feel any obligation to follow their doctrine.' The American fighting man, a product of that unpredictable society and philosophy, was an unknown that Neboatov and his men now had to meet and deal with.
For the fourth time in as many minutes, Neboatov raised his left arm and glanced at his watch: 1939 hours. Sixty seconds. The die was cast. All was set, all planned. Now all they had to do was execute the plan. How simple that seemed. How awfully bloody and simple.
The sound of fifty-four howitzers, eighteen heavy mortars and eighteen multiple-rocket launchers firing simultaneously appeared to the 1st Platoon as a distant rumble, like a thunderstorm far away. The lieutenant, nodding off to sleep in Duncan's foxhole, opened his eyes and asked what the rumbling was. Duncan, peering out to the side of the foxhole's parapet, replied casually, 'Artillery. I think they're-'
The whine of large-caliber artillery projectiles passing overhead and the impact of 120mm. mortars on the platoon's positions cut Duncan's answer short. The sudden overpressure of near-misses hit all those in his foxhole like a sledgehammer. The clear evening air was corrupted with dust, smoke and fumes. Across the front the men of 1st Platoon cowered in the depth of their foxholes, foxholes that suddenly seemed dangerously shallow. The shock of their initiation to combat was a fearful and lonely experience as each man withdrew into himself in an effort to survive or block out reality. Combat, long prepared for and discussed, was upon them.
Within seconds, the impact of individual mortar and artillery rounds was no longer distinguishable. A steady pounding and an unending chain of detonations dulled the men's senses. Dust and fumes settled down in the bottom of the foxholes where the men sought escape. Those who had presence of mind tied handkerchiefs or bandanas over their noses and mouths. Those lost to panic simply gagged and choked. Eardrums shattered and bled. Men no longer able to control themselves defecated and urinated where they sat, crouched in the corner of their foxholes.
Minute after minute the pounding continued. Steady, unending, terrifying. The sobs of men broken by the experience of their initiation to battle could not be heard above the din of explosions by the men next to them.
For the lucky, death came quickly. The probability of a mortar round landing right on top of a foxhole is slim. But even when the odds are a thousand to one, there is always that one.
Fire enough rounds in a small area, and probability begins to take its toll. The overhead cover that protected the men of 1st Platoon did well to stop shell fragments but was sadly insufficient when a direct hit was scored. When the shell's fuse setting was on super quick action, the round detonated as soon as it touched ground. In those cases, the force of the explosion rammed the overhead cover that was meant to protect the foxhole's occupants down on top of them, crushing or burying them. When the shell's fuse setting was on delayed action, the shell penetrated the overhead cover and detonated in the foxhole among the occupants. Death was instantaneous. All signs that the foxhole had once been occupied by humans were eradicated in a twinkling of an eye.
In this manner, 1st Platoon, B Company, 3rd of the 503rd Infantry, received its baptism of fire.
The speed of the attacking columns began to pick up as Neboatov's company moved into the open. Neboatov elected to remain standing in the hatch of his BMP, to better control his company and maintain his orientation. It was dangerous but necessary; buttoned up, he was as good as blind. To his front he could see the regiment's preparatory artillery bombardment going in. He was impressed. The entire forward slope of the far ridge was exploding.
That anything could live through that seemed unlikely. But there would be survivors, survivors that he would have to deal with.
The battalion was now moving forward at a steady pace of twenty-four kilometers an hour. The lead companies remained in platoon columns, BMPs following the tanks with mine plows and rollers attached to them.
Obstacles that had taken hours to emplace would be brushed aside with little effect.
Neboatov held the hatch cover firmly as his BMP rolled forward and hit bump after bump. With skill born of practice, his body swayed instinctively to maintain balance while he watched the advance of his company and the progress of those in the lead. The artillery to his front stopped. Neboatov looked at his watch: 2000 hours. The initial barrage was over. Time for the guns to shift to their next targets.
The stunned silence was welcome but frightening. For a moment Duncan sat and listened. Then, with his body pressed against the front wall, he slowly began to rise to peer over the lip of the foxhole. The dust hung in the air like fog. At first he could see nothing. Slowly, in the distance, he could make out the images of the advancing Soviet armored columns, moving forward as if on parade. As he watched, Duncan was conscious of the lieutenant next to him. At first neither said a word, they only watched. Then the lieutenant moved away from the front wall and began to climb out of the foxhole. In confusion, Duncan called out, 'Where're you going, Lieutenant?'
Without stopping or turning back, the lieutenant shouted, 'I–I gotta get back to my position. Call for artillery.'
'Get back here in the hole. You'll never make it. The bastards are only shifting fires.' Duncan turned and lunged to grab the lieutenant's leg, but missed. The lieutenant climbed out of the hole and stood upright just as the first round of the next artillery barrage impacted.
The explosions hammered Duncan down to the bottom of his hole. He stayed there for a moment, then rose to see what had become of the lieutenant. The first sight that greeted him was a hand hanging over the lip of the foxhole. The fingers, forming a half-clenched fist, twitched and jerked randomly. Then Duncan saw the lieutenant, lying on his back. His right arm reached out toward Duncan and quivered. His face, turned up to the sky, also quivered in spasms. There seemed to be no wounds. Perhaps he was simply stunned. With a single boost, Duncan pulled himself out of the hole so that he could help his lieutenant.
In an instant, he knew he couldn't. The entire left side of the lieutenant's body was a bloody pulp. From his thigh to his face the lieutenant's body was shattered and covered with bright-red blood that oozed from innumerable wounds. Bone and organs lay exposed in the dirt. The sight of the half man overcame Duncan's last reserves of self-control. Involuntarily he vomited as he leaned over the remains of his lieutenant, adding his own vile fluids to the gore before him. Only the intervention of the radio operator who shared the foxhole with Duncan and who pulled him back down saved him from sharing his lieutenant's fate.
With the smokescreen in place and the battalion clear of the mine field, it was time to deploy into line and commence the final assault.
The order had gone out to remain mounted throughout the assault. With few exceptions, there had been no return antitank fire to speak of.
Artillery fire had been light and had missed the fast-moving columns.
Every time American artillery did fire, a volley of rockets from the multiple-rocket launchers screamed overhead in return. All was in order, all going forward as planned.
It was at this point that Neboatov became nervous. All seemed to be going too well. It was much too easy, like a summer maneuver. The Americans were waiting. They were intentionally holding their fire until the battalion was in a fire sack. Nervously he glanced from side to side for telltale signs of a trap. He saw none. The lead companies continued forward, disappearing into the smoke laid by the artillery and generated by the tanks in the lead. No orders or warning came over the radio. Nothing to indicate a change in the situation or a trap.
The battalion rolled forward at twenty-four kilometers per hour on a collision course with the Americans.
The second artillery barrage stopped. The rumble of the advancing Soviet vehicles could be felt before it was heard. Duncan stuck his head up over the lip of the foxhole and peered into the smoke and dust thrown up by impacting artillery. He could see nothing. But he could hear. The squeaking of tank sprockets and the rumble of their engines were joined by the higher-pitched whine of the BMPs, the chatter of machine guns, the pop and whoosh of antitank guided missiles being fired, and closein detonations.
The two companies in the forward positions were in contact with enemy forces.
Duncan reached down for the field phone and tried to ring up the platoon's squad leaders. No one answered. No doubt the wires had been severed by the artillery. He turned to the radiotelephone operator and ordered him to contact the company commander. While the operator tried in vain to raise anyone on the company-command net, Duncan raised his head again to see what was going on.
To his left he saw one of his Dragon gunners prop up his missile launcher in preparation. The sound of advancing tanks and BMPs grew louder. So did the machine-gun fire. The bursts of M-16 and SAW rifle fire were overriden by the sound of unfamiliar small-arms fire. Russian PKs and AKs, probably.
