Rage of Battle

Beetles versus Cadillacs. Sometimes the simpler the better — in weather like this.”

“Easier to repair,” said the press aide, eager to show he knew more than the usual media “flak.”

“Yes,” confirmed Banks, pouring more sugar into the steaming coffee. He could see Freeman at the situation board, a corporal, with a plug-in wire trailing from his headset, writing in the estimated strength and position of the Russian armored buildup with his marker pen. They had been using the small, magnetic block stickers, the kind civilians use for sticking messages on refrigerators, but they’d had a major foul-up near Heidelberg because the magnets on the big “tote” board had wiped a nearby computer disk clean. The result was a rifle company misdirected and lost. It was the sort of unpredictable screw-up that haunted all the commanders, Freeman especially, who confided in Banks that it was the “accidents of history” that worried him more than the enemy — the little things upon which great events can turn, despite the best-laid plans.

“Another thing about the PT-76s,” said Banks, “is they’re about half the weight of our tanks, Kraut Leopards and British Challengers included. Don’t get stuck nearly so easily in the slush. That’s why the North Koreans caught us with our pants down. Gave ‘em the edge.”

“This wet snow isn’t going to help them,” replied the press aide.

“Nope. What we need now is it to get a damn sight colder — drop well below freezing. That way we’d have hard ground.”

“That how we beat ‘em in Korea?”

“That and an uninterrupted supply line from Japan,” replied Banks, the worry lines in his face so deep, they made him look like a man twice his age. “If we don’t get a full NATO convoy through in three weeks — we’re sunk.”

“Jesus!” said the aide. “You really think we’ll lose the perimeter?”

Banks looked down at him. “Where’ve you been, Larry? We could lose the war. If I were you, I’d have a press release ready in case they bust through.”

The young press aide was visibly shaken. “Christ, I didn’t think it was that bad.”

“You’ve been reading your own press releases. No one else but the old man, our G-2, and those poor bastards right on the perimeter know. I’m just saying that meanwhile you’d better cover your ass. Not too much about our gallant boys at the front. If you pump up the public back home, they’ll turn on you if we get our butts kicked back behind the Rhine. Why do you think the old man won’t allow any TV cameras on the perimeter?” Banks drained the coffee cup. “It’s going to be the biggest attack since Fulda Gap.”

“I dunno if I can keep the media off that,” said the press aide, shaking his head. “Those TV guys are pretty persistent. Already there’s a stringer on the loose. One of my guys said he put on a groundsheet — no press insignia showing. We’ve lost track of him.”

“What’s his name?” asked Banks.

“Rodriguez.”

“There’s a thousand Rodriguezes. You have his accreditation number?”

“Yes — why?”

“We don’t want him doing a Vietnam on us. Not now— when we’re down.”

“I don’t see how we can stop him, Al. He’ll be hard to spot. I mean those hand-held videos these days are no bigger’n a Hershey bar.”

“Never mind,” said Banks. “You get MPs out after him now.” Banks had a faraway look in his eye. “I haven’t had a Hershey bar for—” He couldn’t remember since when. “And a Coke,” he said wistfully. “Not that goddamned flat shit they pump into paper cups. I mean a bottle. Glass. No friggin’ plastic. Just turning to ice — not quite. I mean, just about to.”

* * *

Depression was not unknown to Gen. Douglas Freeman, but it was rare. He was a believer in seeing the glass half-full, not half-empty. As a British commander of submarines had told him, in the end the best equipment could not stand up to the best morale. Witness the outmanned, outgunned Vietcong in the Vietnam War and the outnumbered “outradared” Nazi U-Boats in ‘44-’45. Nevertheless, Freeman’s habitual optimism, with which he imbued his troops, like the young Brentwood boy in Korea, was sorely tried when all Stealth overflight photos of the enemy prepo sites were presented to him as his mobile Humvee command post headed out for another sector of the front north of Munster.

As the machine-gun-mounted jeep bumped around the bomb-cratered road, Freeman found it difficult to focus the 3-D overlay on the latest aerial photos just taken within the last two hours. Perhaps, he told Col. Al Banks, there were the ubiquitous extra fuel drums on the Soviet tanks in the photos, but he couldn’t spot any. They had definitely been there in the photos from the earlier overflights.

He ordered the Humvee to stop, to look more closely and steadily at one of the T-90 turrets that the Stealth had picked up by infrared through the low ceiling of pea-soup stratus. “A lot of skirting around this turret, Al. Looks like some kind of spaced or reactive armor. Soon as one of our shells hits it — blows itself up. Most they get inside is a headache. But damned if I can see any extra fuel drums on the back. You have a look.”

“No, General, no fuel barrels I can see.”

“Goddamn it! Russkies always carry extra fuel. Two things you know about Russian armor is, those bastards break down sooner than ours and their materiel support isn’t anywhere as good as ours.”

Banks said nothing, and the general did not speak for several minutes, confirming to Banks just how worried his boss was. The general got out of the Humvee and, pulling his lamb’s-wool collar high about his neck, walked ahead, slapping his leg with his gloves. As he turned back to the truck, Banks slowly keeping pace behind him, the look of disgust he’d had when he’d gotten out was still there. “Damn it, Al! I just got through telling my field commanders — damn it, my whole strategy was based on telling our boys to pull back to defilade positions. Suck Ivan into thinking we’re turning tail-conserve our ammunition. Get those Commie sons of bitches overextended till their spare fuel drums are empty, then we go on the offensive. Hit ‘em with everything we’ve got.”

“I don’t understand, General. I thought you’d be pleased they’re not hauling extra fuel tanks. Limits their range.”

“I know, I know,” replied Freeman, his hand in the air irritably brushing Banks’s observation aside. “Gas drums are normally their most vulnerable spot. But in this fight they’ll outnumber us, Al. Four of their tanks to every one of ours. There are only so many you can stop like that — then the rest are all over you. No — what worries me is that no auxiliary gas tanks means they don’t need auxiliary tanks. Means they’ve got lots of gas, more than we thought, stashed in that prepo site south of Hannover.”

The general climbed back into the Humvee. “I’ve got to think of something else. Fast.” He was looking straight ahead, three other Humvees behind him and an armored car in front, but Al Banks was betting that what the general was really seeing was a map of the DB pocket.

There was a whoosh of air somewhere above them in the low cloud, followed by the chatter and rattle of machine guns.

“Holy—” began the Humvee driver, his voice drowned by the feral roar of an AA missile hitting an Apache gunship, the bug-nosed chopper momentarily visible in the orange ball of flame engulfing it. The Humvee driver put his foot down, swung the truck away from the deep pothole, and straightened it, oily smoke curling toward him. They hit the Humvee in front of them hard on its left rear fender and rolled.

By the time the men in the Humvees behind reached them down a steep embankment whose vegetation hid a drainage ditch, the driver was bleeding badly from multiple lacerations to the face. Al Banks was dead, his neck snapped, apparently in a swing blow from the barrel of the Humvee’s swivel.50 machine gun. Freeman was unconscious, his left arm looking as if it was broken.

“Watch it!” one of the soldiers cautioned. “Don’t move him.”

“Are you serious? I think he’s bought it,” answered another.

“General!” the sergeant was shouting, “General, can you hear me?”

“He’s dead,” said one.

“No he isn’t.”

“Close enough, Frank.”

“C’mon. Where’s that fucking medic?”