Sword Point (33 page)

Dixon called for the artillery to fire scatter able mines. These mines, in conjunction with the antitank ditch and the mines already in place, slowed and disrupted the well-orchestrated Soviet battle drill. Despite large volumes of artillery- and tank-generated smoke, efforts to breach the obstacles were frustrated by accurate M-1 tank fire. Soviet mine rollers and plows, along with MTU bridge layers, were destroyed as soon as they ventured forward.

T-80 tanks standing off and attempting to provide cover fire for the mine rollers and plows were, in their turn, destroyed. Seeing no way around the obstacle and little chance of bulling through, the Soviets began to withdraw.

As the battle began to ebb, Dixon’s assistant called him on the radio and asked if he had been monitoring the brigade-command frequency.

Dixon, caught up in the battalion’s fight, had not. The assistant S-3

reported that the brigade was having difficulty contacting the 1st of the 503rd

Infantry. That battalion had reported earlier that it was being hit by tanks and BMPs, and after several sketchy reports it had stopped answering the brigade’s calls.

Dixon was concerned. If the infantry battalion had been hit by a regiment equipped with BMPs, odds were that the main effort was going in against the 503rd and not the 3rd of the 4th Armor. The fight that was dying out to his front was probably nothing more than a supporting attack whose purpose was to divert attention while the Soviets broke through the infantry battalion.

Dixon contacted his commander and relayed his conclusions. The battalion commander concurred and, in turn, contacted the brigade commander, with the result that the armored battalion was instructed to make physical contact with the 1st of the 503rd Infantry and clarify the situation over there.

With the scouts forward, Charlie Company still flushing out the Soviet survivors, and the battalion commander needed in the battalion sector, it was up to Dixon to make that contact. Besides, Dixon knew where the two battalions’

designated contact points were. Without giving it further thought, he ordered his driver to back the Bradley out of its position.

Even after the Bradley had moved into the infantry sector-having avoided enemy fire by traveling along covered and concealed routes—it inched along with caution. Since they were approaching the other battalion’s positions from the rear and were five kilometers from where the front line should be, they had more to fear from a nervous U.S.

infantryman armed with an antitank rocket launcher than from the Soviets.

As they moved forward through a narrow, twisting wadi, Dixon had a crewman in the rear compartment switch the radio to the battalion-command frequency of the 1st of the 503rd Infantry and attempted to raise someone on that net. There was no response. After three unsuccessful attempts, he decided to try a company command net in that battalion. Just as Dixon lowered himself onto his seat inside the turret and pulled out his code book to look up the company frequencies, his gunner screamed, “Jesus Christ! Back up-no, driver, stop! On the waaay!” This was immediately followed by a long burst of 25mm cannon fire as the gunner held his trigger down, pumping out rounds.

Dixon was startled. He looked at his gunner, who had now stopped firing, and shouted at him without keying the intercom, “What the fuck are you doing?”

The gunner didn’t answer, but kept his eye glued to his sight. Then it dawned upon Dixon what had happened. Letting the code book fall to the floor, he popped his head up out of the turret and looked in the direction the 25mm gun was pointed. To their front, at a range of less than twenty meters, was a burning Soviet
BMP
, its 30mm gun aimed at Dixon.

My center gives way, my right is pushed back, situation excellent, I am attacking.

-
FERDINAND
FOCH

Twenty Kilometers South of Hatvand 0810 Hours, 8 July (0440 Hours, 8

July,
GMT
)

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 241 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.

North of Harvand 0845 Hours, 8 July (0515 Hours, 8 July,
GMT
) 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 242 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 burning. He was about to heave a sigh of relief when his eyes fell upon his BTR-60. Smoke was pouring from its open hatches. It had been hit.

As he rushed over, the chatter of machine-gun fire announced the approach of the attacking aircraft. The low pitch ripping sound of the A-10s’ miniguns sent Vorishnov diving. As he flattened himself against the ground he imagined he could feel the planes’ 30mm. projectiles passing right over him. The pock-pock-pock of the rounds hitting metal, followed by a low, rumbling explosion, told him that another tank had died. When the screech of the jets’ engines had again passed, Vorishnov picked himself up and ran toward the
BTR
.