The Red Line

Inside the fully buttoned-up tank, Richardson stared at the killing grounds of the broad meadow. He’d been watching the Russian squad as it desperately searched for a place to cross the icy currents. His voice was detached and strangely matter-of-fact. “I know, I know. Relax. I’ve had them the whole way. Just wanted to wait for a little better shot. If it’ll make the three of you feel better, I’ll kill them right now.”

After the destruction of the platoon’s other tanks, his crew had noticed how oddly Richardson was acting. It was almost as if their tank’s commander had accepted the inevitable and given up hope.

With the loss of the lieutenant’s tank, Richardson had come to realize that his own death was grinningly waiting for him on the dark night. His jealousy of Pierson and Warrick had spewed forth and seized his fragile soul. The members of his crew had a strong, supportive family back home. Families who’d grieve greatly at their demise. But the young tank commander had no one. He’d never known his father. And he hadn’t spoken to his alcoholic mother in eight years. Not since she, in a drunken rage, had kicked him out at the age of fifteen.

There was no one else.

Richardson knew there’d be no one to mourn his passing.

He whirled the machine gun to the right. For the past ten minutes, the Russian infantry had been working its way through the thick trees along the edge of the wide meadow. The squad had just begun moving across a small clearing near the swiftly flowing stream. Without warning, the tank commander’s machine gun pounded away at the exposed soldiers. Richardson aimed at the pair of Russians carrying antitank missiles. Four of the eight soldiers fell beneath the withering gunfire of the sudden attack. The antitank missiles dropped into the open meadow, along with the soldiers who’d carried them.

The remaining infantrymen dove into the trees. They returned the tank’s fire with their rifles. Each shot at the Abrams while waiting for one of the others to run into the glade to retrieve the antitank weapons. None was as yet so stupid, or so brave. The rifle bullets bounced harmlessly off the foot-thick armor plating on the front of the M-1. Richardson laughed at the feeble efforts. In his deeply protective world, no bullet was going to reach him. The infantry soldiers were wasting their time.

Unlike Richardson, Warrick and Pierson hadn’t given up hope.

“Tim, we’ve got to get out of here,” Warrick said. “If we don’t make a run for it soon, we’ve got no chance.”

“Yeah, Tony, I know. But battalion ordered us to hold this position no matter what.”

“I understand, but that was two hours ago. Why don’t you talk to them again?”

Richardson rubbed his tired eyes. None of the M-1’s crew had slept more than scant minutes in the past three days. And they hadn’t closed their eyes for a single moment in more than a day and a half.

“All right, all right, let me see what I can do.” He spoke into the radio. “Echo-Yankee-One, this is Sierra-Kilo-One-Two.”

“Roger, Sierra-Kilo-One-Two. Go ahead.”

“Echo-Yankee-One, we’re greatly outnumbered. Our position has become untenable. Request we be allowed to retract and retreat.”

“Understood, Sierra-Kilo-One-Two. Wait one.”

Richardson fired at the first of the infantrymen foolhardy enough to attempt to retrieve the missiles. The Russian dropped like a stone at the edge of the glen. He fell into the wide brook. As the soldier’s blood was added to the stream, its swirling, frigid waters turned an ever-deepening shade of red.

The battalion radio operator returned. “Sierra-Kilo-One-Two, be advised, we need you to remain in place a little longer. The battalion’s going to conduct an organized retreat in approximately thirty minutes. Until then, you must hold Highway 19. If the Russians break through your position, the entire battalion’s going to be trapped.”

Not that there was much of a battalion left. After thirty hours of ruthless battle, eleven of forty-five tanks fought on. Only five of the unit’s Bradleys were still in the fray.

“Roger, Echo-Yankee-One. But you need to understand, we’re in severe distress. It’s highly unlikely we can hold out that long. We’re running out of machine-gun ammunition, and the enemy’s advances are growing bolder by the second. We’re going to be dead in the next ten minutes if required to remain in our present position.”

“Okay, Sierra-Kilo-One-Two, let me see what I can do.”

A BMP moved to the tree line on the far side of the meadow. The armored vehicle opened its rear door to discharge its infantry. Warrick started targeting the personnel carrier.

The soldiers inside the Abrams held their breath and waited. They knew their lives were going to end quite soon if the battalion commander insisted on their holding this impossible defensive position.

“Whoosh!” The mighty sound reverberated throughout the frightening night as Warrick fired at the BMP. The BMP erupted in roaring fires reaching into the highest treetops. The Americans watched two dreadful figures emerge from the rear of the defeated personnel carrier. Each was fully engulfed in flames. The fiery forms staggered into the snows and fell. Three hundred yards away, the Americans couldn’t hear the

anguished screams of the blazing humans.

Just to remind the survivors of the infantry squad that he hadn’t forgotten about them, Richardson fired a quick burst in their direction.

There was nothing but silence over the radio. The tension in the tank’s confined spaces grew heavy.

Warrick’s patience was spent. “Where the hell’s battalion?” he said.

“Relax,” Richardson said, “it’s probably time for their coffee break.”

No one was in any mood to laugh.

The radio suddenly crackled to life. “Sierra-Kilo-One-Two, Six,” the radio operator said, using the slang for the battalion commander, “says you’re to hold your position at all costs. If you don’t, the battalion’s retreat will be cut off.”

“Roger, we understand. Hold at all cost.”

“Hang in there, Sierra-Kilo-One-Two. Six just released his last two Apaches to assist you. They’re on the way. They should be there in three minutes.”

“Roger. Hanging in there.”

A roller coaster of emotions roared through Richardson. As the fearsome Russian assault had gone on minute after minute, hour after hour, he’d watched his friends die on his left and right. For the past few hours, he’d grown to accept his own impending end. At this point, he saw no reason to let his hopes get too high. The lone American tank was in an extremely dire position. But with the promised Apaches soon to be overhead, there was a growing chance the Abrams’s crew might actually live to see the sunrise. For the first time since Lieutenant Mallory’s death, Richardson allowed the slimmest glimmer of hope to enter his anguished mind.

It would be the longest three minutes in any of their young lives. Within seconds of the battalion’s message, three T-72s moved to the edge of the trees on the eastern end of the meadow.