The Red Line

“What’re we going to do?”

“I wish I knew. One thing’s for certain, we can’t stay here.”

So far, their leader’s instincts had served them well. But now he faced a new dilemma. If they didn’t get off the north–south highway and onto one heading west, his platoon would soon be trapped.

They had two alternatives. They could try to run north. In that direction, the highway headed northeast. Winding slowly away from the border for twelve miles, it would take the platoon nearly thirty minutes to reach the town of Selb. There they’d find a roadway leading to the west. Or the platoon could flee five miles south. There the highway connected with E48, the major east–west artery running through this section of Germany. That would place them three miles west of the border checkpoint manned by Echo Troop’s 4th Platoon and a few miles east of the small German town of Schirnding.

Either way—north or south, it might already be too late. For all Jensen knew, the enemy could have breached the north–south highway in a number of locations. They could be trapped no matter which way he chose. And he knew that even if they were fortunate enough to reach one of the western-reaching highways, the Russians could be ten miles into Germany by the time the platoon arrived.

Jensen poked his head into the rear compartment of Austin’s Bradley, where Jelewski and his radios had found a home.

“What’s the word on the squadron net?”

“Real confusing,” Jelewski said. “One thing’s for sure, they’ve hit hard all up and down the border.”

Information Jensen already knew from the sounds of the pitched battles raging both north and south of the platoon.

“Haven’t been able to make much sense out of any of it,” Jelewski added.

“Any word on whether they’ve breached our lines?”

“Can’t really tell. Some units have failed to report in entirely. Others seem to be holding on okay. Russians are jamming our frequencies like crazy, so squadron’s changing them constantly. I’m not getting much of it at all. But what I can tell you is that because of the weather, squadron says they can’t get the Apaches into the air until morning. They’re going to try to send one of the tank troops along with a couple of platoons of Bradleys our way, though.”

“Get on the radio and tell them they’d better do a lot better than try.” And Jensen made the decision that could end the lives of every member of the platoon in the next few minutes. “Tell them we’ve blocked an armored column’s advance within a mile of the border but we can’t hold any longer and we’re retreating to take up a secondary position. Give them the map coordinates for E48 just east of Schirnding. If we can get there, that’ll be the platoon’s next position.”

“Roger.”

Jensen had chosen his next move. Now was not the time to try anything cute. They would head for the nearest east–west highway and pray they got there before the Russians did.

They needed to hurry. Their location was quite desperate. Jensen, however, had to make a second, equally important choice before they could hope to have any chance of escaping the hangman’s noose.

Should they go fast or slow?

If they moved cautiously, the Russians were bound to arrive at the north–south highway’s entrance to E48 before they did. If the platoon moved too quickly, however, what they’d done to the Russian column in the woods a few minutes earlier was probably going to happen to them. If enemy units had breached the north–south highway, this time 2nd Platoon would be on the wrong end of the ambush. Neither option was particularly attractive.

The platoon sergeant decided to do the only thing he could. The platoon would move fast. But he’d send out a sacrificial lamb to try to fool any wolves that might be waiting.

He would be the sacrificial lamb.

Bringing together as much of the battered platoon as he could, he hurriedly explained his plan. He would take two soldiers with him in the Humvee. One would drive, the other handle the machine gun. They’d rush south as fast as they could. The five Bradleys would trail far enough behind to be out of sight. If the Humvee came upon an enemy trap, Jensen would try to spring it before the Russians realized he wasn’t alone. It was the best chance he had of saving the platoon.

As Ramirez, head bandaged by the platoon medic, and Steele were without weapons, they were reluctantly elected to go with him. Steele climbed behind the machine gun. Ramirez got behind the wheel. Jensen sat in the passenger seat, ready to cry out over the radio at the first sign of trouble.

It was time to move. The Humvee cautiously poked its nose from the woods and headed onto the highway.

They were soon up to traveling speed on the deserted roadway. Going thirty miles per hour, they plunged through the deep snows. It was a speed the Bradleys could easily match.

It wasn’t long before the Humvee completed the first terrifying mile.

Jensen spoke into his headset, “Delta-Two, move out.”

“Roger,” Austin said.

One at a time, every few seconds, a Bradley hurtled from the woods and onto the open highway. In a little more than a minute, all five were on the narrow ribbon that would carry them south to prepare for the next battle. Again, hopefully on Jensen’s terms and Jensen’s terrain.

• • •

From a safe distance, the general surveyed the burning wreckage at the front of the stalled column. He turned toward the tall figure standing next to him in the snows.

“Well, Dmetri, what do you have to say about our foe now?”

“Comrade Commander, you were right in your estimate of the enemy. He turned out to be quite resourceful.”

“How long did the lead battalion commander say it would take for his infantry to secure the woods?”

“At least three hours. Possibly more if we encounter serious resistance.”

“What about this?” The general motioned to the burning wreckage. “How long before we can be under way again?”

“He didn’t know, Comrade Commander. He can’t begin clearing the wreckage until he’s certain all the ammunition inside the burning tanks has exploded. It might take many hours before we can extricate ourselves.”

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Dmetri. We’d better find a way out of here before morning. If the American air forces find us here at dawn’s first light, none of us will survive.”

• • •

The Bradley crews blindly followed the man who’d so far kept them alive. None of them needed their night-vision systems to find their way through the bliz

zard. To their left, scores of burning Russian and American vehicles created their own false sunrise in the east.

Jensen, his eyes fixed upon the fearful roadway, knew if all went well, the platoon would arrive at its next position in fifteen minutes. And if things didn’t go well, they’d never arrive.

When the Humvee completed the second mile without incident, even the stoic platoon sergeant began believing his fateful decision had been correct. He glanced over at Ramirez. The private’s hands were locked onto the steering wheel. The fear in Ramirez’s eyes was undeniable.

“Keep alert . . . keep alert,” he admonished his inexperienced companions. And himself.

The Humvee was three miles from E48. Their precarious luck needed to hold for a few minutes more. Much could still go wrong. The Humvee might not fool the enemy and spring a waiting ambush. The Russians could arrive at the roadway just after the Humvee passed, catching the trailing Bradleys. Or E48 could be crawling with Russian tanks when they got there.

“Come on 4th Platoon, Echo Troop, don’t let us down,” he muttered to himself.

Unlike Jensen’s platoon, the doomed soldiers of Echo Troop’s 4th Platoon didn’t have a tactical edge over their opponent. Jensen had the twisting trail, which he used to its utmost advantage.

But 4th Platoon was responsible for a major four-lane highway into and out of Germany. They couldn’t stop the enemy by destroying a few lead tanks. Hit three minutes after the attack on Jensen’s men, they’d heard Jelewski’s alert on the squadron net moments before the enemy slammed into them. It had helped.

Even so, it wasn’t nearly enough. Now, twenty minutes into the war, all eight of the platoon’s Bradleys lay burning at the border. All forty-three of the platoon’s men were dead.

They’d held out for as long as they could, taking a dozen Russian tanks with them to their graves. But after a fierce struggle, an immense enemy armored column two thousand vehicles long was rolling west unopposed.