Defense of Hill 781 (26 page)

For Baker the effort to plug the gap meant using every tank killing system he had. One of these was Schwartz and O’Donnel, who killed the first tank through the gap. It had appeared across O’Donnel’s line of sight for four seconds. He needed only three to gun it down.

The climax of the fight at the Checkpoint took nine minutes. Only the first three were in doubt. After that it was merely a matter of the enemy being ground down to nothing. To his credit, he never took a step back. The aircraft got six. O’Donnel took out three more. Baker and Always got a tank apiece. The rest of Baker’s people, organic and attached, did their part. Every BMP and T-72 was destroyed. Later on, Baker and his men would argue over who killed what. If all claims were honored, some 156 enemy vehicles were killed in the fight, a pretty good tally from an enemy battalion that offered only about forty targets. The argument was moot, however. The important thing was that the entire attacking battalion had been destroyed before getting out of Battle Position 32.

The third enemy battalion was heading toward BP 30 when the two red flares rocketed up from the ground. The obstacle denying entrance to the sandy wash had been reduced. In its final act, the enemy squad fired its flares and attacked into the nearest Echo Company position. They all died in the cross fire. But they had done their job: the way was open, if it was seized upon fast enough.

The regimental commander knew it was his only chance. He shifted his third battalion; moved into column with them; and under the cover of all of his remaining artillery, made a beeline for BP 40. Always’ scouts picked up the change of direction first, but even as they called it in, the defending unit detected the shift. Always reached Major Walters by radio and directed him to pick up the rear battle, if it came to that. His XO was ahead of him, already having received the returning Delta Team and shifting them to reinforce Charlie’s fires. He
now moved himself to Battle Position 36. He almost hoped the enemy would get by Echo. He wanted a piece of them.

Captain Evans was outraged that the enemy had reduced his obstacle, but it was too late to undo that. All of his energy was focused on bringing his direct fire systems to bear on the onrushing enemy, the latter moving too fast to fire back. It was speed, not gunnery, the enemy commanders calculated, that counted now.

A company and a half were destroyed on the way through the gap. Evans suffered very little, aside from the ignominy of letting the enemy get past him. The embarrassment was redeemed a few minutes later, however, as Major Walters greeted the momentarily elated remnants of the enemy regiment with a reinforced company-sized ambush as they emerged astride BP 36. Only three enemy vehicles got by Walters and his people. They were policed up by the helicopter gunships that Always had shifted south to help out Walters.

The enemy regimental commander lay astride his BMP. He was a dying man, as much from the realization that he had lost his entire command as from the gaping hole in his armpit where once his arm had been. It was a bitter end. He did not know what had gone wrong.

Across the battlefield the acrid smells of gunpowder, burning diesel, and singed flesh mixed together to make a repulsive stench. Always looked with reddened eyes at the plumes of dark smoke rising everywhere. It occurred to him slowly that the fight was over, that he had won. He popped the hatch in his Bradley fully open and raised himself to a sitting position on the inside of die inverted cover. Major Rogers was already receiving the casualty reports. In a moment Always would make his rounds, check with his commanders, talk with his men. For now he wanted to savor his victory in silence.

CHAPTER 8
The Fruits of Victory

The final after-action review was finished. Lieutenant Colonel Drivon had been ecstatic, especially about taking credit for the great victory Always had achieved. Always had thanked him for his graciousness, then gotten away as quickly as he could to visit with his men one more time.

Elation was widespread throughout the task force. There is nothing as infectious as high morale, and nothing that gives rise to it quicker than victory.

Always felt an affection for each of his men. He tried to reach all of them, even though they were still busy reconstituting the force. Even after a momentous victory there is no rest for a unit. It still has to repair, reorganize, replace, and prepare for the next operation. All of these men had earned the right to leave Purgatory, but they would not go—could not go as professional soldiers—without first restoring a high state of order to their unit.

Despite their grime, despite the fatigue in their faces, there was no mistaking the joy and pride that showed through. It was in their eyes, carried in their voices, and sparkled from their very being. They had become a crack unit, and each man felt as if he had done it himself. In a way, each of them had.

Specialist Sharp epitomized the sense of accomplishment present in all the men of the battalion. He seemed to be even taller now; his walk had picked up an even greater jaunt. When he spoke to his fellow soldiers of “the Commander,” it was with a certain reverence that at the same time belied his belief, his conviction, that he had helped to make him what he was. He indeed had, as had all of the other soldiers in the unit.

The mutual respect between the leaders and the led forged a bond that ensured that this particular battalion would be forever-more victorious. It had reached a state of invincibility. It might lose a battle, but it could never be defeated.

For the next three days the battalion worked on turning in its equipment. The ghouls at the issue point were merciless, but Always’ men maintained their good humor. After all, they were on their way “home,” and nothing could dampen their spirits. The battalion leaders stayed with the men, working alongside, trying to bring some order to the chaos that reigned over the turn-in. Their presence tended to solidify the strong bonds that had already grown between leaders and led. No more cohesive unit ever existed.

In the final hours of the last day Always took leave of his officers. He would be seeing them again shortly, but the time had come for him to make his way to his final reward. One by one he shook their hands, said his good-byes, and rendered a final salute. The look in the eyes of the company commanders revealed a deep respect for their commander, who returned it tenfold. Major Rogers and Major Walters, upbeat and optimistic as usual, gave a fond farewell and turned immediately to the organization of the departure of the battalion.

It was with a great sense of nostalgia that Always made the long drive back to Manix. He had had his success, but it did not diminish his sense of loss at leaving the men with whom he had been through so much, who were so much a part of
him. Beneath the bridge where they had first met, Command Sergeant Major Hope prepared to say his last farewell to Lieutenant Colonel Always.

“How are you, Sergeant Major?”

“Well, sir, I’m doing just fine. I would say that our mission down here has been a success.”

Always looked into the intelligent eyes of this fine noncommissioned officer. For a moment he felt terribly self-conscious.

“I know I’ve gotten my victory, but somehow that doesn’t seem to be justification for my finally earning my way out of here. After all, it wasn’t me who did it. It was you, and the rest of those guys, the whole bunch of them, from major down to private.”

“Sir, there’s an old saw in the army that a unit can be only as good as its leader. I don’t know why it works that way, I can only say that it does. You gave them the freedom to be good. That’s what counts.”

Always pondered the words. “I’ll miss these guys. Surely there could never again be such a fine collection of people. When the chips were down, each of those men did his part. It was more than a commander has a right to expect.”

“Sir, you’re right. Those are fine people. But every unit in our army has got fine people. In life you appreciated those in your specialized area, but you were limited in your exposure, and for that reason you developed a small bias that caused us to hold up your final reward for a bit. It was not your victory that earned you the way out of Purgatory as much as it was your understanding that it takes a lot more than a single arm, a single branch of the army, to give your men the wherewithal to win. More importantly, you have learned the worth of all of our people—the mechanics, the cooks, the medics, the artillery, the air defenders, the drivers, the infantrymen, the tankers, the engineers, the aviators, the air forces, and so on. In so doing
you have lost most of your parochialism, and at the same time have become a better commander. That’s quite an accomplishment.”

“Well, Sergeant Major, I thank you for all your help. I know I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You’re very welcome, sir. It’s always a pleasure to work with a good battalion commander.”

“Will you be joining me?”

“In a little bit, sir. First I have a few things to check on with the men, then I’ll be along—at least for a little while before another lieutenant colonel comes by here.”

“I see. I guess I’m not the only small-minded SOB running around in our army. Well, I look forward to seeing you again. Thanks again, and Godspeed.”

The two men shook hands, saluted, and parted company.

Always stood alone for a moment, watching the sergeant major drive the long trail back into the desert. He heard the cars racing by overhead on the highway, struck by the irony that the joy seekers in those speeding cars probably would never appreciate the pleasure he had just experienced, the pleasure of being with a crack battalion of American soldiers.

Then he turned and began his trek toward the setting sun. The sky never seemed so bright.