Defense of Hill 781 Page 3

  “If that’s so, why do the men ever sign for it? Surely they are experienced enough to recognize worn-out equipment when they see it.”

  “Yes, sir, they know it. But they really don’t have any choice in the matter. They’ve got to draw the equipment so that the battalion can go into battle, so it can be tested, so it can defeat the enemy, so they can get out of Purgatory and on to heaven. If they don’t accept the equipment, then none of the rest of it can happen, so they’re under tremendous pressure. But when they go to turn it in, they are obligated to restore it to near-impossible condition. Until they do that, they can’t leave here.”

  “Why that’s fiendish, Sergeant Major. I guess at least some good comes of that—when the next battalion of lost souls reports in, they have good equipment to work with.”

  “Oh no, sir. Part of the contract the ghouls have with the managers here is to sabotage the equipment between turn-in and issue. That way the next battalion gets the same rotten stuff the preceding one did. That has a twofold impact. First of all, it adds to the reputational damage of the latest battalion through. Second, it almost ensures breakdown of key equipment at critical points in the battle, giving the local enemy the edge.”

  Always made a mental note to go easy on the mechanics. If they were the good soldiers that Hope said they were, they would be nearly killing themselves to keep the vehicles in running order, all the time bearing the brunt of the blame for operational failures. Despite his career with foot mobile forces, Always had been around the army enough to come across many of these poor overworked grease monkeys, as they were called, sodden with diesel fuel, lying under a multiton steel machine in a puddle of grime and filth, turning a wrench with sore and scraped hands, while officers admonished them to hurry up and get the cursed vehicle back into operation and to get busy on the next five broken machines that were waiting for repair somewhere down the road. Theirs was a particularly hallowed commitment, and to punish them further in a place like this just didn’t seem right. He resolved to support them as best he could. After all, given his limited experience with heavy equipment, he would be dependent upon their knowledge and dedication to pull him through this trial.

  The jeep pulled up to a cluster of tracked vehicles with canvas extensions protruding from their rears, all joined with a series of snaps and supported with a few poles so that a temporary shelter was formed at their confluence. The side flaps were rolled up to let some of the desert air flow through the shaded area beneath, and inside Always could see an intense group of officers bent over maps and talking on radios.

  “This is your task force headquarters, sir. The executive officer is out with the supply and maintenance people right now, but the operations officer should be here. They’ve been expecting you. I’ll be leaving you here for a bit, sir. I’ve got a few duties to attend to while the staff briefs you. I’ll be back after the briefing to take your instructions. Good morning, sir.” The colonel and the sergeant exchanged salutes.

  As Hope pulled away it occurred to Always how much he liked the man. As bad as things might be, with a command sergeant major like that on his side he could not go too far astray. He would have to be careful to ask for and to adhere to his advice, Always reminded himself.

  “Good morning, sir. Welcome to the Dust Bowl. I’m Major Rogers.” Always turned away from the departing jeep to face his operations officer, a solid, open-faced man of medium height.

  “Good morning, Major. Pleased to meet you. I’m LTC A. Tack Always, your task force commander.”

  “Yes, sir, we’ve been expecting you,” Rogers answered cheerily. And on that note the two men proceeded into the tactical operations center (TOC), where Lieutenant Colonel Always was introduced to his staff and given a series of briefings on the state of the command and the missions before them.

  Purgatory had been well chosen. The land is hard; the climate is brutal. The high desert rises to an elevation of three to four thousand feet on the valley floors, and many times higher on the barren mountains reaching toward the sky. The ground could change abruptly from the dry lake beds of cracked and parched earth covered in areas with a fine, deep dust that engulfs all trespassers in a choking cloud of filth to hard lava rock that could just as readily rip off a man’s boot at the soles as strip the rubber pad from a tank tread. Everywhere the ground travels in crazy angles, sloping up toward the higher ground, then abruptly away toward the dry streambeds known as wadis. Hulking mountains turn into sheer cliffs, offering elusive passes to other severe terrain features. Estimations of distances are maddening in the clear desert air, things seeming much closer than they actually were. It would be easy for a gunner to fire at a target hopelessly beyond the range of his weapon, believing all the time that it was well within the envelope.

  At night the ground is engulfed by an eerie darkness, made more desolate by the vast emptiness of the endless desert. Without a moon to light the way a man could easily drive off the desert floor into one of many deep and treacherous wadis that crazily zig and zag across the valleys, unseen from any distance whatsoever, even in the brightest sunlight. The wadis offer a perplexing tactical problem, often suggesting a convenient avenue of approach to an armored column only to narrow to an impasse from which the only escape comes by backing up, a treacherous undertaking for a column of vehicles. The desert floor itself is anything but flat, a series of waffle-like rises and depressions that knock the senses out of a man and the mechanisms out of a machine.

  Accentuating the rigors of the terrain is the unrelenting weather, either too cold or too hot, too stifling or too windy, sparing nothing that painstakingly makes its way across the map of the desert. The sun rises suddenly, mounting in oppressive heat throughout the long summer so that by nine in the morning a man begins to yearn longingly for the end of the day. There is no shade, and as the sun rises higher in the sky its rays beat down ever more directly until by noon any metal surface—a weapon, a tank, a jeep hood, a helmet—is burning to the touch. By midafternoon men are going mad in the heat. Heads ache and eyes are skewered by the glaring rays of sunlight reflecting off the sand, a condition that worsens as the sun sinks lower in the sky and blinds any living thing trying to make its way in the direction of the setting sun.

  In the winter the sun rises just as surely, but only to mock the inhabitants of the desert with its refusal to warm, burning only the eyes of the disappointed beholder. Then the nights become almost unbearable as the meager heat of the day escapes into the unclouded atmosphere, leaving the unsheltered below chilled and shivering in the long night. Whatever heat has been gained serves only to accentuate the coldness that follows.

  And the wind—winter or summer—is merciless, drying, cracking, sandpaper-like with its airborne residue of the desert scraping away live skin from man and animal alike. When the blowing starts, it is relentless—cascading down the broad valleys from the high mountain ranges, building in fury until nothing can stand before it. Tents are ripped asunder, equipment is sheared from the decks of vehicles, men grope for cover as the needlelike sand fills their eyes, their noses, their mouths, their lungs. Speeds pick up from twenty miles per hour to near one hundred as the storm builds hour by hour, never slackening, seeming to be an endless trek of mounting violence and destruction. Humans choke and vomit from the shovelfuls of dirt that smash into their faces, now bleeding from the unceasing sandblasting. In the heat of summer the dehydration effect becomes life threatening. In the cold of winter the windchill factor plummets to extreme subzero readings, making frostbite an ever-present threat.

  Then suddenly the wind dies and the eerie quiet of the desert returns, the landscape somewhat altered by the shifting sand but still identifiable by the stark terrain features of rock piles turned mountains as if by the idle play of some giant’s hand. And somewhere in that fearsome playground lurks an enemy, an enemy familiar with every valley, pass, crest, wadi, and crevice, a familiarity burned into his brain with constant and repeated exposure; an enemy wily in using the terra
in to every possible advantage, who knows the line of sight of every weapon’s emplacement, who can register the fires of his artillery and mortars by memory; an enemy who has seen a score of times the blunders of his foes led astray by the deceptive terrain as they followed wadis into disastrous death traps or tried to scramble up seemingly gently sloping paths that suddenly turn into unclimbable cliffs; an enemy who knows every hidden crack in every cliff face, who can dig in his vehicles and men so expertly that they cannot be seen within spitting distance, but who can see out to the limits of their ranges and beyond.

  This was what Lieutenant Colonel Always learned from his staff in his initial spate of briefings, and what he would soon see for himself. The briefings were good, professional, succinct but to the point. They ran the gamut from enemy and terrain to maintenance and medical status of his own equipment and troops. One by one, his staff officers stood before him and outlined the problems that lay before him and the resources he had to overcome them. They spared him nothing and answered his questions straightforwardly.

  “When will we get our first mission?” Always asked Rogers.

  “Sir, it will be received tonight when the observers descend on us for the first time.”

  “From what I’ve heard, it figures they would wait until dark,” Always quipped. “Arrange a meeting here for me with my commanders at dusk, and have a helicopter standing by at first light so that I can make a reconnaissance in the morning. I need to see the ground for myself. I’ll be leaving now to find the executive officer. Continue with your contingency planning. Oh, by the way, I understand that I will be leading the task force from my own Bradley, my infantry fighting vehicle, or IFV as they say. Get my crew here with the vehicle so I can meet the men and learn a little about the machine before dawn. Any questions of me before I move on?”

  “No, sir. I’ll line up all of that.”

  “Very good. I’ll see you later.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Always greeted his jeep driver and sped off to find his executive officer in the jumble of activity over by the vehicle park. His dread of motor pools was soothed only by the good-naturedness of his driver, Specialist Sharp, a tall, alert-looking young man, who despite his attempt at an efficient but disinterested manner could not conceal his great interest in sizing up the new commander.

  “Well, Specialist Sharp, what’s the word on this battalion I’ve inherited?” Always was probing, knowing full well that in the next few minutes he would learn a great deal about his unit and his men. So far he had been impressed with the battalion; and the clean shavenness, brisk manner, correct salute, and open honesty of Sharp had already impressed him further. It was amazing how quickly a military unit could reveal itself in its men and its equipment, and very few of them at that.

  “We’re a pretty straight unit, sir. We make mistakes every now and then, but with a steady hand from the commander we’ll do just fine out here.” Always was now even more impressed by this stalwart soldier. A quick look around told him that his words might be on the mark. The soldiers within sight looked like soldiers should—uniforms worn properly, noncommissioned officers in sight everywhere supervising their men, officers and enlisted men exchanging salutes with obvious mutual respect, equipment seemingly cared for (proper bumper markings, vehicle canvas stitched where needed and tied down firmly, weapons clean, et cetera). Even the chatter over the radio was correctly done, crisp and to the point.

  “Over there please, Specialist Sharp.” The colonel indicated a commanding figure standing amidst a line of tanks being inspected by the ghouls issuing the equipment.

  “Good afternoon, Major Walters.” Always surprised his executive officer, but only for a second.

  “Good afternoon, sir. Major Rogers just called on the radio and said you would be coming over. We’ve got things under control, sir. Here is the equipment readiness report.” He handed Always a copy of the list of inoperative vehicles and radios, keeping the original for himself. “I can brief you on when we can expect them to come up, if you would like me to begin there.”

  Always exited the jeep and found himself looking up at the tall major. He was glad to see his XO so abreast of the maintenance status of the unit, but he asked him for a larger view of the battalion, about morale, personalities of the staff and commanders, the key noncommissioned officers, the state of readiness, discipline, military bearing, and courtesy. He noted approvingly Walters’ care to defame no one in his initial discussions of them. Even more admirable was Walters’ reluctance to pass on any judgment on the commanders. By so refraining he showed his keen awareness that relationships among commanders are special, and that a staff officer has no business trying to formulate what that relationship should be. As is always the case, by his choice of words Walters was saying much more about himself than about the unit or anyone in it.

  Always marveled at what he was discovering. Here was a unit as well disciplined, as well manned, and apparently as well led throughout its subordinate elements as any commander could hope to expect. It occurred to him that he would have no excuses for whatever ill might befall the task force in the operations to come. If he could not put this task force together into a coherent whole, it would be his own failing.

  Throughout the day, as Always moved around looking into every nook and cranny of his task force, talking to soldiers, meeting officers and sergeants, seeing and being seen, the thought was reinforced. His sense of identification with the battalion deepened, and his preoccupation with his own predicament was supplanted by a preoccupation with the unit. He was careful to reinforce the strong qualities of discipline and self-respect he found everywhere. He found himself straining to look the part of a strong commander, to sound the right note of firmness and encouragement in his conversations, to flatter when it was due, and to correct, but not harshly, when it was warranted. He felt the men respond to him, the almost 1,000 of them who constituted his task force with all of its attachments, as if they picked up his personality, and he theirs. By evening his desire to not let them down had surpassed his desire to get himself out of Purgatory. If he achieved the first, the second would follow, but it was the first consideration that stressed itself to him. Concern for his unit and its people had overtaken his concern for himself. Somehow, the burden of the responsibility eased the disquiet Always had known since awakening that morning at the gates of Purgatory.

  As Always arrived back at his TOC, Major Rogers hurried out to meet him. “Sir, we’ve just received our warning order from Brigade. We’ll be making a night road march tomorrow night up to a tactical assembly area south and west of Hill 931, to be followed by a dawn attack onto Objective BLUE, north of Hill 826.”

  Always looked at the map. Plenty of time, he thought to himself, and the terrain doesn’t look that rough, at least not from the map. “Do we know what’s up there?”

  “No, sir,” Rogers answered. “The S-2 has put in an intelligence request to higher headquarters. We’re hoping to get a quick answer to that question.”

  “Very good. Work me up a road march order. The attack doesn’t look that tough. After I meet with the commanders tonight have the XO get the staff together and work me up some options. We’ll mull things over, make a decision, and get the word out to the subordinate elements in the morning. In the meantime, keep that helicopter on order for me so I can make an early reconnaissance.”

  “Very good, sir. By the way, our observers are due momentarily.”

  A cold chill went down Always’ spine. During the afternoon he had become wrapped up in the myriad of details of commanding a battalion readying itself for action. Now he was reminded that this was to be no ordinary operation. A commander enjoys being king to his own soldiers. He didn’t want any godforsaken souls coming in to throw their weight around in his unit.

  But wanting and getting are two different things, and in an instant the roar of scores of jeep engines and a wave of dust engulfed the placid scene of operations officer and commander having a civil discussion. Like so man
y jackals, the dreaded observers descended upon the headquarters, each one seeking his counterpart, with a sneer upon his lips and an air of contemptuous disdain for the hapless victims. A harder bitten lot would be difficult to imagine—faces seared by the desert sun, eyes glaring with sadistic eagerness, hands calloused and chapped from the writing of so many long and derogatory reports.

  In their midst strode the most savage looking of the lot, a bull-necked demon emitting unmitigated callousness.

  “Are you Lieutenant Colonel Always?” he bellowed.

  “Yes,” answered Always, trying to deepen his voice and sound unintimidated.

  “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Drivon. I’m here to help you.” The dreaded words passed through his thick lips with a menacing, guttural snarl.

  “I’m glad you’re here.” Always was trying to hold his ground.

  In such manner the two of them sparred for several minutes, but it was clear that Drivon had the upper hand. Already his assistants were cornering their victims, admonishing them to attempt no subterfuge, to confess their sins openly, to display their mistakes unashamedly for all to see, and to appreciate gratefully all the wonderful advice they were about to receive from their benefactors (read “observers”).

  Always made a mental note to settle down his people later from this disquieting experience, to point out that there was no good to come of resistance to the presence of the observers.

  “Let me see what you’ve done with the warning order you just got.” Drivon snapped Always from his thoughts, and he passed on what little he had to show.