The Air Base was swarming with activity. At one of the intersections, the bus was stopped while a line of trucks rolled by, coming up from the flight line and heading to a back gate. In the trucks were U.S. troops, reinforcements from the States deployed under the REFORGER program. Pat guessed that the dependents would fly back on the same planes that were bringing these troops in. Maybe this nightmare was almost over. At least they were now at the last stop on this side of the Atlantic. Instead of going to the terminal, however, the buses dropped them off at the post gym. There were already a large number of people there. On the gym floor, rows of cots with blankets were set up. As at the post theater, the families were grouped by unit. Some of the women from the battalion who had come up on the first group of buses had established an area for the families from each of the units. The new arrivals were told that since the terminal was already overflowing with evacuees, they had been sent to the gym until it was their turn to go. Pat was told that the Air Force personnel running the evacuation were better and more helpful than the Army community personnel but were having difficulties dealing with all the incoming families that were being dumped at Rhein-Main. One Air Force officer had told them that the people in the gym probably wouldn't leave until the morning.
This depressed Pat. She, like the other wives and mothers, was ready to go. They had finally geared themselves up for the final leap. Now, they had to spend a night in an open gym with hundreds of other dejected and anxious people. It seemed that every new move only added more stress and pressure. The situation, however deplorable, had to be endured. Pat decided that she could hold out a little longer. She had to. A little group was beginning to depend on her. And it was growing. Jane Ortelli, the wife of Sean's tank driver, joined them. She was nineteen years old and had never been out of the state of New Jersey until she came over to Germany. Jane stood at the side before boarding the bus, clutching her four-month-old baby as she would a teddy bear, for security and comfort. Pat went over to her and insisted that she join them since they were all going on the same bus. Jane was thankful and relieved.
A little girl named Debby had also joined the group. Debby's only parent was a medic who had been deployed to the border with everyone else. Fran Wilson had volunteered to escort the eight-year-old girl back to the States where her grandparents would meet her.
Pat and her group established themselves a little area by taking eight of the cots and pushing them together. The four adults stationed themselves on the corner cots and put the children in the middle. Jane kept her baby with her, not wanting to part for a moment with the only thing of value she had on earth. Sarah, overcoming her fears, insisted on having her own cot, just like her brothers. Sean and Debby stayed together. Sean, despite being a year younger, took over the role of big brother and helped Debby. He tried to explain everything to her like his father had to him, even though he had no idea what he was talking about. Debby would listen intently to every word as if it were gospel, then ask Sean another question. But at least Debby was talking now and seemed to be more at ease. Kurt insisted on staying near his buddy Sue. He was enjoying all the attention Sue was giving him.
There was little rest that night. Fear, apprehension, discomfort, and a desire to get on with the evacuation kept the adults awake while the adventure of the trip kept the children alert and active. Some of the adults talked in hushed voices, seeking company and escape from their fears. Others simply withdrew into themselves, no longer able to cope with the grim reality they found themselves in. Pat prayed that all this would end tomorrow. It had to. There was only so much more that she could give and hold back. It had to end, soon. Only exhaustion allowed her to get a few hours sleep.
Movement to the terminal began early. Groups left in the order in which they arrived. Pat and her little group had time for breakfast before their turn. Everyone was tired. It had been nearly impossible for anyone to get a good night's rest. Cold meals, little sleep, overcrowded conditions, wearing the same clothes they had slept in, and the trauma of the whole ordeal had worn women and children down to the point of exhaustion. Pat could not remember a time when she had been more tired and miserable. The ride to the terminal was a quiet one.
The passage of thousands of evacuees before them had left its mark on the terminal. The clean, modern building that had greeted Pat and Sean on their arrival in Germany was now strewn with litter and discarded blankets and clothes. Those who had left the gym before them were inside the terminal mixing with the evacuees that had spent the night there.
Looking- around as they entered, Pat decided that, though the gym had been miserable, staying here would have been worse.
At the door, an airman took their names, gave them a roster number and directed them to the second floor where they would wait until their numbers were called. From the second floor at least they could look out onto the airfield and watch the aircraft coming in. To one side of the flight line there were trucks and buses waiting to pick up the newly arrived troops arriving from the States. Pat and the children watched as a large C-141 transport taxied to a stop. Its large clamshell doors opened, reminding Pat of an alligator. As soon as the cargo ramp was down, troops began to double time out and fall in on their NCOs, forming squads and platoons. Once formed, they began to move to the trucks and load up. While the troops were still deplaning, Air Force personnel scrambled out to service the aircraft. A fuel tanker lumbered up and began to refuel the aircraft. Everyone seemed anxious to get the C-141 turned around and on its way.
A female voice began to call out roster numbers over the PA and give instructions. None of Pat's little group heard their numbers called. So they stayed where they were and watched the lucky ones move onto the airfield, form into two lines, and move out to the C-141. The ground crew finished up and moved into position to service the next aircraft that was already coming in, a huge C-5. The sight of that plane caused excitement. Fran turned to Pat and said she was sure they would be able to get on that one. Inside, Pat prayed that would happen.
For a moment there was almost total silence in the valley in front of Team Yankee's positions. It was a dull, numb silence that comes after you have endured prolonged exposure to a deafening noise. The crackle and popping of small arms ammunition igniting in the burning Soviet tracks, with an occasional rumble as a main gun round cooked off, was all the noise that rose from the valley. Distance and CVCs hid the moans and screams of agony of those wounded or burning to death in their disabled tracks. The report of a machine gun from the right alerted Bannon to the fact that not all the Soviets were hors de combat. He watched as a stream of tracers struck short, then climbed into a group of four Russians trying to make their way back up the hill. As soon as the firer found the range, he let go a long burst in the center of the group. While some rounds kicked up dirt, a few found their mark, causing the Russians to either spin around, drop and roll back downhill, or simply plop down.
For a moment he thought of ordering the firing to stop. The Russians had suffered enough.
But quickly this humanitarian thought gave way to cold, practical, professional considerations. If these survivors were allowed to live, they would only fall in on equipment in storage or being produced. Team Yankee would never see them again, but another NATO company would. They were at war, a war the Soviets had started. The Soviets must pay.