“Shut up! Everyone, shut up and stay where you are. Crew report.”
“We’re on fire! Get out!” Folk kept trying to get past.
With no other choice, Bannon raised his leg, put his foot on Folk’s shoulder, and began to push him down. “GET BACK IN YOUR SEAT AND PREPARE TO ENGAGE.”
For the briefest of moments, Folk stared up at him with an expression that betrayed his shock at being kept from fleeing before settling back into position.
“KELP. IS THE GUN UP?” Bannon bellowed as he looked over at the dumb-founded loader. “LOADER, LOAD SABOT, NOW!”
Though he was still stunned, Kelp turned to grab the next round.
The screaming on the intercom had been replaced by a continuous moaning from Ortelli. He had been hit. Bannon had no idea how badly his driver had been wounded. Nor could he afford to waste even a second finding out, not with enemy tanks bearing down on them. Popping his head back out, he scanned to his right in an effort to see how close the T-62s were.
There was thick column of black smoke coming from the engine compartment, blanketing 66 like a shroud. The fire extinguishers in the engine compartment had failed to put out the fire. Across the open field to his right one of the T-62s was burning and shuddering as secondary explosions rocked the derelict tank. The other two had just begun to move out again for Hill 214. Though they kept their gun tubes pointed at 66, they were not firing. Apparently, Bannon concluded, they thought 66 was finished.
“Sergeant Folk, can you see the other two tanks?”
“Yeah, I got them. They’re at the edge of my sight.”
“Move your turret slowly and lay on the lead tank. We don’t want to let on that we’re still functional. When you’re on, fire. I’ll hit the smoke grenades. That should cover us from return fire. Kelp, you up?”
Across the turret from Bannon, Kelp was standing with his back against the turret wall. There was a look of terror on his face, but the gun was loaded and armed. “Kelp, give me an up.”
“SABOT UP.”
“Anytime you’re ready, gunner.” With nothing more to do, Bannon watched the two T-62s through his extension. The range readout digits on the bottom of the sight changed. Folk had ranged and gotten a good range return. 950 meters. The ready-to-fire indicator was also on. Putting his finger on the smoke grenade launcher, Bannon waited for Folk to fire.
“ON THE WAAAY!”
As the gun fired, Bannon hit the grenades, covering 66 with a curtain of white smoke. “SWITCH TO THERMAL!”
As Folk slid the sight shutter into place, the view of the smoke screen was shut out. But instead of the green thermal image, the sight remained black. “The thermal is out!”
“Switch back to the day channel and look sharp. They’re going to make sure we’re dead this time, so we have to get them first.”
This time Kelp did not need to be told to respond when he was ready. “UP.”
“STAND BY TO ENGAGE.”
The fire in the engine compartment was growing. The black smoke mixed with the white smoke from the grenades. Over the intercom the sound of Ortelli’s moaning was growing weaker. Within the turret there the smell of cordite from the spent shell casing, diesel from a ruptured fuel cell, acrid smoke coming from the engine fire, and the odor of sweat from the crew lingered as they waited for the T-62s to reappear.
“IDENTIFIED!”
A T-62 was charging down on 66, gun aimed dead on them.
“FIRE!”
“ON THE WAY!”
Both tanks fired at the same time and both hit. The difference was that the Soviet round didn’t penetrate the turret of 66. 66’s round, on the other hand, found its mark and with telling effect. The flash of impact was followed in rapid succession by a sheet of flame that rose up out of the T-62’s commander hatch, then a series of secondary explosions that ripped off its turret, flinging the fifteen tons of steel high in the air as if it was cardboard.
Bannon watched in fascination as the turret slammed on to the ground and flopped over upside down. A quick scan of the area revealed that the second T-62 Alpha 66 had engaged was smoking. Though it was not burning as the other two were, the body of the tank commander was draped over the side of the turret. Even at that range, a spattering of red on the Russian’s black uniform was visible. That and the high angle of the gun tube told Bannon that it was dead. With no other threat in sight, and the fire in the engine compartment becoming larger, it was time to abandon Alpha 66.
Sometime during the engagement, Ortelli had stopped moaning. In order to check on him, Folk needed to traverse the turret until the rear of the turret was aligned with the driver’s compartment. When Bannon dropped down from his TC’s perch and stuck his head through the through the opening, he found Ortelli’s crumpled body slumped over to one side, covered in diesel and blood. Reaching in, Bannon took hold of Ortelli’s shoulder and held him so Kelp could lower the driver’s seat back. When it was down, Bannon ease the body back onto it.
Ortelli’s wounds were horrific. The right side of his face had been torn open and burned. The chest of his chemical protective suit was shredded and soaked with blood and diesel. His right sleeve ended just below the elbow in a bloody tatter. Without needing to check for a pause, Bannon knew Ortelli was dead.
His first thought, to leave the body and abandon the tank, was discarded almost as quickly as it had come to the fore. Ortelli deserved better than that. He had been a good soldier and a loyal crewman. To leave his body in the tank and give it up to the fire that would soon engulf 66 was unthinkable. If they survived, Bannon at least wanted to be able to tell his family that they had done all they could for him, even in the end.
Bannon looked up at Kelp and Folk. “Let’s get him out of here.”
Working in silence, Kelp and Bannon dragged Ortelli’s body out of the driver’s compartment and propped it up. Folk, who had climbed out of the turret, knelt on the turret roof, reached down through the loader’s hatch, and took Ortelli under the arms. As he pulled the driver’s still body up, Bannon and Kelp each grabbed a leg and lifted. Before leaving the turret himself, Kelp grabbed his submachine gun and the ammo pouch. Bannon stayed behind to prepare 66 for destruction.
Though the engine compartment fire would probably finish off 66, he wanted to do everything he could to keep his tank from being displayed in Red Square as a trophy. To that end he opened the ammo ready door and locked it open. He then pulled one round out and put it halfway in the main gun’s chamber as well as several more rounds on the turret floor. After turning the radio frequency knobs off of the Team’s frequency, he took his CEOI, one that contained all the radio frequencies and call signs for the brigade, and tore the pages out, spreading them around the turret. Satisfied that 66 was ready, he stuffed two frag grenades and one thermite grenade in his pocket and climbed out.
Once outside, Bannon threw his CVC down into the turret, pulled on his web gear, helmet, and binoculars and grabbed his map case. Turning to Folk and Kelp, he ordered them to head for the woods to their right. Once they were on the way, he took the thermite grenade, pulled the pin let the grenade’s arming spoon flip up, and dropped it in the loader’s hatch among the shells on the floor. Having done all he could think of, he leaped down off the right side of the tank.
To his surprise, Bannon landed next to Ortelli. While he had been inside, Folk and Kelp had put Ortelli into a sleeping bag and laid it a few feet away from the tank. One of them had tied a tag with Ortelli’s name and social security number to the zipper. They had also taken the time to place his head so that the damaged side of his face was not exposed. Except for the tag, the driver looked as if he were asleep. It seemed, Bannon told himself, Folk and Kelp had felt the same way he did about their friend. Just as they had cared and looked out for each other in life, they had done so in death.