Company. Our objective is to clear those hangars over there and set up positions beyond them. Follow me. For the Motherland. Attack!'
As in the helicopter, the young lieutenant turned and went forward without bothering to look behind to see whether his men would follow.
He knew they would. Rushing forward in a half-crouch, Junior Lieutenant Nikolai Ilvanich, Hero of the Soviet Union, charged into the inferno of burning helicopters and buildings and exploding mortar shells. Like a great white shark on the prowl, he turned his head from side to side as he went, his eyes going from point to point searching for targets. When something moved, without slowing he fired from the hip until it stopped moving. There was no more thinking required. No need for fancy maneuvers. Just attack, attack, attack.
Chapter 10
War is at best barbarism…. Its glory is all moonshine. It is only those who have neither fired a shot nor heard the shrieks and groans of the wounded who cry aloud for blood, more vengeance, more desolation.
War is hell.
The morning sun greeted the men of the 3-4th Armor and warmed them as they lay in clusters not far from the flight line, the aircraft parking and servicing area. Most slept soundly in spite of the noise of the planes coming and going on the flight line. This was the first time in over thirty-six hours that they had had an opportunity to sleep horizontally.
Since Fort Hood, it had been one plane after another. Marshal at the airfield, manifest, board the plane, fly to another airport, get off the plane marshal somewhere else, manifest for the next flight, board the next plane, on and on. The misery of their odyssey was to have ended that day.
They had deplaned at Ras Banas in order to transfer from the commercial 747 to military transports for the last leg of the trip. With the Russians fast approaching Bandar Abbas, it had been judged too risky to send commercial charters straight into Iran. The transfer, however, did not take place immediately, despite the fact that there were a number of Air Force transports sitting on the ground. Rumor had it that there was a big air raid going on.
Whatever the reason, their misery continued. Upon arrival at Ras Banas, the men had been directed to an area just off the airfield tarmac. Their duffle bags, which contained their sleeping bags, were left on the aircraft. The only things the men had were their individual weapons and ALICE packs, rucksacks that held the bare-bones necessities such as a change of underwear, shaving kit, a sweater and clean socks. Rallying by company in small clusters, the men settled down in the sand as best they could, using the ALICE pack as a pillow.
They soon found that there were no toilets.
Those unlucky enough to be in the center of the mass of soldiers had to wander through the knots of sleeping men out into the desert before relieving themselves. These arrangements, however primitive, were still preferable to staying on the overcrowded transports.
Major Dixon found it hard to sleep once the sun had risen. As he sat up, his body was racked by spasms of pain. He felt as if he had been beaten up.
His eyes were puffed out, his mouth and throat dry, his nasal passages clogged with dirt. While he sat sipping water from his canteen, he considered whether he should save his water for drinking or use some of it for cleaning up. His mind, like his body, was in terrible shape.
Jumping time zones, being crammed into the confines of an airplane for hours on end with little to do, facing one delay or diversion after another, had reduced Dixon's brain to mush. Slowly he considered the pros and cons of washing up. Since the troops had been issued their kevlar helmets with fixed webbing, he could no longer use his helmet as a washbasin. That meant he had to use his canteen cup, which was, to say the least, a pain in the ass.
Making small decisions was hard. 'What the hell,' he mumbled to himself as he began to dig through his ALICE pack for his shaving kit.
'At least I can look decent.' By the time he was finished, Master Sergeant Nesbitt came up to him carrying two cups of coffee. 'And a good morning to you,
Major. Welcome to Egypt.'
Dixon reached out and took the cup Nesbitt offered him. 'I trust you came across this legally.'
'Sir, would I ever do anything wrong or illegal, like? I mean, what do I look like, a supply sergeant or something?'
As Dixon sipped the coffee, still hot enough to steam his glasses, he thanked the Lord for being blessed with a man of Nesbitt's talents. It seemed the more senior an officer became, the more helpless he was.
That was why it was handy to have a talented sergeant around to deal with the mundane tasks such as keeping the unit running and taking care of the officers. 'Sergeant Nesbitt, there wouldn't happen to be any food nearby that's worth the walk?'
'The Air Force people I got this from said the mess line will be open over by those hangars in about thirty minutes. They're going to be serving hot A's. Real food, not that T-ration shit.'
'What's the matter, Sergeant Nesbitt, creamed beef over chunks of potatoes not to your liking? Why, didn't you know that tests have proven that the rations have revolutionized tactical feeding?'
Nesbitt got a disgusted look on his face, turned and spat. 'Tests my ass, sir. When I was growing up my mom threw away leftovers that looked better than the stuff they expect us to survive on. Let the bastard who invented that shit try living on it for a couple of weeks.'
Nesbitt was old Army, a tanker for over twenty years. He missed the old days and many of the old ways. Vietnam, VOLAR and other 'reforms'
had changed the Army. Each year after his twentieth year he had told his wife that he was fed up with the Army and was turning in his retirement papers.
And each time he went to do it, someone always talked him out of it.
Dixon had been the last in a long line of officers to do so. The only reason Nesbitt had stayed the last time was because of Dixon. He had served with him in Germany. They got along well and were friends. Besides, Nesbitt liked tanking and the battalion
'Hey, Major, have you heard about our young scout platoon leader this morning?'
Dixon stopped what he was doing and looked at Nesbitt. 'What's Capell gotten into now?'
With a twinkle in his eye, Sergeant Nesbitt replied, 'Lieutenant Matthews.'
Amanda Matthews lay next to Randy Capell and watched him sleep.
Although it was already becoming hot in the small tent where they had spent the last few hours, she didn't mind. The more she got to know Capell, the more she was overcome by his charm and his strange ideas of romance. Not in her wildest dreams had she imagined that he would be waiting for her when the transport with the brigade staff on board landed in Ras Banas. Even more amazing were the arrangements Capell had made. They included an Air Force hummer, a tent with an ad-hoc double bed in an area that had been abandoned by the 17th Airborne Division, a meal of cold cuts and fresh bread, and even water to wash up in. When she protested that it wouldn't be smart to leave the group, because the unit might depart on a moment's notice, Capell had reassured her that he had it from reliable sources that no one would be leaving before noon that day. Besides, he continued, his platoon sergeant knew where he would be and would get them if either one of their transports was alerted for movement.
Matthews rolled over on her side until the length of her body was against Capell's. Propping her head on one hand, she ran her free hand across his chest. Matthews felt guilty for a moment. Here she was, enjoying herself, sleeping with Randy, while the rest of the brigade staff had only the desert for a bed and the sky for a roof. No doubt she would get an ass-chewing, at the least, for wandering off from the rest of the staff.
But it would be worth it. Besides, with the brigade going into Iran, a minor indiscretion such as this might
