Orders were to move forward toward the border three hours before daylight. He was the third man in line in his sixteen-tank company. They would go single file for the first eighteen miles, then spread out in the spearhead tank attack that they had practiced so often but never actually used in battle. Captain Hadr was just as happy he had never had to fire a shot in anger. He wasn’t sure that he would be able to shoot and kill another human being, another Arab, another Moslem.
His tank was one of the older Soviet models they had bought early on and now were having trouble finding parts for. It was the T-55. Only the active-duty tankers had the Soviet-built T-62 models that were larger and heavier, with better armor and more firepower. But he’d take what he had. He had mastered the smaller tank and would put it through its paces for the inspectors and judges on tomorrow’s dry run at the Syrian border. He wondered how many Syrian tanks would be on the line just across the border tomorrow at daylight to play the little game with them.
It was all a game, and he would glad when it was over and he was back in his own little home and working in his business.
Captain Hadr read his orders again. They said he would wait with his company here twenty miles from the border until three hours before dawn, then move forward to a point a half mile from the border, as determined by his company commander. Then, with first light, he and his company would get in an arrowhead attack formation and would lead the charge through the border and into Syria for twenty miles, where they would pause to let their ammunition and food supplies catch up with them. Then they would charge ahead another twenty miles.
There was no sign that the orders would be countermanded when they were within a hundred yards of the boundary. He doubted if anyone could tell exactly where the border was here in the desert, anyway. It was one scrub bush after another, and no line in the sand to show the border.
On a hunch, he left his tank and walked fifty meters over to his company commander’s tank. It was one of the bigger Soviet T-62s. He was Captain Kayf, and in the regular army. He greeted Hadr and offered him a piece of bread and cheese.
They ate in silence a time, then Hadr shook his head. “Our orders, Captain, they don’t give the break-off point. Isn’t there a chance that we will make a mistake and slide over the border into Syria?”
“No mistake,” Captain Kayf said. “I received the word about an hour ago. Tomorrow morning, we go into Syria with our guns blazing. We are invading Syria and hoping we can punch a corridor all the way to Damascus and capture it. It’s war, Hadr. Tomorrow morning, we fire the opening shots in war with Syria.”
“Captain, it can’t be. Surely it’s only a trick to make us think this exercise is really important when in reality it’s only maneuvers for training.”
Captain Kayf shook his head. “No, Hadr. I have had word from The general of the division. We are going in. Did you notice the unusual number of support trucks loaded to their axles with ammunition and supplies? They are here and will be right behind us as we crash over the border tomorrow at dawn. We expect no opposition for the first twenty miles or more. We might not fire a shot for those first twenty miles. We are at war, Hadr. I wasn’t supposed to tell the tank commanders until morning, but I couldn’t hold it back. This could be my one chance to make major. I must do my best for President Hussein.”
“How can this be? I’m only a reservist. I train on weekends and in the summer. My commission is only temporary. How can this be a shooting war? I have my business to go back to, and my wife and three sons.”
“With all of that at stake, my friend Captain Hadr, I suggest you follow orders carefully and shoot your cannon with great accuracy. Then you’ll have the best chance to live through this six- or seven-day war before we capture Syria and make it one of our provinces.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“You better believe it, Captain. Right now you have less than three hours to sleep before we fire up our engines and move out toward Syria.”
“Who can sleep? There are a dozen things to check on the tank. What about the fuel? What about that tread that was slightly loose? How can I get everything done in time?”
“All the tanks have been fueled to capacity, remember? Just after we arrived. Your load of ammunition was checked and double-checked. Your men are sleeping and will be ready. Go back to your machine and take a nap. It will serve you well when we break across the Syrian line.”
Captain Hadr stood there, looking at his immediate superior. He started to salute, then shook his head. “Captain, just suppose that one of your tank commanders decided that he didn’t want to get into a real war and said he wouldn’t take his tank across the line into Syria. What would happen then?”
Captain Kayf smiled in the darkness. In a moment, he had drawn the .45-caliber pistol from his holster and leveled it at Hadr. “Then Captain, I would simply shoot that commander dead, promote one of my other men to take over his tank, and our attack would continue. Does that answer your hypothetical question?”
Hadr shrugged. “Yes sir. It does.” He paused, thinking about his wife and boys back home. “I guess I should get an hour or so of sleep. I’ll probably need it in the next two or three days.”
He turned and walked into the night.
Captain Kayf kept his pistol trained on the man’s back until he could no longer see him. Then he returned the .45 to his holster. When the attack began tomorrow morning and all of his men were told that it was not a drill but that they were going to war with Syria, he was sure that he would have one man quit and try to back out. He would be shot, of course.
Yes, there would be one reservist officer turn coward. It would not be Captain Hadr, the company commander was positive of that. He turned back to his own tank and looked over his list of items to have done before dawn. He was almost finished.
With a vague, hostile feeling, he thought of the moment when they would break across the Syrian border. It would be a thrill, the high of his lifetime. Even now he wondered just what it would feel like. How thrilling and wonderful would it be? He could only imagine it now. In four or five hours, he would feel it with heat-pounding reality.
21
Sergeant Hillah made sure his squad of infantrymen was down and sleeping. They had been ferried by truck, then walked, then taken by truck again, as transportation became available. The whole battalion had walked the last four miles forward. Now they lay less than three hundred yards from what their captain said was Syria’s eastern border.
Sergeant Hillah didn’t understand. None of their war games in the past had brought them this close to the border with Syria. Once they had stopped two miles out and saw that there were more than a thousand men facing them just across the border with tanks and armored personnel carriers and heavy machine guns set up every fifty yards. They had turned and marched away.
Now they were lying in wait, within a fast sprint of the border, and they all had live ammunition. It was dark tonight, so dark he could barely see the end man of his squad. The company captain told them there would be a meeting of all NCOs at midnight. It was ten minutes until that time.
He left his squad and walked quickly to the spot designated as the company HQ. It was a slight depression in the ground at the edge of a wadi. The other noncommissioned officers were gathering. They whispered, but no one knew any more than Sergeant Hillah did. Their captain came right on time and motioned the eighteen men around him. He spoke low, but it was so quiet that they all could hear him.