The Red Line

Absolutely nothing, neither heaven, nor earth, nor MP, was going to slow Ramirez and Steele.

Ramirez raced toward the rear of the drab compound. At the last possible moment, he mashed the Humvee’s brakes. The vehicle skidded to a stop in front of the dismal gray building that served as the squadron dispensary. At the command center next door, Colonel Townes saw the Humvee arrive.

Desperate for news, he hurried to meet the vehicle. Townes hoped it was a messenger with word of the battle on E50 to protect Nuremberg. Or someone who could explain the endless fires in the eastern sky above E48. What he found was the hapless trio.

Townes looked at the distorted figure in the passenger seat. He knew the face. For the moment, however, the name escaped him. He glanced at the baby-faced privates. My God, they’re so young, the squadron commander thought. At this moment, hundreds of soldiers, exactly like these, are dying lonely deaths out there in the German snows.

At least he believed they were young until he stared at their faces a moment longer. A terrifying look pulled him deep within their haunting eyes. Inside, he found two very old men, who in the past five hours had seen far too much of life.

“Let’s get some help over here right now!” Townes said. “Get a stretcher out here! Hurry it up!”

Two medics appeared from the dispensary with a stiff stretcher of green canvas. They laid the stretcher on the cold ground. Robert Jensen was gently lifted from the seat and placed upon it.

The senior medic took his stethoscope, held up Jensen’s parka, and started moving the cold instrument around on his chest. He next checked the wounded cavalry soldier’s wrist, searching for signs of a pulse.

“Is he alive?” the squadron commander asked.

“Just barely. I’m picking up a faint heartbeat.”

“Good. Get him inside. I don’t want to lose even one more man if we can help it.”

The medics lifted the stretcher and carried it into the dispensary. The exhausted Steele climbed down from the rear of the Humvee. He struggled to help Ramirez out of the driver’s seat. Behind Ramirez, the seat was thick with blood. While they fought to maintain their balance in the snows, Colonel Townes spotted the heavy red stain.

He turned to Ramirez. There was true sadness in the squadron commander’s voice. “I’m sorry, Private. I saw the bandages on your head, but in the confusion didn’t notice your other wound. Can you make it into the dispensary?”

Ramirez’s false bravado spewed forth a final time. “Hell, sir, I’ve been hurt worse than this just walking down the street in East L.A.”

But the truth was that without Steele’s support, Ramirez would’ve collapsed on the spot. Townes gingerly cradled Ramirez’s injured shoulder and walked with the pair toward the dispensary. When they neared the building, Ramirez and Steele spotted the long rows of bodies lying in the snows. Each was covered with a thin plastic sheet that blew in the biting winds, revealing the grisly secret hidden within.

Inside the cramped dispensary, they found a madhouse. The squadron doctor, his physician’s assistant, and six medics were attempting to save the lives of two dozen badly wounded soldiers. The conversation was stilted and terse. Harried people ran in every direction. The stain of fresh blood was everywhere. The three stood frozen in the doorway, watching the macabre scene unfold.

The physician’s assistant and a combat-experienced medic were frantically working on their newest patient.

“What’s his blood type?” the PA asked.

The medic grabbed Jensen’s dog tags. He held them between two fingers long enough to make sure he didn’t make a mistake.

“A positive, sir.”

“Any A positive left?”

“Nope, got a couple of bottles of A negative.”

“Well, use them, then. Give him at least two pints.”

The medic fought his way to the refrigerator. While he waited for the blood, the PA recorded Jensen’s vital signs and began checking his injuries. The festering head wound brought immediate concern.

“Doctor, when you get a chance, you’d better take a look at this one.”

Ramirez collapsed. He dropped to his knees on the bloodstained floor. Colonel Townes helped Steele drag him to the only open examining table.

A medic hurried over to take a look at the latest in a lengthy line of problems.

“Get some blood into him, too,” the PA said.

“Blood type’s O negative,” the squadron commander said while looking at Ramirez’s dog tags.

“Oh shit,” the medic said. “Only one O negative left.”

“Use it anyway. Then follow it up with some plasma,” the PA said.

Cradling two pints of blood, the other medic rushed back to Jensen. He shoved a long needle into an exposed vein and taped it in place. Moments later, he did the same with the platoon sergeant’s other arm. A quick check of his efforts, and he was on his way to help with Ramirez.

“We can handle it from here, sir,” the medic said as he gently moved the squadron commander away from the table. He hoped Colonel Townes would take the hint and leave the hectic room.

Townes didn’t miss his meaning. He turned to Steele. “Let’s go outside, Private. I need to ask you some q

uestions about what’s going on up there.”

“All right, sir,” Steele said.

They headed for the door. For Steele, it was a welcome relief to leave the gruesome dispensary without its appearing that he was abandoning his buddies. They walked outside into the darkness and the unrelenting wind.

“What unit you with, Private?”

“Second Platoon, Delta Troop, sir.”

“Were you the ones making all that noise up on E48 a while ago?”

“Yes, sir. Us and Captain Murphy and his tanks.”

“What happened to everyone else?”

Steele’s answer was little more than a whisper. “I think they’re all dead, sir.”

“You say you think. Do you know for sure?”

“No, sir. I mean we didn’t see everyone die. But I’m pretty sure the Russians got them all.”

“Where are the Russians now?”

“Right behind us, sir.”

“No one to stop them before they get here?”

“Only one between them and us are those Bradley crews we talked to outside town.”

“No one else?”

“No. No one else, sir.”

Not the answers Townes had hoped to hear. But at least he now knew where the squadron stood.

“Thank you, Private. Stick around, I might need to ask you some more questions later on.”

Steele nodded in understanding. The squadron commander turned and walked toward the command center. It was time to plan one final, hopeless battle.

• • •

It was little more than a slaughter. The sixteen Bradleys never had a chance on the open ground. As soon as they were spotted, the Russians unleashed an immense barrage that nothing could survive. Remaining outside the TOWs’ range, the tanks destroyed their opponent without facing a single effective shot from the squadron’s Bradleys. At most, the eighty-six American lives slowed the Russians enough to add ten precious minutes to the West’s time.