoulder and motioned him to back up.

Three vehicles ahead, another APC was dipping down into the next dune trough, its crew not even dimly aware of what had happened to their following comrades. Nor, amid all the mayhem, had they any real idea of where the fire was coming from. Nor had the Arab defenders in the bunkers realized that their two APCs had been knocked out by one of their own BGCs. Their attention, along with their gun sights, was concentrated on the distant broad line of advancing Israeli attackers.

The reversing BGC raced backward through the opening in the concrete ramparts, Billy Glennon whooping in delight as one foot gunned the motor, his body twisted around to face the direction they were heading, one hand behind him effortlessly steering as if at the helm of a boat.

If the nearby Egyptians thought about it at all, they only saw that two of their APCs had been wiped out, and that the command vehicle was retreating to safety. Their first inkling that this was not the
case came as the Bren opened up on their backs, and by then it made no difference what they thought.

Before the last of the surprised Arabs fell, Billy
Glennon skidded to a halt and Atef and the others were tumbling into the bunkers to drag the dying bodies away from the guns. Then Glennon was changing into forward gear again, Moynihan at the Bren, half a dozen others with Uzis wreaking similar havoc upon the bunker on the other side of the opening while Wardi Nathan led the rest of Casca's platoon in through the undefended gap in the Egyptian line. Harry Russell got behind an Arab cannon and cranked it down until he had brought the sights from the distant Israeli attack force to the much closer Egyptian defenders moving out to meet the advancing Jews.

"Somebody
load for me," he shouted, and two Israelis leaped to comply.

His first few shots fell short, but then he came close enough to APC for the concussive effect of the bursting shell to blow out the tires.

"That's fancy cannon shooting for an infantryman," Casca said in some surprise.

Harry ignored the wobbling wreck as he brought up the sights to aim at the next vehicle, a light tank.

"I got me start in artillery," he said, and three or four shots later he came close enough to displace a track and the tank ground to a halt.

His sights searched greedily for another tank, and this time he quickly scored a hit, the
armor piercing shell penetrating the tank's turret wall, sending shards of the hot, torn steel flying about inside the confines of the cabin, tearing through bodies, severing limbs, smashing skulls.

The gun sights roved on along the line, Casca motioning to him to try for the farthest target, the lead Egyptian tank. Harry readily complied with Casca's order, moving up the gun barrel along the line of Egyptian tanks, but continuing his fire. Each successive shot landed somewhere along the line of enemy
armor, every so often one of them taking effect on either the machines or the accompanying infantry.

Then the heavy, British built Centurion was in his sights, and he was bouncing round after round off its thick
armored hide.

But even the thickest steel is no match for high explosive, and soon the Egyptian column was fanning out to avoid the smoking wreck of the Centurion.

Now Wardi Nathan and Atef Lufti had a recoilless rifle firing from the adjacent bunker, and the two guns between them took heavy toll of the Egyptian armored column.

Billy
Glennon stationed the Bren gun carrier to the rear of the two conquered bunkers, and the men on board were able to quickly wipe out the handful of Egyptians who attempted to rush the bunkers when they realized what had taken place. Each bunker was equipped with a number of machine guns, and these, too, were now turned to their rear as more and more Arab troops tried to take back the captured positions. But the Egyptians had left few infantry in reserve behind the gun emplacements, and these few were spread thinly all along the line.

The Israeli troops had been ordered always to concentrate their fire on officers and NCOs, and as each charge on the bunkers failed, the retreating rabble of
unblooded young boys served to spread confusion and terror amongst the succeeding groups of Arab youth.

Some of the younger officers, and even some of the non
-coms, caught the contagion of fear, and the two bunkers were soon secure, the Egyptians only firing at them from a small distance from the protection of other bunkers, or from behind the next dune line.

Out in the general battlefield, the two lines of
armor had now met, and men and machines were milling about in a confusion of explosions, smoke, screams, and gunfire. The confusion grew as Egyptian tanks turned to chase Israeli armor that had broken through their lines, and some of the Israeli tanks swerved back to protect the rear of their main attacking force.

Harry Russell shook his head to Casca as he stopped firing his cannon. "Can't tell who I might hit," he shouted.

Casca nodded. The mix up of camouflaged armor was all the greater, because both sides were using many vehicles of the same make. British, French, Russian, U.S. and Czech armor were milling about in a hideous cocktail of noise and death

"Spike it," Casca shouted, and Russell quickly destroyed the cannon's firing mechanism.

Casca shouted to where Moynihan's crew were keeping the Arab infantry busy from within the Bren carrier's protective armor.

Glennon
put down his Uzi and jumped into the driver's seat, backing to the edge of the bunker. Every man that the vehicle could carry clambered aboard and Billy gunned the car out into the dunes behind the bunkers, then brought it back in a tight curve aimed at the rear of the nearest bunker still held by the Egyptians.

At the same time,
Wardi Nathan's men were pouring machine gun fire into the bunker from their position.

Outnumbered and under attack from two directions, the hapless Egyptians were offered the chance to die neither bravely nor well, but only quickly.

If all the reserve Arab infantry had just then rushed the captured bunkers, they might well have dislodged the Israelis. But they lacked both the will and the leadership, and as Casca repeated the tactic on yet another bunker even this opportunity evaporated.

An Israeli officer produced a flag and stood atop the bunker waving it.

"Come down, you stupid fool," Casca shouted at him, but the young Sabra shook his head and died with a delighted grin on his face as he was almost cut in two by Egyptian gunfire.

But the blue and white bars and the Star of David had been seen, and the Israeli troops out in the field made a concerted rush for the occupied part of the Arab
defenses. They ran into heavy fire from Egyptian machine gunners and a huge number died, but many more made it into the captured bunkers, and the flag was quickly raised again, this time on a rifle wedged in a gun slot.

The breach in the Egyptian line widened as bunker after bunker was overrun. And suddenly the Egyptian
defense was dissolving in the same sort of leaderless, mindless panic that had happened at Khan Yunis.

The Red Colonel's
armored car came racing through the breach. It didn't pause, but the colonel waved his bright red battle helmet and shouted: "Well done,
Rav Seren
. You're a major now. Keep it up. Get your men watered and fed. I've got a company for you to command." He waved his red helmet again and clapped it back on his blond head. "On to Al 'Arish." The armored car was racing away along the line.

Water.

Casca realized that he had emptied his canteen in a few greedy gulps. He could sure use some water. As the thought struck him he heard a delighted yelp from Moynihan.

"Oh boy, here comes the water wagon!" And he saw several big tanker trucks approaching so close to the action that they were passing some of the fleeing Arab soldiers.