The Red Line

The gregarious M-1 commander was well liked by everyone within the tank company. Nevertheless, only the eleven other members of his platoon felt they knew him well. And even they had to admit that when it came right down to it, none of them really ever knew what Tim Richardson was thinking. There was a distrust Richardson held for people, which caused him to keep even his closest friends at arm’s length. Those sentiments could be traced directly to an exceptionally harsh and abusive childhood.

Richardson ran back to his room. He grabbed his parka, hat, and gloves. He threw these final articles of clothing on while flying down the second-floor hallway toward the middle of the building. Once there, he hurled himself down the wide stairs.

He pushed open the barracks door. A blast of arctic cold rocked him to his very soul as he stepped from the building. So much for finding a way to rid himself of the alcohol still running through his veins.

“Son of a bitch!” he screamed.

The snows pelted him as he hurried to his place on the far left of the company formation. All three of his M-1 tank’s crew members were waiting in the darkness when he arrived. Tony Warrick and his tank’s driver, PFC Jamie Pierson, looked as miserable as Richardson felt. At the end of the short line, the face of the tank crew’s newest member, Private Clark Vincent, was as emotionless as ever. All three had their backs turned to the driving winds. But their feeble efforts were of little use against the biting snows that pummeled them.

“Jesus,” Richardson said. “Do you believe this shit?”

“Who’s the clown that came up with this brilliant idea?” Warrick said.

“Probably some second lieutenant up at division who got bored on staff duty and decided to have a little fun.”

“Whoever he is, he’s got to be crazy,” Warrick said. “I vote we find out who he is, go up to division, and kill him.”

“Nah, Tony, we can’t do that,” Jamie Pierson said. “Someone told me that if you kill a second lieutenant, they get real mad and punish you by not letting you go into Wurzburg for two whole weeks.”

“And I heard,” Vincent added, “that they also kick you off the company bowling team for six months.”

The three of them stared at Vincent in complete disbelief. This was the most any of them had ever heard the young private utter in his brief time with the M-1 crew. In his six weeks serving on Richardson’s team, Vincent, the tank’s new loader, hadn’t said more than one word at a time, and then only on rare occasions. And most of those words had consisted of a single syllable.

Richardson was the first to recover from Vincent’s actions. “There you have it, Tony. No second lieutenant’s worth that.”

“Then it’s settled,” Warrick said. “We won’t kill him. We’ll just go up to division and hurt him real bad.”

Although the longer they stood, and the more miserable they became, the better the murder idea sounded.

The first sergeant walked to the front of the formation in the purposeful strut all first sergeants seem to instinctually develop. He looked at the men huddled in the company area. If the elements were bothering the first sergeant, he would never show it.

“Company, fal-l-l in!”

The soldiers snapped to attention. Each held his head high while looking straight ahead. The windblown snows tore at their faces. Not a soldier flinched. Not a soul blinked. No matter how uncomfortable they were, once called to attention, they would never move until allowed to do so.

“Re-e-e-port!”

The four platoon sergeants did an about-face in the snow to look at their platoons. Staff Sergeant Greene, 1st Platoon Sergeant, repeated the command, “Report.”

After 1st Squad reported, Richardson said, “Second squad, all present.” He saluted Greene. Greene returned his salute.

When the platoons had reported to their sergeants, each sergeant did an about-face once again. Greene waited until the first sergeant looked his way.

“First Platoon, one man unaccounted for,” Greene said. He saluted the first sergeant. The first sergeant returned the salute and moved on to 2nd Platoon.

Six of the tank company’s men were absent. Four were married soldiers who hadn’t yet arrived. The other two were tankers who’d found a willing Fraulein’s company. Both were presently snuggled under thick German comforters on opposite ends of the gray streets of Wurzburg.

The report taken, the lieutenants moved forward from their positions at the rear of the platoons. The platoon sergeants exchanged salutes with the platoon leaders. Each sergeant moved to the rear of the platoon to stand where his lieutenant had previously stood. Lieutenant Mallory now stood in front of 1st Platoon.

The company commander came forward. He faced the first sergeant. The first sergeant reported to the captain. They also exchanged salutes. The first sergeant turned and strutted around to the back of the formation.

“At ease,” the company commander said. He paused for a moment and stared into the faces of the soldiers under his command. It was obvious that he was searching for just the right words. “Men, I don’t know any other way to tell you this. So I’m just going to say it. Russian armor attacked in force about an hour ago. The German border’s been overrun. As of this moment, we’re at war.”

Even in the midst of a blizzard, the body language of the soldiers evidenced the surprise each felt. Like so many others on this night, Richardson wondered what it all meant to him. He didn’t ponder anything as esoteric as how many more sunrises he would see or what his own end would be like. At twenty-three, he still felt the complete invincibility of youth. The possibility of his death wasn’t remotely comprehensible. Instead, he focused on something far more concrete and tangible. The first thing to enter his mind was how cold his feet always got and how many extra pairs of socks he should take along in his tank.

“The battalion commander’s gone up to brigade to receive our battle plan and marching orders. While we’re waiting for the orders to come through, each of you is to go into the barracks and get your field gear ready to go. We’ll fall you out again when we’re set to move. Until then, I recommend you stay in the barracks and keep as warm as possible. I’ll send someone to the mess hall for coffee and donuts.”

Protocol called for the company commander to turn the company over to the platoon leaders, who would turn the platoons over to the platoon sergeants, who would dismiss their men. But enough was enough. The captain wanted his soldiers inside as quickly as possible. So he dispensed with the formalities and dismissed the company himself.

The tankers wandered back into the ancient barracks. In silence, each soldier went to his room and took down his previously prepared field bags from the top of his locker. Richardson grabbed a handful of extra socks. He stuffed them into one of the bags and placed the bags in his doorway.

The soldiers began mentally preparing for the task that lay ahead. A half hour went by. The coffee and donuts arrived. There was muted talk, whispering really, but nothing more.

The tankers waited on the company commander, who waited on the battalion commander, who waited on the brigade commander, who waited on the division commander. The division commander waited on Army headquarters in Heidelberg. Heidelberg waited on European Command Headquarters in Stuttgart, who, thanks to George O’Neill’s efforts, was talking with the Pentagon. The Pentagon spoke with the President.

Another half hour went by. Richardson went back into his room and flopped down on his bed. He looked up at the peeling ceiling and waited some more.

The President released the Pentagon to do their job. The Pentagon talked to Stuttgart. After a dozen tries, Stuttgart finally got through to Heidelberg. An hour passed. It was 3:00 a.m. Russian tanks were pouring into Germany. Richardson wandered down to the first floor for another donut and a second cup of coffee.

Heidelberg spoke to the division commander. The division commander called the three brigade commanders together

and told them which battle plan to implement. The brigade commanders returned to their brigades. They called the battalion commanders together. The battalion commanders were briefed on the battle plan. Richardson sat in the second-floor hallway with his back against the wall and his legs sticking straight out. He stared at the lifeless, cream-colored wall on the other side of the hall. The battalion commanders returned to their battalions.

The battalion commanders called the company commanders together. The company commanders returned to their companies and informed the platoon leaders of the plan.

The first sergeant ran across the company area. He shot up the icy steps and burst through the heavy wooden doors.

“Everybody form up outside!” he yelled.