The Chosen One

It had been a long day, but with their successes, and their superior night-fighting abilities, they’d no intention of stopping for even the briefest of moments. They were going to press their advantage and continue attacking throughout the infinite night.

As he walked, Erickson watched the progress of his Marines, judging their ability to carry the fight to the elusive enemy. Over the Challengers’ bellowing engines he talked with the men, testing their resolve. Even those taking a turn riding on the tanks or in the Humvees looked as he felt—thoroughly exhausted and ready for relief.

Always observant, they continued to shuffle along. The encroaching sunset was on their right as they moved across the unrelenting landscape in search of prey. From the distant sounds upon the featureless hills, there was meaningful fighting occurring elsewhere. But their corner of the conflict had become strangely still.

The platoon leader sensed it was almost too quiet. They’d soundly defeated their battered adversary, pushing him back. Nevertheless, something didn’t quite fit. The Mahdi had limitless divisions waiting in the Allies’ path. Where they were, and why they weren’t putting up more of a fight, he couldn’t comprehend.

It wouldn’t be long, however, before the answer would come.

Without warning, the late afternoon’s malaise was shattered. On the left, thirty yards from Erickson’s position, a violent blast hurled a plodding Marine into the air, dumping him upon the rock-strewn ground. Erickson turned toward the unexpected sound. The severely wounded private lay screaming at the top of his lungs. He flailed about, the all-consuming pain tearing at his anguished brain. His right leg, from the knee down, was gone. His left was shredded and bleeding. Erickson took an additional step and froze.

The injured American was one of those he’d taken command of earlier in the week. He wasn’t one hundred percent certain, but he believed the private’s name was Ruiz. On the far right, near James Fife, an earthshaking explosion pierced the growing evening less than a heartbeat later. Like a discarded rag doll, the British platoon’s westernmost tank was tossed upon its side. Smoke poured from the ruptured Challenger’s belly. Its left track was gone.

Erickson knew it could only be one thing. The advancing battalion had walked into a minefield. The area around them had been saturated with both antitank and antipersonnel mines.

Erickson searched the listless ground, looking for clues to where the mines had been placed. Yet he couldn’t spot anything out of the ordinary. Despite the short time they had, their opponent had done a masterful job of planting the mines and disguising their locations.

The surviving British tanks and the Humvees ground to a halt. The critically injured private continued screaming.

“Nobody move!” Erickson yelled. He signaled the platoon to freeze. “We’ve hit a minefield. Platoon Sergeant!”

“Yes, sir!”

“Take a couple of men and head over to that crippled Challenger. Before it blows, get the crew out and check on our guys who were riding on it. Once I’ve got everybody organized, I’ll try to reach Ruiz and see what I can do until we get a corpsman up here.”

“Will do, sir.” Gunny turned to the nearest Marines. “Williamson, Ayers, nice and slow move over to that tank and give me a hand. We’ve got to get them away from there before the fires reach its ammunition.”

“Private First Class Gardner,” Erickson said to the platoon’s new radio operator, “tell battalion we’ve stumbled upon a minefield. Inform them of the need for a couple of corpsmen up here on the double.” With Petty Officer Bright’s death earlier in the war, the platoon no longer had its own medic and would have to wait for outside help.

“I’m on it, sir.”

“The rest of you retrace your footsteps. Should you step on a mine, try not to panic. Leave your foot where it is, notify those around you of your situation, and wait for help to arrive.”

Erickson looked around. His men were doing exactly as he’d directed. A step at a time, each was easing away from the baneful field. The three remaining tanks and the Humvees began slowly backing, using their earlier tracks to guide them to safety. Satisfied with the platoon’s actions, Erickson edged across the leering desert toward the screaming Ruiz. With each movement, the platoon leader waited to hear the telltale click from an antipersonnel mine. The anguished teenager continued to writhe upon the bitter ground, out of his mind in pain.

Fife and his men headed toward the disabled tank. Each moved warily across the open ground. The tank’s commander and gunner, riding with their hatches open, had been blown clear by the massive explosion. They lay a dozen feet from the smoldering Challenger. The loader and driver were trapped inside its immense walls.

Williamson reached the tank commander. The British sergeant lay in a heap. His right arm was shattered. A jagged piece of bone had pierced the skin inches below his elbow. Blood ran down his face from a nasty scalp wound above his right eye. His left leg was twisted in such a manner there was no doubt it was broken. Williamson pulled out his meager first-aid pouch. He applied a compress to the gaping head wound. Hopefully, a corpsman would arrive soon. If not, he’d attempt to carry the British soldier across the minefield before the ravishing flames blew the Challenger apart.

The tank’s gunner had survived unharmed, but a bit disoriented. Lance Corporal Ayers helped him up and after looking him over took him to stand in the tank’s tracks. He then went after the two Americans who’d been riding on the Challenger. There was nothing he could do for the first. He moved over to the second, who had already gotten to his feet. His injuries were little more than a twisted ankle along with some deep cuts and bruises.

With his eyes scanning every inch of ground, Ayers walked him over and placed him next to the tank’s gunner. “Don’t either of you move until we tell you to,” he directed the pair. “Gunny, Nolan and the tank’s gunner are ready to be evacuated. But Corporal Reeves is dead. Looks like he broke his neck in the fall. What do you want me to do?”

Fife had reached the burning leviathan. He glanced at the fires growing within its punctured frame. He knew even with the Challenger’s excellent fire suppression system there was little time remaining before the disabled tank would explode.

“Step over here real careful like. We’ve got to get the other two crewmen out before it’s too late. I’ll crawl in after the loader. You free the driver from the front compartment.”

“I’m on it,” Ayers responded while taking a first careful step toward the crippled tank.

The pair commenced the highly dangerous task. Each knew the clock was ticking. But luck was with them. Both trapped crewmen were alive and neither was seriously injured. The crewmen were soon out of the distressing mass. Ayers took his four charges and with the tank tracks as his guide headed toward safety. Fife went over and did what he could to assist Williamson with the badly injured tank commander. As quickly as they dared, they picked him up and left the field.

Moments later, the tank exploded.

* * *

—

Erickson neared Ruiz’s position. It felt like forever, but eventually he was at the private’s side. The lieutenant examined the obscene results. There was no denying the injuries were life threatening. He put tourniquets on both legs using his belt and Ruiz’s. The wounded private continued yelling. An ashen-faced corpsman appeared with a stretcher. A shot of morphine and they placed the disabled private upon it. They were soon on their way out of the deadly field, carrying the stretcher toward safety. Erickson led, searching for the most likely location to place his feet. He was certain each footfall would be his last. Yet somehow they made their way out of the danger.

Within minutes, a medevac helicopter arrived and whisked the wounded away. The crisis was over as rapidly as it had begun.

* * *

—

The platoon would get the rest they craved. In the approaching darkness, it would take the B

ritish minesweeping tanks three hours to reach their location. And with no idea of the width or depth of the minefield, the Allies weren’t going to risk a nighttime clearance. The Marines would dig deep foxholes to support the Challengers.

Well after sunset, Erickson settled into his sandbagged world. From the beach, they’d traveled thirty-five miles on the opening day of the advance. For the next twelve hours, however, they’d be going nowhere. The platoon’s euphoria from the afternoon’s mastery was gradually ebbing.

To a man, the worn Americans suspected their dreams of reaching Cairo in four days had been wildly optimistic. All understood their triumph was going to take much longer, and involve far more suffering, than any of them cared to admit.