A Small Village... an Excerpt from Retribution

I post these excerpts. Yeah, I'm trying to pimp my novel, but it's more than that. I love this military-horror genre, and I want to share these scenes with you. So read away. More military here than horror, although the passage does drop a hint about the origins of the two Bundeswher officers, Holtzer and Ackermann (seen running into the building). I'm running a Kickstarter for Dark War: Retribution and the accompanying RPG from February 9, 2017 at 10 AM EST to February 23. Click here to check out the Kickstarter. 

A Small Village

Their turn at the front. Ahead a small village.

Dahl understood how to handle the situation. Sergeant Blocker, a wiry Vietnam vet with a missing ear, had taught him at Fort Benning. “If you have dismounts, use them. Scout the village with the infantry; place your tanks in overwatch. They’ll handle whatever the grunts flush.” 

Sidlaw wouldn’t let him.

“No time.” The voice tinny in his headphones. Sidlaw rode with the second troop. Back a bit. No coward, he took his time at the front, but this wasn’t his time.

Dahl’s tank, Ghost, idled at the edge of the woods on the outskirts of the village.  The trees thinned heading in, a good field of fire. Dahl could place his tanks in the woods, send in the dismounts, and cover them from here. Minimize casualties if there was opposition, but the tinny voice wouldn’t allow that. No time. Dahl understood. Better to lose a handful of men here than fight a Russian tank regiment later, better for everyone except the few that died.

Twenty-five meters to his left, the dark shadow of a West German Luchs scout car idled at the woods’ edge. A figure jutted from the turret, Holtzer no doubt. The Germans had been helpful, speaking with civilians, directing the column when needed, advising when asked. Despite their help, suspicions nagged Dahl. Yes they knew the country, knew the people, but Dahl, Sidlaw and the other men in the squadron knew how to read a map, and many could speak German. Tens of thousands of Americans in dozens of columns crisscrossed West Germany without the aid of the Bundeswehr, so why this column, and why these Germans? Dahl didn’t know, but he knew there was a reason, and he suspected that it was something more than the Germans’ desire to be helpful. Their purpose, however, was a question for another time.

For now, the question was how to get his men through the waiting village. If Sidlaw couldn’t give him the time to probe, to subdue the enemy with firepower, perhaps they could dazzle them with speed.

Dahl spoke into his mouthpiece. “First Platoon take point. Second Platoon follow them in. The Bradleys will bring up the rear.  Stay sharp. Move fast.”

The platoon leaders rogered out, and Dahl ordered his driver, a long-limbed Texan named Vickers, to fall in with Second Platoon.  The tank lurched as it jerked forward.

Grunting engines and creaking drive sprockets. The column moved out, the Abrams in front of Dahl’s commanded by a diminutive Sergeant named Proffitt.  Moonlight played on block letters stenciled on the 105mm cannon barrel, Big Daddy.  Dahl glanced behind, the German Luchs followed, Holtzer alert in the turret. A narrow two-lane blacktop, deep black against the surrounding fields’ gray, led to the village ahead, a small cluster of buildings as dark as death. The homes spread a couple hundred meters on either side of the blacktop, a perfect concealment for a Russian machine gun, perhaps a Sagger team, maybe a tank driven into the back of the building, invisible from the front, resting in a family room, its turret tracking an Abrams.

Full moon. That strange pale light that was bright, yet not. Dahl switched his sights from thermal to night. Nothing. Back to thermal. Same story, just a warm glow from the decks of the leading Abrams, fuzzy red bowling ball on each turret, the head of the tank commander. Nothing in the city or a well-hidden something. In the tank no one spoke, the machine swayed gently as it crossed the undulating field leading to the village. The radio hissed quietly. Dahl ducked into the turret, fiddled with the squelch.

Once again exposed, he studied First Platoon as it entered the village. Lead tank covering the front, the others’ turrets alternating their facing, just as he had trained them to do. The village remained cocked-trigger silent. The street curved, blocking his line of sight to the lead tank. His platoon entered the outskirts. Typical German. Neat despite the war, narrow street with just enough room for two cars, definitely not enough room for two tanks abreast. Stores, often fronted with plate glass, homes stucco or brick facing, trimmed in wood, the air fresh, untainted by death or its close brother, fire. Street lights every block, their pools of light bringing the tanks into sharp focus. Dahl hated it.

The curve in the street approached. The radio cracked in his ear. “Tiger, this is Tiger One, we’re clear.” First Platoon’s tanks were out of the village, back in the open country. “Roger,” Dahl spoke into his mouthpiece. Maybe the village was as quiet as it looked. The Russians couldn’t be everywhere, could they?

Then hell broke loose.

Fire bloomed in front of Dahl, exploding a store’s plate glass window, the fragments glistening jewels in the block’s streetlight. Like a thick, flaming arrow, the flame struck the side of Big Daddy, punching the tank sideways in a shower of sparks.

“Anti-tank gun right,” Dahl yelled. “Driver stop.”

Big Daddy attempted to swing its turret, but was too close to the building to bring it to bear. Sergeant Proffitt was gone. Dead or wounded.  Dahl sprayed the store with his pintle-mounted .50 cal machine gun. Lethal darts of light swept by his shoulder, fired from the Luch’s 20mm cannon. Two more arrows fell from the roof on the opposite side of the street, striking Big Daddy on the rear deck, Dahl ducked as an external fuel tank exploded, the fireball lighting the street. Unlike the first shot against Big Daddy, these were no doubt shoulder-fired RPGs. Flames engulfed the stricken tank. Behind Dahl, an Abrams pumped a shell into the RPG team’s building, exploding the facing, crumbling the upper story in a wave of brick and mortar, the debris cloud dimming the streetlight.

A machine gun opened up from the head of the curve, its staccato burp adding to the cacophony of squealing treads, chattering machine guns, and barking tank cannon. Tracers reached for Dahl, their flight deceptively slow, their passing marked by an angry hissing, missing his helmet by no more than a foot.

“Andy, nail that fucking machine gun,” Dahl yelled. Specialist First Class Andrew Jones, the tank’s gunner, laid the sight on the still firing machine gun’s building. The laser range finder returned 300 meters. Jones pulled the trigger.

Riding out of the turret, with his head exposed, the cannon’s boom caused Dahl to wince, the shell shrieked toward the building, exploding in a dirty, orange bloom on impact. The tracers stopped, replaced by small arms fire from the coffee shop up the street.

Dahl spoke into the mouthpiece. “”Tiger Three, this is Tiger actual. Get your dismounts up here.”

But there was no need. Two men in Bundeswehr garb darted up the street. Holtzer and Ackermann, maybe their crew? Dahl couldn’t tell. The darting was oddly quick. One moment the two were beside his tank, a breath later they were beside the coffee shop. One tossed a grenade, the explosion flat, inconsequential, and deadly. Then both were through the door. No gunfire, but a scream, and then silence, the ambush ended as quickly as it had begun, the still once more falling on the village, only punctuated by the cracking flames of the scorched metal that used to be Big Daddy. The Bundeswehr team returned to the Luchs, unconcerned with Dahl’s stare.

Mark H. Walker served 23 years in the United States Navy, most of them as an Explosive Ordnance Disposal diver. He is the owner of Flying Pig Games as well as Tiny Battle Publishing the designer of the aliens-invade-Earth game Night of Man, the Communists invade South Vietnam game, '65, publisher of Old School Tactical, and the author of Desert Moon, an exciting mecha, military science fiction novel with a twist, with plenty of damn science fiction in it despite what any candy-ass reviewer says, as well as World at War-Dark War: Revelation, a creepy, military action, with a love story, alternate history, World War Three novel thing, Everyone Dies in the End, and numerous short stories. All the books and stories are available from Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing right here. Give them a try. I mean, what the hell?