Sword Point (27 page)

Fire enough rounds in a small area, and probability begins to take its toll. The overhead cover that protected the men of 1st Platoon did well to stop shell fragments but was sadly insufficient when a direct hit was scored. When the shell’s fuse setting was on super quick action, the round detonated as soon as it touched ground. In those cases, the force of the explosion rammed the overhead cover that was meant to protect the foxhole’s occupants down on top of them, crushing or burying them. When the shell’s fuse setting was on delayed action, the shell penetrated the overhead cover and detonated in the foxhole among the occupants. Death was instantaneous. All signs that the foxhole had once been occupied by humans were eradicated in a twinkling of an eye.

In this manner, 1st Platoon, B Company, 3rd of the 503rd Infantry, received its baptism of fire.

The speed of the attacking columns began to pick up as Neboatov’s company moved into the open. Neboatov elected to remain standing in the hatch of his
BMP
, to better control his company and maintain his orientation. It was dangerous but necessary; buttoned up, he was as good as blind. To his front he could see the regiment’s preparatory artillery bombardment going in. He was impressed. The entire forward slope of the far ridge was exploding.

That anything could live through that seemed unlikely. But there would be survivors, survivors that he would have to deal with.

The battalion was now moving forward at a steady pace of twenty-four kilometers an hour. The lead companies remained in platoon columns, BMPs following the tanks with mine plows and rollers attached to them.

Obstacles that had taken hours to emplace would be brushed aside with little effect.

Neboatov held the hatch cover firmly as his
BMP
rolled forward and hit bump after bump. With skill born of practice, his body swayed instinctively to maintain balance while he watched the advance of his company and the progress of those in the lead. The artillery to his front stopped. Neboatov looked at his watch: 2000 hours. The initial barrage was over. Time for the guns to shift to their next targets.

The stunned silence was welcome but frightening. For a moment Duncan sat and listened. Then, with his body pressed against the front wall, he slowly began to rise to peer over the lip of the foxhole. The dust hung in the air like fog. At first he could see nothing. Slowly, in the distance, he could make out the images of the advancing Soviet armored columns, moving forward as if on parade. As he watched, Duncan was conscious of the lieutenant next to him. At first neither said a word, they only watched. Then the lieutenant moved away from the front wall and began to climb out of the foxhole. In confusion, Duncan called out, “Where’re you going, Lieutenant?”

Without stopping or turning back, the lieutenant shouted, “
I-I
gotta get back to my position. Call for artillery.”

“Get back here in the hole. You’ll never make it. The bastards are only shifting fires.” Duncan turned and lunged to grab the lieutenant’s leg, but missed. The lieutenant climbed out of the hole and stood upright just as the first round of the next artillery barrage impacted.

The explosions hammered Duncan down to the bottom of his hole. He stayed there for a moment, then rose to see what had become of the lieutenant. The first sight that greeted him was a hand hanging over the lip of the foxhole. The fingers, forming a half-clenched fist, twitched and jerked randomly. Then Duncan saw the lieutenant, lying on his back. His right arm reached out toward Duncan and quivered. His face, turned up to the sky, also quivered in spasms. There seemed to be no wounds. Perhaps he was simply stunned. With a single boost, Duncan pulled himself out of the hole so that he could help his lieutenant.

In an instant, he knew he couldn’t. The entire left side of the lieutenant’s body was a bloody pulp. From his thigh to his face the lieutenant’s body was shattered and covered with bright-red blood that oozed from innumerable wounds. Bone and organs lay exposed in the dirt. The sight of the half man overcame Duncan’s last reserves of self-control. Involuntarily he vomited as he leaned over the remains of his lieutenant, adding his own vile fluids to the gore before him. Only the intervention of the radio operator who shared the foxhole with

Duncan and who pulled him back down saved him from sharing his lieutenant’s fate.

With the smokescreen in place and the battalion clear of the mine field, it was time to deploy into line and commence the final assault.

The order had gone out to remain mounted throughout the assault. With few exceptions, there had been no return antitank fire to speak of.

Artillery fire had been light and had missed the fast-moving columns.

Every time American artillery did fire, a volley of rockets from the multiple-rocket launchers screamed overhead in return. All was in order, all going forward as planned.

It was at this point that Neboatov became nervous. All seemed to be going too well. It was much too easy, like a summer maneuver. The Americans were waiting. They were intentionally holding their fire until the battalion was in a fire sack. Nervously he glanced from side to side for telltale signs of a trap. He saw none. The lead companies continued forward, disappearing into the smoke laid by the artillery and generated by the tanks in the lead. No orders or warning came over the radio. Nothing to indicate a change in the situation or a trap.

The battalion rolled forward at twenty-four kilometers per hour on a collision course with the Americans.

The second artillery barrage stopped. The rumble of the advancing Soviet vehicles could be felt before it was heard. Duncan stuck his head up over the lip of the foxhole and peered into the smoke and dust thrown up by impacting artillery. He could see nothing. But he could hear. The squeaking of tank sprockets and the rumble of their engines were joined by the higher-pitched whine of the BMPs, the chatter of machine guns, the pop and whoosh of antitank guided missiles being fired, and closein detonations.

The two companies in the forward positions were in contact with enemy forces.

Duncan reached down for the field phone and tried to ring up the platoon’s squad leaders. No one answered. No doubt the wires had been severed by the artillery. He turned to the radiotelephone operator and ordered him to contact the company commander. While the operator tried in vain to raise anyone on the company-command net, Duncan raised his head again to see what was going on.

To his left he saw one of his Dragon gunners prop up his missile launcher in preparation. The sound of advancing tanks and BMPs grew louder. So did the machine-gun fire. The bursts of M-16 and
SAW
rifle fire were overriden by the sound of unfamiliar small-arms fire. Russian PKs and AKs, probably.

Every now and then a tank main gun would fire or the sharp report of a 30mm. cannon would rip through the air. Still Duncan could see nothing.

Suddenly, it was there. Like an apparition, the T-80 tank burst forth, its main gun sweeping from side to side menacingly. It was searching for targets, Duncan’s men. The blast of a Dragon firing caught Duncan’s attention. He turned and saw that the Dragon gunner who was to his left had let fly his missile at a tank farther to the left.

Duncan watched the flight of the missile as it raced for the tank. But it never made it.

Instead, the missile looped up, hung in the air for a moment, then grounded itself in a great explosion. Duncan turned back to see what had caused that. The Dragon gunner was no longer visible. The launch tube was lying on its side, its bipod legs turned askew in the air. The gunner had been hit.

He was probably at the bottom of his foxhole, wounded or dead.

The image of a great dark form in the corner of his eye caught Duncan’s attention. He dropped to the bottom of his foxhole just as the track of a

T-80 tank crushed the overhead cover. Broken beams, dirt and sandbags rained down on Duncan and his radio operator. The earth shook and quivered as the BMPs following bypassed Duncan’s shattered position.

Desperately the two men struggled to free themselves.

Once clear of the rubble, Duncan stood up and looked to his left and right.

The line of tanks and BMPs that had overrun his platoon’s positions was clearly visible to their 194 rear as they continued to roll south. To the right, the second-echelon company was passing through where the 2nd

Platoon’s positions were. Down in the valley before him he could see more Soviet vehicles moving toward them.

In an instant, he knew there was nothing more they could do there.

Yelling to his radio operator to follow, Duncan grabbed his rifle and bounded out of the foxhole. The two men ran down the platoon’s line of foxholes, stopping at each one while Duncan reached in and shouted to those men who appeared to be alive to get their gear and follow him.

Some obeyed. A few didn’t. Many couldn’t. Those who could leaped out of their holes and followed their platoon sergeant at a dead run as they sought escape to the west, away from Rafsanjan and into the vast wasteland.

Neboatov didn’t realize that they had actually overrun the American positions until his company went rumbling past smashed 105mm. artillery pieces. He was shocked. He stood upright and turned to his rear, trying to see where the defensive positions had been. He couldn’t. It had all been too easy. Perhaps they hadn’t yet hit the main defensive belt. Perhaps the

Americans had withdrawn to better defensive positions during the day.

Bewildered, Neboatov returned his attention to the front and continued to follow the progress of the lead companies, watch the alignment of his platoons and listen for orders on the battalion radio net.

Nothing is easy in war. Mistakes are always paid for in casualties and troops are quick to sense any blunder made by their commanders.

-
DWIGHT
D.
EISENHOWER

Bandar Abbas 2055 Hours, 30 June (1725 Hours, 30 June,
GMT
) The offloading of the ships was surprisingly easy and fast despite the poor facilities and the damage to the port. Sufficient ramps and piers had been cleared to allow the
RO-RO
ships to come in and disgorge their contents with the speed and ease for which they were built. Had all the ships arrived, the whole movement from the States, with a few exceptions, would have been a complete success.

Not all the ships had made it. Four had been sunk en route and another badly damaged. Two of the ships lost had been carrying munitions and supplies. Two had equipment belonging to both the active-duty maneuver brigades of the 25th Armored Division and the division’s support command.

While the loss of any one of the ships was serious, the loss of four and the nature of the loss were crippling. Rather than being able to field two fully equipped combat brigades, the division now had only enough equipment and supplies to field one weak brigade with two maneuver battalions instead of the normal three.

The bulk of the division’s personnel had been held at Ras Banas, outside the war zone, until it could be determined which units would provide the people to man the limited amount of equipment that was available. It wasn’t until the evening of 28 June that the 3rd of the 4th Armor and the 1st of the 29th Infantry were alerted that they, along with the 5th of the 55th

Field Artillery, would deploy the next day to receive what equipment was available and form the 2nd Brigade. These units, once in Iran, would be equipped by pooling together the remaining equipment. Plans to use U.S.

Army equipment pre-positioned in Europe were being discussed in Washington and at
NATO
Headquarters in Brussels, but no decision had been made. Every new move to divert units or equipment tagged for
NATO

was met with alarm by the
NATO
Allies. Still, in time, some equipment from Europe would be made available. Until then those personnel not required and without equipment stayed in Egypt until the equipment was available or they were required as replacements.

The arrival of the ships in the early-morning hours of the thirtieth was greeted by the personnel of the three battalions, the brigade headquarters and support units. Those selected to drive the vehicles off the ships and out of the port area stood and watched the ships of the convoy enter the port and tie up to the piers. At first an effort was made to off load the ships in an orderly manner, one unit at a time. This, however, quickly broke down due to the manner in which the ships had been loaded and intermittent air raids that sent ships’ crews and military personnel alike scrambling for cover. Instead, the first driver who was handy and who thought he could operate the next vehicle in line was grabbed, put into the driver’s hatch or behind the wheel and directed to drive to the appropriate equipment holding areas around the port area. MPs at the exit leading from the dock were instructed to direct all tanks to one area, all artillery pieces to another, trucks to a third, Bradley fighting vehicles to a fourth, and anything that didn’t look like the others to 197 a fifth area called the Mox Nix area, from the German macht nichts, “it makes no difference.”

This caused great confusion as unit commanders and supply officers sorted through the holding areas in an effort to put their units together. Beyond the initial marshaling areas, a staging area for each unit had been designated. It was the task of the battalion commanders and their staffs to find the vehicles they needed, gather up drivers needed to move them to staging areas, and assemble their units. There full crews married up the vehicles, and the process of forming platoons, then companies and finally battalions was begun. This assembling of the equipment and personnel and formation of units, however, did not complete the preparations. The combat units still had to draw supplies, fuel and ammunition, commodities that were on other ships and that had to be retrieved and issued by supply units, once they had assembled and formed.

Major Scott Dixon sat in the driver’s seat of a hummer that Sergeant Nesbitt had procured earlier for him and watched the comings and goings along the dock areas. It was the scene at Beaumont, Texas, all over again, only in reverse. How much easier it would have been had the battalions been loaded as entire units. So simple. Then it occurred to him that he had not seen the S.S. Cape Fear, the ship that the equipment of the 3rd of the 4th had originally been loaded onto. For a second, his curiosity was piqued. He wondered whether the Cape Fear and its crew of obnoxious seamen had made it. The thought soon passed.