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In the end, the odds were just too great for the Americans to overcome. As each Russian armored vehicle fell, ten more rushed to take its place. As each American was destroyed, the rest were that much more susceptible to being overwhelmed.
All around the apple orchard, the fierce struggle continued for a full fifteen minutes. By the time the last M-1 was surrounded and dispatched, the Americans had eliminated 141 enemy vehicles. The cavalry soldiers had destroyed their opponent at a four-to-one ratio.
Yet when it was over, the inevitable had occurred. The American armor had been overwhelmed.
• • •
With Murphy’s sudden appearance on the battlefield, the majority of the fighting swiftly shifted from the center of the staid orchard to its flanks. Hidden behind a wall of snow, Robert Jensen hammered away at a squad of infantry attempting to advance up the highway. He stopped firing for a moment to retrieve a replacement ammunition clip. Over the sounds of the ongoing armor struggle, an enemy soldier took careful aim and squeezed the trigger of his AK-47. The bullet tore through Jensen’s modest snow fortress, catching him squarely in the upper thigh. It missed the bone but ripped an exit hole the size of a silver dollar in the back of the platoon sergeant’s leg. A crippling pain surged up his spine, settling deep within his brain. Despite his valiant efforts, he dropped into the snows and struggled to regain his footing.
Seeing their antagonist fall, a Russian soldier ran forward. He tore the pin from a hand grenade. The white-clad figure hurled it from forty yards away. The throw came up short, a full ten yards short. Lethal pieces of the exploding grenade rushed out in every direction in their determined quest to maim and destroy. Propelled at incredible speed, death ripped through the winter air. A thumbnail-sized chunk of steel found its mark. A glancing blow of daunting metal struck Jensen on the left side of his face. It lodged in his skull just above the temple. The fragment missed his eye by less than an inch. The platoon sergeant fell to the ground and moved no more.
A pair of Russian soldiers rushed up the roadway to within a few feet of their wounded foe. The time had come to finish off the tenacious American. The infantrymen raised their rifles. Each took aim and slowly began to squeeze the trigger.
The sound of firing echoed across the center of the battlefield.
CHAPTER 24
January 29—4:15 a.m.
2nd Platoon, Delta Troop, 1st Squadron, 4th Cavalry
Outside the Town of Schirnding
Both Russians tumbled into the deep drifts in front of the wounded platoon sergeant’s position. Ever-expanding pools of red formed beneath their lifeless bodies. Their squad reacted slowly, confused by what had just happened to their comrades. Another brief burst of gunfire, and two more perplexed figures fell. The bewildered Russians retreated, looking first for cover and only then for the source of the unexpected attack.
A second infantry squad rushed forward to support the first.
Up the highway the Humvee roared, with Ramirez at the wheel. Standing behind the machine gun, Steele fired round after round to protect the fallen leader of 2nd Platoon.
The moment the Humvee reached the front of the orchard, Ramirez leaped from the vehicle. He ran the fifteen feet to his sergeant. Steele continued to fire, holding off the Russian infantry. Ramirez looked at Jensen’s motionless form. The young soldier bent down to pick up his wounded leader. As he did, a bullet slammed into Ramirez’s right shoulder. Blood spurted from the new wound. The stunned Ramirez took one look at his latest injury and slumped facedown in the snow.
Steele glanced at the fallen figures. Neither Jensen nor Ramirez was moving.
“God dammit! Ramirez, get your ass up!”
He squeezed the trigger on the machine gun, pinning the Russians down once more.
“Get up, God dammit! Don’t leave me out here alone!”
He knew they’d all be dead in seconds if he left the machine gun and tried to help his wounded countrymen.
Ramirez slowly raised himself on his left arm. He shook his throbbing head, fighting against the unbelievable pain. Waves of nausea washed over him. The right shoulder of his parka was turning a deep shade of red. He staggered to his feet. The Russian squad’s fire was homing in. Still more enemy infantry were closing with their position. Ramirez could hear the whistling bullets striking all about them. Round after round ricocheted off the Humvee’s metal frame or stung the snows near the Americans.
He grabbed Jensen’s arm. The private torturously dragged him across the snow toward the Humvee. As he did, a bullet ripped through Jensen’s left boot. Blood rushed from the platoon sergeant’s foot.
Pulling Jensen behind him, Ramirez crossed the open ground to the idling Humvee. A crimson trail marked his way. With a superhuman effort born of necessity, he lifted the much larger sergeant and dumped him into the passenger seat. Ramirez raced around the vehicle and crawled behind the steering wheel. With his left hand, the private reached across and threw the Humvee into gear. He shoved the gas pedal to the floor and jerked the steering wheel to the left. The hard tires spun in the snow, digging for the frozen ground below. The Humvee fishtailed as it whirled about. It rushed away from the orchard at full speed. Standing behind the machine gun, Steele lost his balance and tumbled to the floor.
They never looked back.
The Humvee raced through the village. It headed down E48 toward Camp Kinney. Ten icy miles to cover with a badly bleeding, one-armed driver and a passenger near death from three severe wounds.
• • •
While the Humvee sped down E48, the last American tank succumbed. With the exception of the constant secondary explosions, few sounds of battle invaded the ancient orchard. Of the blocking force, a single soldier was still firing. In his position thirty yards to the left of the burning wreckage that housed the charred remnants of Austin and his gunner, Aaron Jelewski continued to fire after the destruction of the last Abrams. A squad of Russian infantry moved in. They encircled his fortress of snow. Hundreds more were running toward his position.
It was hopeless. Jelewski threw down his weapon and raised his arms over his head. A lieutenant and three private soldiers rousted the badly burned American from his hole. They walked him back toward the maze of flaming tanks. The blazing remains of nearly two hundred armored vehicles were strewn about the snowy field as if haphazardly tossed there by some vengeful god.
The command tank rushed forward. It stopped a few feet from the prisoner. The division commander climbed down from his tank. He walked over to the captive. Jelewski stood with head high. The defiance in his eyes was unmistakable. The general took one look at the proud American, drew the pistol from his hip, and shot Jelewski dead with a single round to the head.
“We have no time for prisoners, Lieutenant,” the general said over the sounds of the continual secondary explosions.
Without giving it a second thought, the division commander climbed back onto his tank. The armored vehicle drove away.
The horrific battle at the orchard had been the division commander’s second blunder of the war. As had been promised by the Army Group Central Commander, his bullet to the head would also soon come. At sunrise, for his miscalculations, both in the valley and outside Schirnding, he’d receive the same summary fate that had befallen Aaron Jelewski.
• • •
“Is he alive?” Steele said. The concern was evident in his skittish voice.
“Man, I’m not sure if I’m alive.” Ramirez glanced at the twisted form in the seat next to him. “I can’t tell if he’s breathing or not.”
“We’d better get there soon.”
“I’m doing the best I can. Now that the snows have stopped, this road’s starting to ice over. And I can’t lift my right arm at all.”
“You want me to drive?”
“Hell, no. I want you to get ready to kill any Russian bastard you see.”
“Shit, I’ve been doing that. You see how many of those sons a bitches I got back there?”
“Yeah. You did great, man.”
“So did you,” Steele said.
“You know what, after what we just did, we’re a couple of damn heroes.”
But neither felt like a hero. Other than the intense pain in Ramirez’s shoulder and the numbness that gripped them both, they felt nothing at all.
They drove on in stunned silence. The Humvee plunged through the frightful darkness toward Camp Kinney. Each distressing mile was without end. Ramirez blocked out everything but the here and now. He battled with every ounce of dogged determination to keep moving west. Focus on the road. Focus on the ice and snow. Forget about your friends lying dead a few miles back. Forget about how much your mangled shoulder hurts. Forget about all the blood oozing down your back beneath your parka. Try to forget. Try to forget everything.
And, eventually, the torturous miles did pass.
Three miles from Camp Kinney, the Humvee was forced to stop at a roadblock. Two platoons, the squadron’s final sixteen Bradleys, waited to defend the highway. Anxious soldiers crowded around the Humvee.
“Who’re you guys?” a lieutenant asked.
“We’re 2nd Platoon, Delta Troop,” Ramirez said.
“Where’s the rest of your outfit?”
“They’re dead. Everybody back there’s dead, Lieutenant. And if you don’t get out of my way, my sergeant’s also going to be dead pretty soon. This guy saved our ass so many times tonight that I’d really like to return the favor.”
“Sure, okay. Just one more thing before you go. How many Russians are there, and where are they?”
“There’s about a thousand Russian tanks a few miles behind us,” Steele said. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. You’ll see them for yourself soon enough.”
Steele’s response had the desired effect. The soldiers instinctively stepped back. The Humvee raced off once more, this time with the fifteenth-century spires of Marktredwitz visible in the darkness ahead.
When the Humvee neared Camp Kinney’s front gate, Ramirez didn’t slow down. Two MPs stepped into the roadway. They signaled for the speeding vehicle to stop. The next thing the MPs knew, they were diving into the dirty snows on the sides of the narrow entrance.
The maniacs in the Humvee roared into camp. The MPs leaped to their feet. Each drew his Beretta and lifted his arm to fire at the intruders. They found themselves staring into the barrel of the Humvee’s machine gun. One look into the stone-cold, African-American face behind the gun, and they knew the soldier meant business. Their arms went down as quickly as they’d gone up.
