The martyrs’ march came on. The first wave was five hundred yards away. The American guns were ready. And the condemned children were relentless. The Iranians struggled toward the platoon’s positions. Four hundred yards. The death whistle blew a final time. The fourth sequence began running across the clamoring desert. The last group’s venomous wails joined with those of the earlier conscripts. Their voices filled the night with bloodcurdling hatred for the contemptible servants of Satan. Twelve hundred children were headed toward a certain end. Behind the final group, regular Iranian infantry, armed to the teeth, appeared. Their attack would commence once the lambs finished their esteemed purpose. Throughout the length of the strife-filled no-man’s-land, running, yelling children hastened toward their end.
The stilled cavalry platoon waited. The harbingers of death would soon be upon them.
Three hundred yards. The boundary was crossed. Walton blocked all conscious thought.
He pulled the trigger on his machine gun. In unison, the remainder of the platoon opened fire.
* * *
—
As the relentless slaughter continued, from the area behind his platoon, four fighting vehicle machine guns joined in on the unmerciful serenade. The reserve platoon had arrived. Soldiers, M-4s at the ready, poured from the rear of each Bradley.
“Miguel, before the Iranian infantry charges, take Wally and get the ammunition and TOWs from the relief platoon. Make sure all three Bradleys and each of our men have enough of everything to withstand a determined attack.”
“Okay, Sarge. I’m on my way.” Sanchez opened the hatch and disappeared into the night.
Alone in the compartment, Walton continued firing at the unrelenting lines of screaming children. They’d seen the holocaust reaching out to devour the initial order. Yet their visions of the remarkable place the mullahs professed propelled them toward that same vilified end.
From the Bradleys’ machine guns and soldiers’ rifles, death spilled forth upon the fiendish field.
Walton’s stomach was churning. Yet with each pull of the trigger, his mind felt less and less. The platoon sergeant’s trance was only interrupted when Sanchez and Dimmit arrived beneath the weight of machine-gun cartridges and cases of TOW missiles. The resupply was soon accomplished.
“Got a few more deliveries to make, Sarge,” Sanchez said. “Then I’ll be back to lend you a hand.”
It wasn’t long before he returned to his position next to the Bradley’s commander. “Took a look around when I was out there. Using the children to screen their advance, Iranian infantry’s sneaking forward.”
“All right, Miguel, get those TOWs ready. Iraqi armor will be close on their heels.”
As if on cue, the first of the T-72s appeared in the distance. The Iraqi tank fired a hurried round from its main cannon. The shot went high, harmlessly smashing into the trackless lands behind the platoon’s position.
Sanchez lined up his TOW through the Bradley’s periscope. “In about ten seconds you can scratch one Iraqi tank.”
“He’s all yours, Miguel. After what they’ve done to these children, hell’s hottest fires are too damn good for any of them. But I’m afraid that’s the best we can do as retribution for the suffering they’ve caused. Send the sorry son of a bitch on his way.”
Sanchez fired the first of his pair of online TOWs. The deadly missile ripped across a thousand yards of disorderly battlefield. It smashed head-on into the malignant tank. A thunderous explosion followed by a billowing ball of flames rose skyward. It was a sight the sands of the Middle East had witnessed innumerable times in the past three weeks.
“There’s one less tank to worry about,” Sanchez said. “As soon as another shows its ugly head, I’ll make the score good guys two, Iraqis zero.”
“That’s fine, Miguel, I know you’ll do your best. But tell me, where’s the air support we were promised? This is going to be a whole lot harder if we’ve got to do it by ourselves.”
Walton was back on the radio. “Two-Six, this is Alpha-Four-Five.”
“Roger, Alpha-Four-Five.”
“Where’s the air support? The T-72s are about to attack.”
“Hang tight. Apaches are on the way. ETA’s four minutes. Six Air Force F-16s are airborne. They’re eight minutes out and itching for a fight.”
“Roger, Two-Six, thanks for the encouraging news.”
The handset was returned to its receiver, and Walton’s fingers firmly wrapped around his machine gun’s grips before he even realized. On this night, the killing wasn’t nearly complete.
What followed wasn’t so much a battle as a bloodbath. The Iranians’ tactics had failed. Each Bradley was fully stocked and more than ready to dispatch a perverse enemy willing to hide behind the deaths of its children. The Iranians had the numbers. But the Americans had the skill, solid defensive positions, and superior weapons. The Bradley gunners were lethal in their ability to unleash their missiles, destroy two tanks, and quickly reload to initiate another round of devastation. And the attack helicopters turned up right on schedule. The Army’s top-of-the-line Apaches were as strong and lethal as the Marine Cobras. With their appearance, the T-72s were forever overmatched.
When the F-16s arrived, there was little to do but clean up the scattered remains of the doomed Iraqi armor. With smart bombs and deadly cannons, the fighters eliminated the last of the overwhelmed tanks and infantry.
At shortly after four on a hideous black morning, the firing finally stopped. When it did, Walton and Sanchez opened their hatches to survey the incomprehensible display. The defeat was total. Thirty-six Iraqi tanks had been destroyed. Five thousand Iranian infantry and twelve hundred children were dead or severely injured.
American losses were a single Bradley, nine dead, and sixteen wounded.
In the hours following the ill-conceived struggle, the frightful screams of the mortally wounded, many of them children, pierced the poisonous battlefield. Once again, the enemy turned his back and left the dying to the Americans.
Walton’s machine gun spit out a distorted world’s final judgment in short, injurious bursts. Each child’s cringing death stabbed ever deeper into the platoon sergeant’s heart until he sensed nothing from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Yet despite his determined efforts, the cries of those in unbearable agony went on until he believed they’d never stop.
To the relief of all, there’d be no more attacks prior to the 3rd Infantry’s arrival.
With the coming of the long-awaited dawn, the Bradley commanders continued the distasteful task of locating and eliminating the Iranian casualties upon the banishing ground.
Shortly before ten on a smoke-filled morning, a final burst of gunfire brought an unearthly calm to the crimson-choked sands. Walton’s hands, frozen in place, had to be pried loose. While he surveyed the anguish he’d wrought, tears poured down the platoon sergeant’s face. His tears would eventually stop. For the remainder of his days, however, the overwhelming damage to his anguished existence would never be fully repaired. In the long years that followed, not once did he talk to anyone outside his platoon about what had happened in the bleak desert outside Sakakah.
After loathsome days and sleepless nights, the stillness of the ruinous scene was deafening.
* * *
—
They heard them before they saw them. For over an hour, the growing sounds of the relief column reached across the far-flung Arabian dunes to fall upon the embattled battalion’s ears. The 2nd Brigade of the 3rd Mechanized Infantry was drawing near.
With each passing minute Sanchez’s smile grew. As the first of the Abrams peaked over the ocher hills behind them, the specialist’s satisfaction reached from ear to ear. He glanced over at Walton. The astonished sergeant sat in a disbelieving hush.
“What’d I tell ya!” Sanchez exclaimed. “You and I are minutes away from leaving t
his place.”
“I guess you were right, Miguel. Who knows, maybe the rest of your prediction will come true. After last night, I’d believe almost anything. We might really be headed back to rest and prepare for some top secret mission.”
As the sun reached its highest point, the scorching sands behind the embittered battalion filled with M-1s and Bradleys.
At least for the moment, Darren Walton’s ordeal was over.