As fragments pinged off the German tank’s steel hull, Reynolds tried to imagine being exposed in that hurricane of fire, and failed. At least his troops had been warned. The Germans, though, should have been caught by surprise. Most people killed by artillery die in the first thirty seconds. That’s about as long as it takes trained soldiers to find decent cover. So by now, everyone caught inside the barrage was either dead or cowering in some kind of shelter. Most important of all, the Germans weren’t moving.
When the artillery stopped, the silence it left behind was almost absolute. In that silence, Reynolds could hear a new noise, the bass roar of dozens of diesel engines. He crawled out from under the wreck and moved toward the edge of the woods with Adams at his side. There, grabbing his binoculars, he peered through the clearing smoke and dust to the south.
A new formation of Leopard 2s swept across the open fields, headed straight for them. He stared in horror. Neatly grouped by platoons and companies, the panzer battalion moving up could almost have been on parade. A second rank of Marder APCs followed close on their treads, and Reynolds bet that behind them was a third. Probably with more tanks in reserve.
While the first German outfit had blown open the breach, weakening itself in the process, this new enemy brigade had run through the open. Fresh, unbloodied, and moving fast, it would slam into the woods in a few minutes, and they didn’t have a prayer of stopping it.
Sergeant Robbins ran over and dropped prone beside him. “My guys are scattered all over hell, Captain. We’ve got five more dead, another six or seven wounded. Both M60s are manned, but both Javelin crews are gone, wounded or missing. We only had two missiles left anyway. I’m rallying the men now.”
Rallying what? Reynolds wondered numbly. Second Platoon couldn’t have very many men left in fighting shape. Probably fewer than a dozen. Were the other platoons in any better shape? For the first time in minutes he wondered how Major Prazmo’s Poles had fared. He glanced off to the right, toward the sector the major’s men and tanks had been holding. Columns of black smoke spiraled upward from the tangle of splintered trees.
He grimaced. He had to regain control of his scattered company. They might have some fight left, but they had to recover. It took time to reorganize and treat the wounded — time the Germans were not going to let him have.
Even as he started to pass orders, the whumph of an antitank missile told him Alpha Company was in the light again. The sound came from the left, and through the trees he saw part of the enemy tank formation turn tightly while one of their number fired its gun, presumably back toward the launcher.
From the direction the Leopards were pointing, it looked like 1st Platoon had fired. At least one of the two Javelin teams he’d assigned to Caruso’s men was still intact and had missiles to fire. He felt proud that his men still had fight left in them after all they’d been through. But stacking one or two antitank teams up against an intact enemy tank formation was asking too damned much. Even David had only had to fight one Goliath.
Another missile leapt out toward the Germans. Then another, and another, and another flashed out from under the tree — seeking targets. His pride turned to puzzlement. Altogether, almost a dozen missiles were fired, and half found marks, some far beyond Javelin range. Where the hell were those missiles coming from?
Boots crashed through the undergrowth and he heard Andy Ford’s voice calling. He answered the hail, and the noncom came running up with a stranger in tow — an American lieutenant colonel. The man wore armor insignia on his collar tab, and a 1st Armored Division patch on his shoulder. The pair stopped and dropped to one knee next to Reynolds.
“I’m Jim Kelly, 1st of the 37th, 3rd Brigade. I’ve got forty-two M-1s coming in on the highway. I need ground guides and places to put them, fast.”
Reynolds found himself staring at the colonel and closed his mouth with an effort. He pointed east and asked. “Then those missiles from the other side of the highway…?”
“Seventh Battalion of the 6th, mech infantry with Bradleys,” Kelly hurriedly explained. “My battalion will deploy west of the road.” He grabbed Reynolds’s shoulder. “If the Bradleys are already firing, we don’t have much time.”
“But how…?”
Kelly grinned. “Thought you boys might need some help, so our guys worked all last night to get their gear unpacked and then marched like bats out of hell to get here on time. But we’re it for now. The rest of the division’s still back on the docks.”
Still scarcely able to believe it, Reynolds quickly passed the word, sending runners from his 2nd and 3rd platoons back to bring Kelly’s tanks forward. Within minutes, the Alpha Company soldiers reappeared, four-tank platoons following behind like monstrous pets. Reynolds spent the time keeping his people clear of the lumbering machines, at the same time deploying riflemen and machine-gun teams into the gaps between the tank platoons. There weren’t many of them left. Fewer than half the soldiers he’d taken into battle were still on their feet.
Out in the open, he watched as German tanks and APCs maneuvered, dodging the near-continuous missile fire. Their once-neat formations were now spotted with burning vehicles, while smoke grenades popped, obscuring parts of the attacking brigade with puffs of gray-white vapor.
Around him, dozens of M1A2 tanks took position in an uneven line. The high, thin whine of their turbine engines filled the woods. There was so much commotion that Reynolds was worried that the Germans might spot them, but experience told him otherwise. The trees would conceal the American tanks, at least until they fired. After that it wouldn’t matter.
Reynolds was standing near one company commander’s tank, trying to hurriedly coordinate a fire plan, when the officer straightened up in his turret hatch. He listened to a voice in his headphones and replied, “Estimate seven hundred. We haven’t lased.” After another pause, he acknowledged the order he’d received with a quick “Roger.”
“They aren’t waiting for the rest!” he called down to Reynolds. “Are your people clear?”
Reynolds nodded. “They’d better be — ”
An ear-splitting crash interrupted him, the sound of a tank battalion firing en masse. Pressure waves from the guns on either side buffeted him, plucking at his clothing and throwing dust and leaves in his face. The smell of gun smoke was literally rammed down his nose.
Out in the track-torn wheat fields, the oncoming brigade suddenly blossomed with gray-black flowers. Where the shells found their mark, and at least two-thirds had, German armor burned.
He barely had time to recover from the first blast when a second followed, almost in unison. The shock waves were knocking him off balance, and he dropped prone rather than get slammed off his feet.
The third volley was much more ragged as faster loaders and better-coordinated crews outpaced their counterparts. By the fourth, the firing had become a continuous roar.
Caught at short range in the open, the Germans, who had been expecting the woods to be clear, instead ran into a hail of tank-killing fire. At half a klick, the Abrams’ 120mm shells had more than enough killing power to rip through a Leopard 2 tank, or literally dismantle a thin-skinned Marder. While the Americans were in firing positions that allowed them to see and shoot out, all the Germans had to shoot at were half-concealed shapes. They had only three options: kill the enemy, find cover, or die.
A few of the Leopards tried to return fire — sending sabot rounds crashing through the trees in front of them. Most missed, and few of the German tanks had time for a second shot. Almost as soon as it started, though, the volume of fire fell away. The Leopards and Marders died or went to ground.