Spoiling Attack
This excerpt is further in the book. A company of Balakirev's paratroopers conclude a spoiling attack on the Americans attempting to retake Tanenhause. The passage closes with another reference to the darker side of the war, and the stuff I hope makes this a unique military adventure.
His men were falling back from the attack in good order, teams laying down suppressive fire, as others jogged toward the safety, the relative safety, of the woods. The burp of the covering RPD and RPK machine guns punctuated with the urgent, whispered curses of the retreating men. His nostrils stung with the smell of smoke and cordite; pungent reminders of the artillery barrage —that and the hundreds of little fires dancing amidst the NATO lines. Briefly he wondered what was burning. Dirt, no matter how hot, didn’t burn, it smoldered. Of course there were other things over there that did burn, things that wore flammable cotton uniforms, things covering very flammable flesh.
Junior Lieutenant Chekov, in charge of the attacking company, materialized from the darkness and smoke. He didn’t salute, no one saluted on the battlefield, the snipers shot officer’s first. He knelt next to Balakirev as the remnants of his company rejoined the lines. The Junior Lieutenant was breathing hard, his open mouth a pink ring in his soot-covered face. Without preamble Balakirev offered Chekov his canteen. Chekov stared at it as if he wasn’t sure its purpose, his eyes not really looking at the canteen, but staring past it. Balakirev had seen the look, had seen it in his own eyes, and knew Chekov didn't see the canteen, but rather some horror, a horror that perhaps only he had witnessed—a young boy blown asunder by a well-placed (depending on whose side you were on) grenade, or maybe someone who had stumbled to him out of the night, their arm severed by a stream of bullets. What his horror was, Balakirev might never know, but neither did he care. Not now. Now he needed this boy to be a man, to lead his company, keep those that he could alive, and make the other’s death mean something. He nudged the canteen against the boy’s face, waking him from his stupor.
“Report Junior Lieutenant Chekov.”
Chekov blinked, focused on the canteen as if seeing it for the first time, which Balakirev knew that he was, grabbed and drank as if he would never drink again, draining the canteen. Realizing what he had done, he shrugged and handed the canteen back to Balakirev. “Sorry, Comrade Commander.”
“It’s no matter, there is plenty in the village. Your report?”
Chekov nodded. “Yes, my report.” The braaat of a nearby RPK drew Chekov’s attention, but for only the briefest of moments, and then he looked at Balakirev, his grimy face shadowed by the flash of gunfire behind. Gunfire that was at this point meaningless, done more to bolster confidence than to kill enemies. Balakirev knew the sergeants would soon silence it, and so said nothing. In a voice drained of emotion, or trained to be emotionless, Balakirev couldn’t tell which, the Junior Lieutenant gave his report.
“We struck the lines to our front immediately after the barrage by the 73rd Artillery. The goal was to inflict casualties, draw in the local reserve, and hence disrupt the enemy’s plans for a morning attack.”
Balakirev knew this, had ordered the attack, but let the boy spill the formalities, understanding that he was shaken, and familiar routines are often the best salve for a shaken soul. He made a twirling motion with his right had to encourage the boy to continue.
“The unit to our front appears to be an American mechanized force. Butorov, I mean Sergeant Nantovisky,” Junior Lieutenant Chekov corrected himself with the first real display of emotion—embarrassment at referring to one of his subordinates in such as familiar manner, Balakirev supposed.
“It doesn’t matter, Lieutenant,” injected Balakirev, “I know Nantovisky’s first name also.”
“Yes, Comrade,” Chekov responded. Balakirev wasn’t sure if he was agreeing that it didn’t matter, that he understood Balakirev knew the Sergeant’s first name, or agreed that it was okay. It didn’t matter anyway. Again he twirled with his hand.
The Lieutenant nodded. “It’s a mechanized force, Butorov lead a team that knocked out two of the American armored personnel carriers.”
“Good work, I’ll thank him myself.”
The Lieutenant shook his head. “I don’t think so sir, not unless you can figure out which piece to thank. An American LAW rocket hit him in his chest. He disintegrated.” The Lieutenant nodded as he whispered the last words. Nodded as if trying to convince himself of the finality of his friend’s death. The firing had stopped now, just an occasional pop. Balakirev saw the glistening streams on the Lieutenant’s cheeks. No time for that now, he thought. Before he could prod, the Lieutenant continued.
“We fought, fought well, broke through their first line, that’s when they sent forward the tracks. Some of the 731st's artillery was still falling…the bastards… what’s so difficult about ending a barrage when the barrage is supposed to end? Their tracks hit us hard. They may have had a tank or two, older models, I don’t know for sure, either an American M60 or the Germans helped with a platoon of M-48s. They look about the same, don’t they?” The Lieutenant raised red eyes to Balakirev. The commander nodded. The Lieutenant continued, his voice quiet and small. “Yuri took out one with an RPG; the others were murdering us. Then came the retreat call.”
Balakirev knew, he had issued it.
“We started to pull back. Good discipline, they are good boys, you know?” Once more with the questioning eyes.
“Yes. Lieutenant, I know.”
“Then it began ripping us apart.”
“What began ripping you apart, Chekov?”
Chekov didn’t look at him now, didn’t look at anything. The small arms fire had diminished to intermittent pops, the noise little more than an annoyance, quiet enough that Balakirev could hear crows calling. He had never seen so many crows as they had since landing in this God-forsaken town. He could smell more than the cordite and smoke of the artillery barrage now, he could smell fear. Tangy, sweat-soaked fear, and it was coming off Junior Lieutenant Chekov in waves. The Lieutenant continued to stare at the ground in front of him, slowly moving his head side to side. Not really a shaking, it was a movement of denial.
Softly, Balakirev repeated his question, “What began tearing your men apart, Chekov. The German tank?”
Chekov looked at Balakirev, his disbelief obvious on his face. “Not a tank, sir. We know how to kill tanks. It was a… a beast. Didn’t you see it?”
-----------------------------------------------------------
Balakirev watched as the soldiers streamed back to the lines, which was how he had come to think of the series of foxholes at the edge of the woods west of Tanenhause. Balakirev tried to understand how the spoiling attack had worked based on the faces he saw, and those that he didn’t. First Company had executed the attack, supported by a barrage from the 731st Guards Artillery Regiment, part of the 74th Guards Tank Division, which was exploiting the hole in the NATO lines north of Eisenbach. The division was fifteen kilometers northeast, held only by a thin line of West Germans. The problem was that his line of paratroops was equally thin, and if NATO broke through here, the Eisenbach Bridge would be theirs for the taking.
Balakirev watched as the soldiers streamed back to the lines, which was how he had come to think of the series of foxholes at the edge of the woods west of Tanenhause. Balakirev tried to understand how the spoiling attack had worked based on the faces he saw, and those that he didn’t. First Company had executed the attack, supported by a barrage from the 731st Guards Artillery Regiment, part of the 74th Guards Tank Division, which was exploiting the hole in the NATO lines north of Eisenbach. The division was fifteen kilometers northeast, held only by a thin line of West Germans. The problem was that his line of paratroops was equally thin, and if NATO broke through here, the Eisenbach Bridge would be theirs for the taking.
His men were falling back from the attack in good order, teams laying down suppressive fire, as others jogged toward the safety, the relative safety, of the woods. The burp of the covering RPD and RPK machine guns punctuated with the urgent, whispered curses of the retreating men. His nostrils stung with the smell of smoke and cordite; pungent reminders of the artillery barrage —that and the hundreds of little fires dancing amidst the NATO lines. Briefly he wondered what was burning. Dirt, no matter how hot, didn’t burn, it smoldered. Of course there were other things over there that did burn, things that wore flammable cotton uniforms, things covering very flammable flesh.
Junior Lieutenant Chekov, in charge of the attacking company, materialized from the darkness and smoke. He didn’t salute, no one saluted on the battlefield, the snipers shot officer’s first. He knelt next to Balakirev as the remnants of his company rejoined the lines. The Junior Lieutenant was breathing hard, his open mouth a pink ring in his soot-covered face. Without preamble Balakirev offered Chekov his canteen. Chekov stared at it as if he wasn’t sure its purpose, his eyes not really looking at the canteen, but staring past it. Balakirev had seen the look, had seen it in his own eyes, and knew Chekov didn't see the canteen, but rather some horror, a horror that perhaps only he had witnessed—a young boy blown asunder by a well-placed (depending on whose side you were on) grenade, or maybe someone who had stumbled to him out of the night, their arm severed by a stream of bullets. What his horror was, Balakirev might never know, but neither did he care. Not now. Now he needed this boy to be a man, to lead his company, keep those that he could alive, and make the other’s death mean something. He nudged the canteen against the boy’s face, waking him from his stupor.
“Report Junior Lieutenant Chekov.”
Chekov blinked, focused on the canteen as if seeing it for the first time, which Balakirev knew that he was, grabbed and drank as if he would never drink again, draining the canteen. Realizing what he had done, he shrugged and handed the canteen back to Balakirev. “Sorry, Comrade Commander.”
“It’s no matter, there is plenty in the village. Your report?”
Chekov nodded. “Yes, my report.” The braaat of a nearby RPK drew Chekov’s attention, but for only the briefest of moments, and then he looked at Balakirev, his grimy face shadowed by the flash of gunfire behind. Gunfire that was at this point meaningless, done more to bolster confidence than to kill enemies. Balakirev knew the sergeants would soon silence it, and so said nothing. In a voice drained of emotion, or trained to be emotionless, Balakirev couldn’t tell which, the Junior Lieutenant gave his report.
“We struck the lines to our front immediately after the barrage by the 73rd Artillery. The goal was to inflict casualties, draw in the local reserve, and hence disrupt the enemy’s plans for a morning attack.”
Balakirev knew this, had ordered the attack, but let the boy spill the formalities, understanding that he was shaken, and familiar routines are often the best salve for a shaken soul. He made a twirling motion with his right had to encourage the boy to continue.
“The unit to our front appears to be an American mechanized force. Butorov, I mean Sergeant Nantovisky,” Junior Lieutenant Chekov corrected himself with the first real display of emotion—embarrassment at referring to one of his subordinates in such as familiar manner, Balakirev supposed.
“It doesn’t matter, Lieutenant,” injected Balakirev, “I know Nantovisky’s first name also.”
“Yes, Comrade,” Chekov responded. Balakirev wasn’t sure if he was agreeing that it didn’t matter, that he understood Balakirev knew the Sergeant’s first name, or agreed that it was okay. It didn’t matter anyway. Again he twirled with his hand.
The Lieutenant nodded. “It’s a mechanized force, Butorov lead a team that knocked out two of the American armored personnel carriers.”
“Good work, I’ll thank him myself.”
The Lieutenant shook his head. “I don’t think so sir, not unless you can figure out which piece to thank. An American LAW rocket hit him in his chest. He disintegrated.” The Lieutenant nodded as he whispered the last words. Nodded as if trying to convince himself of the finality of his friend’s death. The firing had stopped now, just an occasional pop. Balakirev saw the glistening streams on the Lieutenant’s cheeks. No time for that now, he thought. Before he could prod, the Lieutenant continued.
“We fought, fought well, broke through their first line, that’s when they sent forward the tracks. Some of the 731st's artillery was still falling…the bastards… what’s so difficult about ending a barrage when the barrage is supposed to end? Their tracks hit us hard. They may have had a tank or two, older models, I don’t know for sure, either an American M60 or the Germans helped with a platoon of M-48s. They look about the same, don’t they?” The Lieutenant raised red eyes to Balakirev. The commander nodded. The Lieutenant continued, his voice quiet and small. “Yuri took out one with an RPG; the others were murdering us. Then came the retreat call.”
Balakirev knew, he had issued it.
“We started to pull back. Good discipline, they are good boys, you know?” Once more with the questioning eyes.
“Yes. Lieutenant, I know.”
“Then it began ripping us apart.”
“What began ripping you apart, Chekov?”
Chekov didn’t look at him now, didn’t look at anything. The small arms fire had diminished to intermittent pops, the noise little more than an annoyance, quiet enough that Balakirev could hear crows calling. He had never seen so many crows as they had since landing in this God-forsaken town. He could smell more than the cordite and smoke of the artillery barrage now, he could smell fear. Tangy, sweat-soaked fear, and it was coming off Junior Lieutenant Chekov in waves. The Lieutenant continued to stare at the ground in front of him, slowly moving his head side to side. Not really a shaking, it was a movement of denial.
Softly, Balakirev repeated his question, “What began tearing your men apart, Chekov. The German tank?”
Chekov looked at Balakirev, his disbelief obvious on his face. “Not a tank, sir. We know how to kill tanks. It was a… a beast. Didn’t you see it?”
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