He scrambled to his feet, shouting, “Let’s move it, people! Into those houses! Over there!” He waved an arm to the west.
All up and down the freeway, individual Marines rose and ran for cover, each bent forward at the waist as though he were pushing forward against high winds. Another shell burst behind them and several more men were bowled over-left lying dead or badly wounded.
Ziss found himself running side by side with his radioman, Lance Corporal
Pitts. He grabbed the handset Pitts offered.
“Mike One Two, this is Bravo
Six Six, over.”
“Go ahead, Six Six.” Ziss recognized the deep Southern drawl of his battalion commander.
“Give me a sitrep.
The two men charged through an open garden gate and slid to a stop beside one of the houses. Panting Marines from Bravo’s First and Second Platoons pushed in after them. The artillery barrage ended-leaving behind a strange silence broken only by moaning from the wounded sprawled across the highway.
Ziss moved across the backyard of the house and crouched low next to a row of rose bushes planted as a hedge. He punched the transmit button on his handset, noticing with
some detachment that both his hands were shaking.
“We took some arty, One
Two. Big stuff. They’ve got the N3 zeroed in and spotters out there somewhere.”
“Do you want fast movers? Over.” The Navy had bomb laden flights of
F/A-18s and A-6s circling overhead on call, just itching for the chance to blow South African guns or troops to kingdom come.
The Marine captain shook his head impatiently, realized what he was doing, and punched the talk button again.
“Negative, One Two. I don’t have any observed targets. We’re gonna have to hunt for their damned OP.
“
“Understood.” His battalion commander paused and then came back on line.
“The Navy says their flyboys didn’t manage to spot any of those guns firing.”
No kidding. The South African artillery battery was probably parked almost forty klicks away-well hidden among the Drakensberg’s woodlands and narrow mountain valleys. A plane would practically have to pass right over an artillery piece while it was firing to see anything. Even then the Afrikaner gunners were undoubtedly moving their weapons from camouflaged firing position to firing position-employing the classic battlefield tactic of “shoot and scoot. “
Ziss shook his head in frustration. They needed counter battery radar to pinpoint the enemy artillery-and all of the MAF’s target acquisition units were still tied down providing protection for the Louis Botha
Airport.
That left the Marines with just one unpalatable option: they’d have to scour every inch of Pietermaritzburg and its surrounding hills in what was very likely to be a vain search for the enemy observation team calling down the artillery. Until then, South Africa’s big guns could sweep the N3 and block any significant advance toward Pretoria. Heavily armored main battle tanks might be able to roll right through a barrage, but fuel tankers and troop trucks would be sitting ducks.
He staggered upright, trying to get a better look at the terrain ahead.
Once past this small spur of residential development and the racetrack, the ground sloped down toward a small stream before rising again into the city proper. Church spires and the tower of a Moslem mosque were sharply outlined against the treelined escarpment.
Terrific. A single rifle company couldn’t even begin to cover that much territory.
“We’re going to need some help on this, One Two.”
“Understood.” Another brief pause while the battalion CO evidently tried to unscramble what had suddenly become a very confused situation.
“Alpha and
Charlie companies are closing on your position now. Plus Brigade has released another platoon of LAVs and some M60s for support. I’m shifting the HQ forward now, so hold up until we get there. “
“Will do.” Ziss saw a medic go by at the run, medkit and bandages in hand.
Oh, Christ. He’d almost forgotten about his wounded.
“I need a dust-off here, One Two. I’ve got several wounded for immediate evac. “
“Roger that. Dust-off is already en route. ETA is five minutes. ” His commander’s businesslike tone shifted, becoming more concerned.
“Hang on,
Jon. We’re coming. Out. “
Ziss acknowledged and signed off, not sure which of the two emotions warring within him was stronger-relief now that help was on the way, or irritation at being treated a little like a panic-stricken teenager. He handed the mike back to his radioman and moved off in search of his platoon leaders. They had some planning to do.
“Captain!” He hadn’t taken more than five or six steps when Pitts caught up with him.
“Rover Three One reports hostile movement on the western slopes of Signal Hill.” Rover Three One was the call sign for one of the recon teams scouting the ground in front of Bravo Company.
Signal Hill? Now just where the hell was that? He flipped open a tattered topographical map. There it was. A nine hundred-foot high, wooded hill just west of the city. He almost smiled. The Afrikaners were starting to show themselves. Fine. Time for an air strike. He grabbed the handset again.
“Mike One Two, this is BravoA sudden loud popping sound made him look up just as a
window in a nearby house shattered. And for the second time in only a few minutes, Ziss threw himself prone.
“Sniper! Hit the dirt! “
He wriggled back to the line of rose bushes as M16s opened up from houses all around-punching rounds in the general direction of Pietermaritzburg.
The company’s M60 machinegun teams were next, indiscriminately hosing down buildings and treetops that might conceal Afrikaner troops. Parked cars hit by gunfire started going up in flames.
Capt. Jon Ziss gritted his teeth and checked the clip in his own rifle.
This was going to be one bitch of a day.
DECEMBER 27-FORWARD HEADQUARTERS, ALLIED EXPEDITIONARY FORCE, TOWN
HILL, NORTH OF PIETERMARITZBURG
Town Hill rose nearly nine hundred feet above the Natal lowlands, and more than three hundred feet above Pietermaritzburg’s central business district. For years, the city’s wealthiest families had been building their homes on its slopes, drawn by its spectacular views and easy access to the Durban-Johannesburg highway. And now the same factors made Town
Hill the perfect site for the forward headquarters of the Allied expeditionary force.
In the middle of a street once reserved for Mercedes and other luxury automobiles, four camouflaged command vehicles sat parked back-to-back in a rough circle. Tarpaulins covered the open spaces between them, essentially creating a single large headquarters tent. Staff officers from two countries and all four branches of the armed forces crowded the tent-receiving reports from fighting units scattered all across South
Africa, planning the next day’s operations, and generally getting in each other’s way.
Lt. Gen. Jerry Craig stood outside, ignoring the controlled chaos of his forward HQ. His binoculars were focused on the N3 Motor Route as it wound northwest through a narrow valley. He frowned. Right now the road looked more like a serpentine parking lot than a superhighway.
Long columns of trucks, APCs, and other vehicles were backed up all the way south through the city-evidently brought to a dead stop by more fighting somewhere up ahead. An ambush? More harassing fire from South African heavy guns? A roadblock? Craig shrugged. It didn’t really matter. What did matter was that Vorster’s troops were slowing his advance to a nightmarish crawl.
