Sword Point (55 page)

Duncan watched from his position as the Russians began to stand and throw down their weapons. He ordered the 1st Squad to gather the prisoners while the 2nd Squad swept the area and checked the wounded and the dead. He stayed with the 3rd Squad, covering the other two. As he did so, the actions of one of the Russians caught his attention. He watched as the man, obviously an officer, went over to a wounded man on a stretcher. The

Russian bent, then knelt. For a moment, Duncan thought he was trying to help the man.

He was about to direct some men to help the Russian when he noticed a sudden glint of sunlight from a piece of metal the Russian pulled from his boot. The Russian then put it to the wounded man’s throat. The bastard’s pulled a knife! Without hesitation, Duncan brought his rifle up and fired a burst, hitting the Russian in the shoulder and knocking him backward. He watched for a moment until the Russian he had hit began to move. Two of

Duncan’s men ran over, grabbed the knife from the Russian and made him stand up. Duncan cursed himself. Shit, the bastard was only wounded.

The idea of killing one’s wounded appalled Duncan. Animals, we’re dealing with animals, he thought.

As the Americans marched Ilvanich off, he looked at Lvov, now being treated by an American medic. He shook his head. Lenin was right, he told himself.

There is no God.

Look at the infantryman’s eyes and you can tell how much war he has seen.

-
BILL
MAULDIN

Ten Kilometers Northeast of Tarom 0630 Hours, 3 August (0300 Hours, 3

August,
GMT
)

The men began to stir and pick themselves up from the floor of the trench.

Already they could feel the rumbling of the ground caused by the advancing enemy tanks. Had their ears not been ringing as a result of a fifteen-minute artillery barrage, they would have heard the tanks as well. Even as he shook off the dirt and the dust, Captain Neboatov called repeatedly to his outposts for reports, but got only static in return. Sensing that any further attempt was futile, he let the hand mike drop. The first enemy tank was yet to crest the hill before them, but Neboatov knew what the outcome would be. As the senior surviving officer and the acting battalion commander, he had little more than a company’s worth of men and
BMP
fighting vehicles to hold a front that required a battalion by doctrine.

Psychologically, neither he nor his men were ready for the onslaught.

For the first time since entering Iran, Neboatov’s regiment was on the defense.

A war, Neboatov knew, is not won by defending. But defend they had to.

Stubborn resistance by the Americans, punctuated by numerous counterattacks, failure of the attack by Soviet second-echelon divisions and an inability to clear the American Air Force from the skies had crippled the 17th Combined

Arms Army, robbing it of its offensive capability. With great reluctance, the commander of the 17th
CAA
had ordered the remnants of the army’s first-echelon divisions to assume a defensive posture while a frantic effort was made to gather up enough forces to continue the offensive. Neboatov’s unit was part of that defense.

Neboatov had deployed his “battalion,” the remnant of the 1st Battalion of the 381st Motorized Rifle Regiment, on the reverse slope of a ridge.

By doing so, he reduced his fields of fire but prevented the enemy from hitting his positions directly. In addition, the enemy vehicles could be dealt with a few at a time as they crested the ridge. That was what

Neboatov had planned and expected.

The appearance of British Challenger tanks, however, was unexpected.

Having trained themselves so long for a confrontation with Americans and expecting to see the familiar form of the M-1 tank pop over the ridge, Neboatov and his men were momentarily transfixed as the first tanks of the 7th Royal

Tank Regiment crested the hill, oriented themselves on the scene that greeted them on the far slope and began to charge forward. As a result, it was the British, not 381st
MRR
, that fired first. The impact of a high-explosive round on the
BMP
to Neboatov’s rear sent him sprawling back onto the floor of the trench. He lay there for a moment, stunned.

Collecting his thoughts, he listened to the changing noise of battle.

Tanks fired their main guns, and the chatter of machine guns and the pop of antitank guided missiles joined the cacophony. The earth about him shook.

Neboatov rolled over and looked up as a Challenger, racing for the Soviet rear, rolled over his trench. He was showered with chunks of dirt and dust torn from the lip of the trench. When the tank was gone, Neboatov, still on his hands and knees, spat the dirt from his mouth and wiped his eyes with one hand.

Hesitantly, he got up and peered over the front edge of the trench.

Enemy infantry had already dismounted, deployed, and were entering the trenches to his left. Smallarms fire and grenades could be heard close to where he was. Added to this was a noise that sounded like a wounded cat crying out in pain. Neboatov had read that Scottish troops always played their bagpipes when going into battle, but until that moment he had never believed anyone would do so on a twentieth-century battlefield. The strange, piercing music that cut through the other sounds seemed, to

Neboatov, to be a death knell. The end was near.

In less than two minutes the battle had degenerated into hand-to-hand combat. Enemy tanks had bypassed him, destroying what was left of his BMPs.

Whatever chance he had had of stopping the enemy was gone. As he watched, no longer able to influence the battle, Neboatov’s emotions swung from despair to rage. With nothing else to do, he picked up his rifle, kicked the two soldiers lying at his feet on the floor of the trench and ordered them to follow. It would be a small and short counterattack. But at least they would try. That was all they could do. Try.

From the brigade commander’s vehicle, Major Jones watched the 7th Royal

Tank Regiment and the battalion of Scottish infantry roll through the Soviet positions and continue north. Though he still wished he were with the lead elements of the regiment, at least he had the rare satisfaction of seeing that all his efforts had finally borne fruit.

Normally the staff officers, working well to the rear, in small groups under less than optimum conditions, never saw the end product of their work. They merely went from one task to the next, sometimes not fully understanding the full purpose of their labors.

Jones, using his role as a liaison officer to his advantage, made sure that he spent as much time with the 33rd Armored Regiment as was prudent. Today was one of those days when he had to be there. Nothing, nothing the corps staff or the Soviets could do, would have kept him away. History was being made that day, history that he was now part of. As he watched the battle and listened to its noise and to the reports coming in from the unit commanders, he thought of his father.

For the first time in his life he felt that he was finally his father’s equal, that he had earned his way in the Army, the regiment and his family.

Headquarters, 10th Corps, Qotbabad, Iran 1015 Hours, 3 August (0645

Hours, 3 August,
GMT
)

Lieutenant General Weir paced his office like a caged lion. Despite his best efforts, he could not contain his nervousness. Everything was going so well, it was unreal. The Soviet offensive, so long anticipated, had come and failed. The speed at which events were unfolding was far greater than anyone had expected or could have hoped for. The 25th Armored Division had absorbed the brunt of the Soviets’

main effort, consisting of four Soviet divisions, while the 55th Mech Infantry Division had parried a supporting attack by one Soviet motorized rifle division. Though brutalized by two days of battle, the 25th Armored had held and given better than it had received. As a result of those efforts, the 16th Armored Division, reinforced by the 33rd Armored

Brigade, and held back from the initial battles, had commenced the Allied counteroffensive. The 55th Infantry Division, suffering little during the defensive battles, had joined that offensive at dawn.

Initial reports from both units were encouraging. The Soviet security zone and main defensive belts had been breached. All depended now on the outcome of a series of tank battles, then under way, between the attacking Allied forces and the Soviet reserves. If the outcome was favorable, the Soviets would have nothing left in Kerman Province capable of stopping the Allies.

Weir’s main problems were the timing of follow-on operations and logistics.

The 17th Airborne Division had been alerted to be prepared to make a combat jump with two brigades, one at Kerman and one at Rafsanjan, while holding its third in reserve. The drops would be made on order, timed to cut off the withdrawal of Soviet forces. If the paratroopers were dropped too late, they would bag nothing. By the same token, they must not be dropped too soon, lest the advancing ground forces be unable to reach them before the Soviets wore them down. The recent destruction of the

Soviets’ 285th Guards Airborne Regiment had served to remind everyone of that danger.

Resupplying the drive north was another problem. In the rush to prepare for the great expenditure of ammunition anticipated in the initial defensive battles, fuel had not been the highest priority. Now, with a breakthrough possible, every effort was being made to bring that valuable commodity into

Iran and forward to the units. The last thing Weir intended to do was miss the chance of a lifetime because his tanks ran out of gas.

Weir stopped his pacing for a moment and looked at the small situation map in his office. He pondered the change of fortunes for the Allied forces.

Well, old boy, he told himself, the Navy can put their boats away. A week ago I wouldn’t have given Bob Horn a nickel for our chances. Now there’ll be no evacuation by this Army. We are here to stay. All I need is a little time to grind those other people up a bit and get us some chips for our negotiators when they go to the table.

Moscow,
USSR
0945 Hours, 3 August (0645 Hours, 3 August,
GMT
) The officer from
STAVKA
finished briefing the Politburo on the current situation and left the room.

The eleven grim-faced men sat and considered what they had heard and what it meant. The 17th Combined Arms Army had failed to achieve a breakthrough and was, in fact, now being attacked. On the authority of the Front

Commander, the 17th
CAA
had assumed a defensive posture. Most of the
STAVKA
briefing officer’s answers to questions put to him by Politburo members had been prefaced by the caveat “It is hoped .. .”

The General Secretary looked at each member before he spoke. “It is time to open negotiations with the Americans. We have gained much and must ensure that it is not lost.”

The Minister of Defense sat up, slapped his hand on the table and bellowed,

“No! We must not give in. The army is still within striking distance.

We must not stop now.”

“We have tried twice, and failed twice,” the General Secretary said.

“This failure was far more costly. Why do you think we could succeed where we have already failed twice?”

Turning to look at the other members as he spoke, the Minister of Defense replied, “Comrades, we have not employed all weapons at our disposal. We must try again, this time with chemical weapons and, if necessary, tactical nuclear weapons. Quick surprise strikes will paralyze the Americans and allow us to drive to the strait, achieving our final goal.”

All watched the General Secretary, waiting for his response, which was:

“We have discussed this before. We decided on our goals and methods before we began this enterprise. I will not change them now. The political repercussions from employing either chemical or nuclear weapons would be far too great. Years of diplomatic efforts and achievements would be sacrificed for the gain of a few kilometers of dirt. The use of such weapons is not justified by the stated purpose of our intervention in Iran. No, we will not change the rules now.

Besides, I do not trust the United States. You know their history, Comrades, as well as I do. Like a wounded animal, they will rise out of the ashes and seek revenge in a blind rage that will plunge us all into darkness. No, I will not lead our people into a holocaust as our fathers did. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs will immediately open negotiations as previously discussed.”

The members of the Politburo sat there for several minutes. The Minister of

Defense, seeking support or at least continuation of the discussion, looked toward each member in turn. As he did so, each man, in his turn, either turned away or cast his gaze down-except the last one, the Foreign

Minister. In his eyes the Minister of Defense saw condemnation and unbridled hatred. Throughout the previous winter, when the plans for the invasion of Iran had been discussed, only the Foreign Minister had stood firmly against the idea.

He had taken much abuse and placed himself in a very precarious position by resisting the will of the other members. The General Secretary, to sway the Politburo to stop the war, had just used the same words that the Foreign Minister had been condemned for using when he tried to prevent the war. Now, in his moment of triumph, the Foreign Minister, staring at the man who had been the architect of the disaster that they faced, took no pride in being vindicated. That little victory had been purchased at the expense of tens of thousands of dead and wounded.

Finally realizing he was defeated, the Minister of Defense went silent.

There was no support for a continuation of the war. It had been decided.

The battle would now be waged over a felt-covered table in a quiet room in

Geneva.

Hajjiabad, Iran 1015 Hours, 3 August (0645 Hours, 3 August,
GMT
) The figure walking between the rows of body bags was hardly recognizable as an officer, much less a major. He had no helmet or hat. His hair, stuck together by dirt and oil, was matted and ratty.