The battalion commander, like Neboatov, was frustrated. The regimental commander wanted the Americans cleared before the division's tank regiment was committed. He, in turn, was being pressured by Division to give the all clear. The two officers knelt to study a map the battalion commander laid out on the ground. As he pointed with a grease pencil to key areas that he wanted Neboatov to clear, sweat from his brow dripped onto the map.
Neboatov wiped his own face with a dirty rag as he listened to his commander explain how the battalion would systematically clear the valley.
The task would be long and tedious, not to mention dangerous.
A sudden warning shout from one of the BMP crewmen was cut short by a burst of automatic fire. Neboatov and his commander, looking up to see what was happening, watched in horror as the crews of the two BMPs were cut down by accurate small-arms fire. The two officers turned in the direction the fire was coming from in time to see four American infantrymen jump out from behind one of the rocks. The two in the lead were firing their rifles from the hip as they rushed forward. The other two were lobbing grenades in the direction of the BMPs.
The battalion commander was the first to react and the first to fall.
The sudden motion as he stood up and reached for his pistol caught the attention of the Americans. One of them stopped in place, turned toward the two officer's and, firing from the hip, let go two quick bursts. Both bursts hit the battalion commander square in the chest, ripping it open and throwing him backward on top of Neboatov, who was still kneeling. The impact of his colonel's body sent him sprawling, and he hit his head against a rock.
Though not unconscious, Neboatov had the wind knocked out of him and was unable to clearly focus or react. Pinned beneath the body of his dead commander, his head reeling, he watched the Americans rush forward and drop grenades into the open hatches of the two BMPs. One of the American infantrymen noticed the map on the ground and walked over to recover it. As he was bending over, Neboatov tried to reach for his pistol. His spastic fumbling-served only to catch the American's attention. Dropping the map, the American swung around and raised his rifle, its muzzle stopping inches from Neboatov's face.
Neboatov knew he was going to die. He closed his eyes. After what seemed to be an eternity, the familiar burst of several AKs caused him to open them.
The threatening rifle muzzle and the American were gone. From where he lay,
Neboatov could see several of his men from the nearby platoon running forward. While some of them pursued the surviving Americans, a lieutenant and two men came over to give their company commander a hand. Gently, they moved the battalion commander's body off Neboatov and helped him up.
Neboatov scanned the area as he collected his thoughts and caught his breath. He was shaking like a leaf. Two Americans, one of them the soldier who moments before had held Neboatov's life in his hand, were down. The other two were gone. Small-arms fire from beyond the rocks told that they were fighting as they withdrew. The battalion commander's BMP was burning, and ammunition on board popped as it cooked in the fire. Neboatov's BMP was smoking. The bodies, wounded and dead, of both BMPs' crews were scattered about the ground or hanging limp off the BMPs. Half-eaten rations and spilled canteens were scattered among the bodies or held in lifeless hands.
Neboatov walked over to his BMP on shaky legs, stopping where the body of his driver lay. He knelt and pulled the leather helmet from the soldier's head, freeing a crop of dirty blond hair matted down by sweat and oil. The soldier was more boy than man, not more than nineteen years old. He had been born and raised on a small collective farm in the eastern Ukraine, a true son of Mother Russia. Though Neboatov seldom bothered with the enlisted men in his command, he had taken special interest in this youth because of his loyalty to family and country, his skills as a tracked-vehicle driver, and a shy, easygoing manner that Neboatov found refreshing. Now he was gone, killed in a barren land miles from his beloved family and country. The young girl he spoke of often would probably never know how he had died. His mother would never be able to tend to his needs again. He was dead, killed in action in the service of the Party and his country.
Neboatov stood up and turned his face to the rising sun. He felt its heat.
How brutal, he thought, this day is going to be.
The two attacking A-10 aircraft were a long time gone before all firing ceased. Once the tank crews did cease fire, they automatically turned 180 degrees, preparing for an attack by a second pair of American planes.
Vorishnov knew that the Americans would not come from the same direction again. As he picked himself up off the ground, he looked about in an effort to guess which way they would come if they did return. Deciding that this was an exercise in futility, he turned his attention to more immediate problems.
The 3rd Battalion was scattered about in an open field, dispersed as a precaution against air attack. That, however, had not saved them this time.
Two A-10s had come swooping down out of the sun as the tanks sat waiting for the order to move forward, an order that had not yet been given. From where he stood, Vorishnov counted three of his battalion's tanks burning. He was about to heave a sigh of relief when his eyes fell upon his BTR-60. Smoke was pouring from its open hatches. It had been hit.
As he rushed over, the chatter of machine-gun fire announced the approach of the attacking aircraft. The low pitch ripping sound of the A-10s' miniguns sent Vorishnov diving. As he flattened himself against the ground he imagined he could feel the planes' 30mm. projectiles passing right over him. The pock-pock-pock of the rounds hitting metal, followed by a low, rumbling explosion, told him that another tank had died. When the screech of the jets' engines had again passed, Vorishnov picked himself up and ran toward the BTR.
The BTR was a total loss. Flames were now shooting from the open hatches.
A man trying to pull out the body of one of the crewmen was beaten back by the heat of the flames. Looking around, Vorishnov saw the battalion's second officer sitting on the ground next to a sprawled out body. Vorishnov went over to him.
He could see that the second officer, a young intelligence captain, was hit in the shoulder and bleeding. His helmet was off and his face was quite pale. Speckles of blood seemed to cover his tunic. No doubt he was going into shock: As Vorishnov knelt down next to the young captain, he noticed that the body on the ground was that of the political officer. He knew this only from the insignia-the body was without a head.
"Alexis," Vorishnov asked, "are you hit anywhere else?"
The second officer only shook his head in response. He was obviously losing blood.
"Come, we must get that arm tended to."
As Vorishnov helped him up the captain spoke hesitantly, his voice barely audible. "We.. we were walking away from the BTR, talking about the delay. We heard the planes begin to fire. We both turned to see what the noise was. Then I looked toward Lieutenant Teplov, just as he was hit. A round hit him in the head and exploded. It.. " The second officer stared into Vorishnov's 243
eyes before he continued. "His head just exploded. It blew apart, all over me. It just.. it blew apart." As he talked, the captain ran his hands down his tunic, which, Vorishnov realized, was spattered not only with blood but also with scraps of human brain tissue. The young man's eyes were wide and showed his bewilderment and shock. "We must help him. How are we going to fix him, Comrade Major? His head is gone. What are we going to do,