Sword Point (56 page)

The face was haggard, with sunken eyes framed by dark circles. Three days of stubble surrounded the expressionless mouth. The uniform matched the man. The tank crewman’s coveralls were ripped, dirty and stained with oil, sweat and blood. The only equipment he wore was a pistol in a shoulder holster and a protective mask strapped to his hip.

His boots showed spots where the black had been worn off. Major Dixon walked along the line of body bags slowly, looking. He stopped at each and bent down to peer at the name tag tied to the end of the bag. Not finding the one he wanted, he would go to the next, then the next, then the next, then the next.

The men of the graves-registrations detail paid him no heed. They had much to do and not much time. Bodies, 403 already left in the sun for several days, were putrefying in the heat. As two men on the detail brought a body to the rear of their truck, they would stop while the sergeant in charge checked the name tag, looked on his list and made a check mark. The two men then went to the rear of the truck, where one counted as they swung the body bag back and forth until three was called off. In unison, the two men would swing the body onto the bed of the truck, where it made a loud thump as it hit.

When Dixon found the one he was looking for, he stopped. The tag had

“
NESBITT
,
JACK
R. 176-35-8766″ written on it. For a moment he looked at the bag, not knowing what to do now that he had found the body he was looking for. Leaning over, he began to pull down the zipper.

As soon as he did, Dixon was sorry. The stench that rose from the bag made him gag. He stopped, covered his mouth with one hand, then continued until the zipper was halfway down. He stopped again, then looked at the body.

What he saw bore no resemblance to the man he had shared so many times with, good and bad. Dixon knew all there was worth knowing about the man in the bag. He knew his wife, his children, his dreams, his fears, his joys, his plans. Nesbitt had become a part of Dixon. He was more than a good sergeant, he was a friend. Now he was gone.

Slowly, carefully, Dixon closed the bag, then sat next to his friend.

Unable to restrain himself, he began to cry. He buried his head in his dirty hands and cried without shame or restraint. So many men about him needed to be cried for, to be remembered. Good men, every one. So many.

The thumping drew his attention to the detail. Dixon raised his head and looked to see what was causing the thumping. He wiped his eyes of tears and watched for a moment. Suddenly, what the men of the graves-registrations detail were doing hit Dixon. He felt himself go cold and numb inside.

Slowly, the numbness was replaced by a rage that began to build, a rage that overcame all restraint and logic. He rose mechanically and walked over to the truck, drawing his pistol as he went, his face frozen in a mask of hatred. Tears blurred his vision as he walked 404 up to the sergeant, who paid no heed until he heard the click of the pistol’s hammer being cocked.

Turning, the sergeant looked into the muzzle of a .45caliber pistol being pointed into his face by a dirty major with tears in his eyes.

“Jesus! Are you fucking crazy?”

In a low, emotionless voice, Dixon said, “These are my men. The next body thrown into the truck will be followed by yours.”

All eyes turned to watch. The sergeant, visibly shaken, tried to reason with Dixon. “Sir, these guys, they’re dead. I mean, they’re dead, they can’t feel nothing.”

Dixon neither moved nor changed his tone. “These are my men, Sergeant.

You will treat them with respect, or yours will be the next body on the truck.”

The sergeant looked into Dixon’s eyes. There was hate in those eyes.

Hate that knew no bounds. “Yes, sir, we will be more careful, my men and I. Now please, sir, put down the gun?”

With the gun still pointed at the sergeant’s head, Dixon slowly eased the hammer forward. Then he put the gun back into its holster and walked a few meters away, stopped, turned and stood there. For a moment, no one moved.

Then, seeing that the major was not going anywhere, the sergeant ordered his men to continue loading. This time, they were careful to lay each body out on the bed of the truck. The major stayed throughout the afternoon watching until they were done. It was not until the last truck left that

Dixon turned and walked away.

Geneva, Switzerland 0830 Hours, 6 August (0739 Hours, 6 August,
GMT
) The two men and their assistants entered the room from doors at opposite sides. Each of them took his place at the table facing his counterpart. The

Soviet ambassador opened his briefcase, pulled out a folder and arranged his notes. The American ambassador was handed a folder by one of his assistants.

The Russian began by reading a prepared statement. It declared that the Soviet Union protested the use of aggression by the United States to interfere with an internal matter that concerned the Soviet Union and the legitimate government of the People’s Republic of Iran. For twenty-five minutes the Soviet ambassador enumerated, in chronological order starting with 6 June, what he described as the acts of aggression on the part of the United States, as well as several alleged war crimes committed by U.S. forces in Iran and in international waters, all in violation of international accords and treaties. The Russian ended with a demand that all U.S. forces withdraw immediately and that the United

States pay, through the United Nations, all war damages caused by “this imperialist war of aggression.”

As the Soviet ambassador spoke, the American ambassador had fought back his anger. Throughout the entire harangue, he had sat there stony-faced, listening and waiting. Now, opening his folder, he read from a single sheet of paper: ” “The United States and her allies demand the immediate and unconditional withdrawal of all Soviet forces in Iran within thirty days.

Upon completion of those withdrawals, a provisional government will be reestablished in Tehran under the supervision of the United Nations.

Within six months a convention, again under UN supervision, composed of members elected by the Iranian people, will meet and draft a constitution for the establishment of a permanent Iranian government.”

” With that, the American closed the folder and looked at the Russian.

The Russian, pounding his fist on the table, began to spout righteous indignation, accusing the American ambassador of unreasonable demands and not negotiating in good faith. He was about to read off another prepared speech when the American ambassador startled everyone in the room by rising, picking up his folder and turning to walk away.

Flabbergasted, the Soviet ambassador asked why he was leaving. The American told him it was obvious that the Soviet Union was not interested in serious negotiations; the United States, therefore, intended “to seek resolution of the conflict through other means.”

Convinced that the American was bluffing, the Russian let him walk out.

He did not intend to show weakness by crawling to the Americans in order to negotiate. His orders had been to negotiate from a position of strength and to maintain the upper hand at all times. The Americans would be back. It was, after all, their way.

The Soviet ambassador’s resolve gave out that evening when the staff at the consulate informed him that the American had left his hotel en route to the airport. In a hastily arranged meeting at the airport, the Soviet ambassador and the American ambassador worked out an agenda, drafted a cease-fire proposal and began serious negotiations.

Nothing but a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won.

-
ARTHUR
WELLES
LEY

DUKE
OF
WELLINGTON

Kilometer Marker 385 Along the Military Demarkation Line, Iran 0450

Hours, 5 October (0120 Hours, 5 October,
GMT
) The
BRDM
armored car moved slowly as it entered the demilitarized zone.

Major Vorishnov hated to enter the
DMZ
at any time, but especially at night.

Lanes had been cleared through the mine fields, but that did not mean they stayed cleared. The Iranians had the habit of slipping into the
DMZ
at night and moving mines about. A week did not go by without a soldier dying in a supposedly cleared lane.

Entering the
DMZ
was strictly forbidden, especially with armored vehicles, but both sides did go in-to test each other’s reactions and to find blind spots. Vorishnov would have preferred not to go in that night. One of his patrols, however, had gotten a
BMP
stuck while it was in the
DMZ
. Knowing the sensitivity of such violations, Vorishnov had decided to go in and personally supervise the recovery. He wanted to be out of there before dawn. Otherwise, there would be hell to pay.

Twenty-Five Kilometers South of Marker 385, Iran 0505 Hours, 5 October (0135 Hours, 5 October,
GMT
)

The young lieutenant, new to the unit, had been reluctant to wake the major.

When reports about an unidentified vehicle arrived at the
TOC
, the lieutenant had decided not to bother the major until the vehicle was positively identified. Besides, the sergeant on duty told him that it was no big deal, that the Russians did that sort of thing “all the time.” But when three additional vehicles were reported to have entered the
DMZ
, the lieutenant became nervous and sent a runner to wake Major Dixon and tell him of the violation.

Dixon stormed into the
TOC
, so enraged over not having been awakened immediately at the first report that he was unable to speak coherently.

He chewed the lieutenant out, calling him everything he could think of.

Then he turned on the sergeant on duty and chewed him out for being stupid enough to allow the lieutenant to do dumb things. When Dixon left for the

DMZ
at the head of a two-Bradley reaction section, he was still in a rage.

It took the entire trip and the cold night air to subdue his anger.

Recovery of an armored vehicle is never easy. What looks so simple and commonsense in a book or during a demonstration is a major undertaking when attempted in the field, in darkness, by men tired, hungry and scared.

Vorishnov, impatient to be out of the
DMZ
, stood behind the warrant officer, asking questions and rendering advice. The warrant officer, as tactfully as possible, informed the major that he had the situation in hand. Taking the hint, Vorishnov went back to his vehicle to wait.

Leaning against the side of the armored car, he began to doze.

Night was giving way to predawn twilight when the commander of the
BRDM

shook Vorishnov and told him there was some kind of vehicle moving in the

American half of the
DMZ
. Vorishnov climbed up onto the
BRDM
and peered in the direction the
BRDM
commander indica ted toward a slight rise south of the wire fence that marked the boundary between U. Sand Soviet-occupied Iran.

Both men scanned the horizon until they detected a motionless antenna protruding over the rise. Evidently there was a patrol there, watching them. The antenna probably belonged to an armored vehicle. Vorishnov turned and looked at the progress of the recovery operation. It would still be some time before it was finished. With nothing better to do, he jumped down from the track and walked up to the wire fence, exercising great care as to where he stepped.

Once he was at the fence, Vorishnov stopped, folded his arms and stared at the point where they had seen the antenna. Perhaps he could cause the

Americans to move or expose themselves. If both sides violated the
DMZ
, the

Soviet violation could be explained as a reaction to the Americans’

violation. It was worth a try.

“What the hell do you suppose he’s up to?”

Dixon did not answer the scout-section sergeant immediately. Instead, he continued to watch the lone Soviet major standing at the wire, arms folded, staring toward the spot where they were. He couldn’t imagine what the

Russian was looking at. Rolling over from his stomach to his side, Dixon looked back at the Bradley to their rear. It was down low, its turret well below the rise. Their approach had been slow and quiet.

There was nothing that could have given them away. Nothing, except the antenna. When Dixon saw the antenna sticking up instead of being tied down, he knew what the

Russian had seen. Tapping the section sergeant on the shoulder, he pointed out the antenna. The sergeant mumbled an obscenity, then asked, “Now what?”

To the sergeant’s surprise, Dixon stood up, looked in the direction of the

Russian and said, “Now I go find out what he wants.” With that, he began to walk toward the wire fence, being careful where he walked.

As he approached the fence, he could see the Russian watching him intently.

Behind the Russian major the men working on the
BMP
stopped and stared.

The Russian major was a big man, half a head taller than Dixon.

Dixon did not let that bother him. He walked up to the fence and stopped, staring into the Russian’s eyes.

For a moment, the two faced each other awkwardly. Each man had seen men of the other side, mostly prisoners of war. This was different.

The man across the fence was not a beaten man. He was armed and he controlled other armed men. Not knowing what to do, and more from reflex than by intent, the two saluted each other.

Dixon spoke first. “In the name of the Allied forces, I must protest the unprovoked introduction of forces and armored vehicles into the demilitarized zone. This is in direct violation of the armistice agreement.

I demand their immediate withdrawal.”

Vorishnov, straight-faced, responded in English, “Our presence in the demilitarized zone is in response to your provocation. It is you who have violated the armistice.”