Instead of diminishing, the volume of small-arms fire directed against the advancing Soviet formations was increasing. Isolated pockets of enemy infantry were coming out of hiding and engaging the men of the 1st Battalion, 381st Motorized Rifle Regiment. The Americans had not crumpled as before and had, instead, recovered from their initial attack and in some cases seemed to be counterattacking.
Neboatov's company had again been the second attack echelon of the battalion. As before, the preparatory artillery bombardment had silenced all resistance as the attacking force approached. Again the battalion had rolled over the American forward positions and driven for the regiment's objective. This time, however, the battalion had been hit by a combination of close-in antitank rockets and long-range antitank guided missiles. The antitank guided missiles, or ATGMs, had been set up behind hills and in wadis in the Americans' rear areas.
From these well-covered and well-concealed positions, the ATGM teams were impossible to detect before they fired.
Even when the positions were detected, by the time effective fire could be massed against them the ATGM teams were gone, moved to another hidden position farther up the valley.
While the American level of fire was insufficient to stop the attacking columns, it slowed the advance, delayed the commitment of follow-on forces and forced the lead regiment to turn against the resisting Americans. This task fell to the 381st Motorized Rifle Regiment. It was forced to dismount its riflemen, in order to clear the shoulders of the penetration in preparation for the commitment of the 127th Motorized Rifle Division's own tank regiment and the 33rd Tank Division.
The resulting fight pitted the regiment's riflemen, backed by their tanks and BMP-2 infantry-fighting vehicles, against an elusive foe that moved from one hidden position in the high ground to the next. American infantrymen, deployed on the lower heights, defended the antitank-guided-missile teams located farther up the hillside. When Soviet riflemen began to close on a position and threaten to overwhelm it, the ATGM teams would move while the infantry covered them. They, in their turn, would move to the next prepared position that covered the ATGM teams already in place.
The problem for Neboatov's battalion was to get past and around the Americans, isolate them. bring superior firepower and numbers to bear and then crush them. While they had the advantage of having BMPs to carry them, the vehicles were easily tracked and often frustrated by obstacles, mines or antitank guided missiles. A hit on a BMP by an antitank guided missile resulted in the dual loss of a fighting vehicle and a squad of riflemen.
Cutting off the Americans did not seem to bother them; they remained just as dangerous, moving about along concealed routes in small groups, infiltrating past the surrounding Soviet riflemen. On occasion, they would fall on the rear of Soviet riflemen who were maneuvering against another position. The result was a confusing swirl of battle that knew no front or rear, no friendly lines or hostile positions. Just chaos and sudden death.
After a failed attempt to destroy a pocket of resistance, Neboatov was trying to rally his men and plan their next move. After three hours of playing cat and mouse among the rocks and the wadis, he was running out of ideas and was frustrated. He ordered his driver to tuck their BMP into a small draw near one of his platoons so that they would be out of harm's way while he collected his command and his thoughts. No sooner had they pulled in than his battalion commander's BMP rolled up. Both officers dismounted from their vehicles and walked over to a spot near some large rocks to discuss the situation out of earshot of their men.
The crews of the two BMPs, exhausted and hot from driving about buttoned up, dismounted and took the opportunity to relax and eat something. Sitting on top of their vehicles, they picked at their combat rations, drank from their canteens and speculated among themselves what would happen next.
The battalion commander, like Neboatov, was frustrated. The regimental commander wanted the Americans cleared before the division's tank regiment was committed. He, in turn, was being pressured by Division to give the all clear. The two officers knelt to study a map the battalion commander laid out on the ground. As he pointed with a grease pencil to key areas that he wanted Neboatov to clear, sweat from his brow dripped onto the map.
Neboatov wiped his own face with a dirty rag as he listened to his commander explain how the battalion would systematically clear the valley.
The task would be long and tedious, not to mention dangerous.
A sudden warning shout from one of the BMP crewmen was cut short by a burst of automatic fire. Neboatov and his commander, looking up to see what was happening, watched in horror as the crews of the two BMPs were cut down by accurate small-arms fire. The two officers turned in the direction the fire was coming from in time to see four American infantrymen jump out from behind one of the rocks. The two in the lead were firing their rifles from the hip as they rushed forward. The other two were lobbing grenades in the direction of the BMPs.
The battalion commander was the first to react and the first to fall.
The sudden motion as he stood up and reached for his pistol caught the attention of the Americans. One of them stopped in place, turned toward the two officer's and, firing from the hip, let go two quick bursts. Both bursts hit the battalion commander square in the chest, ripping it open and throwing him backward on top of Neboatov, who was still kneeling. The impact of his colonel's body sent him sprawling, and he hit his head against a rock.
Though not unconscious, Neboatov had the wind knocked out of him and was unable to clearly focus or react. Pinned beneath the body of his dead commander, his head reeling, he watched the Americans rush forward and drop grenades into the open hatches of the two BMPs. One of the American infantrymen noticed the map on the ground and walked over to recover it. As he was bending over, Neboatov tried to reach for his pistol. His spastic fumbling-served only to catch the American's attention. Dropping the map, the American swung around and raised his rifle, its muzzle stopping inches from Neboatov's face.
Neboatov knew he was going to die. He closed his eyes. After what seemed to be an eternity, the familiar burst of several AKs caused him to open them.
The threatening rifle muzzle and the American were gone. From where he lay,
Neboatov could see several of his men from the nearby platoon running forward. While some of them pursued the surviving Americans, a lieutenant and two men came over to give their company commander a hand. Gently, they moved the battalion commander's body off Neboatov and helped him up.
Neboatov scanned the area as he collected his thoughts and caught his breath. He was shaking like a leaf. Two Americans, one of them the soldier who moments before had held Neboatov's life in his hand, were down. The other two were gone. Small-arms fire from beyond the rocks told that they were fighting as they withdrew. The battalion commander's BMP was burning, and ammunition on board popped as it cooked in the fire. Neboatov's BMP was smoking. The bodies, wounded and dead, of both BMPs' crews were scattered about the ground or hanging limp off the BMPs. Half-eaten rations and spilled canteens were scattered among the bodies or held in lifeless hands.
Neboatov walked over to his BMP on shaky legs, stopping where the body of his driver lay. He knelt and pulled the leather helmet from the soldier's head, freeing a crop of dirty blond hair matted down by sweat and oil. The soldier was more boy than man, not more than nineteen years old. He had been born and raised on a small collective farm in the eastern Ukraine, a true son of Mother Russia. Though Neboatov seldom bothered with the enlisted men in his command, he had taken special interest in this youth because of his loyalty to family and country, his skills as a tracked-vehicle driver, and a shy, easygoing manner that Neboatov found refreshing. Now he was gone, killed in a barren land miles from his beloved family and country. The young girl he spoke of often would probably never know how he had died. His mother would never be able to tend to his needs again. He was dead, killed in action in the service of the Party and his country.
Neboatov stood up and turned his face to the rising sun. He felt its heat.
How brutal, he thought, this day is going to be.
The two attacking A-10 aircraft were a long time gone before all firing ceased. Once the tank crews did cease fire, they automatically turned 180 degrees, preparing for an attack by a second pair of American planes.
Vorishnov knew that the Americans would not come from the same direction again. As he picked himself up off the ground, he looked about in an effort to guess which way they would come if they did return. Deciding that this was an exercise in futility, he turned his attention to more immediate problems.
The 3rd Battalion was scattered about in an open field, dispersed as a precaution against air attack. That, however, had not saved them this time.
Two A-10s had come swooping down out of the sun as the tanks sat waiting for the order to move forward, an order that had not yet been given. From where he stood, Vorishnov counted three of his battalion's tanks
