 |
Fred's
Columns
Battlin the UN: Chapter 8 - Death from Above
To date: A west-bound UN supply convoy led by Boris is stopped in front of a roadblock across US Hwy 30 just east of Grand Mound, IA on a hot July day. Farm fields stretch to the horizon in all directions, except 300 yards to the south where RR tracks parallel US 30 along an elevated right-of-way. The Boris's APC has come under fire from a US rifleman team located 300 yards south. Another 3-man team is the same distance south of the last vehicle in the convoy. Fred [not related to SGNs Fred] and his team initially take the lead APC under rapid fire, then two shooters quickly switch to the trucks, taking them in pairs, putting 6 rounds into the vitals of each truck - engine, driver, tires. After firing one 20-rd mag, they cease fire. Shortly thereafter, the rear team opens fire, and Boris directs his driver to head to the rear of the convoy to reinforce his No 2 in the rear APC. He has just replaced the shot-off antenna on his vehicle, when he is contacted by another spotter A/C ...
Tango One, this is Ruffpuff, over your head. What is your problem? Over.
Thank God, Boris breathed. Ruffpuff, this is Tango One. Receiving small arms fire from the south, range unknown, but they are killing the trucks. They have moved to the rear of the convoy, and must be several hundred yards south of us. Can you help? Over.
Roger, Tango. Wait one.
On the ground, among the Americans, excitement and momentary confusion broke out at the shout Aircraft! They knew the obvious - this was a real spotter, not the ultra-light they had already knocked down - and things could get sticky, pretty quickly, and when it gets sticky, people wind up dead. Fred and his team had a quick conference: what now? Prudence suggested a quick retreat, or at least lying doggo. On the other hand, they were on a roll, killing trucks like there was no tomorrow. Only a few more minutes, and they would have them all - and, moreover, would be in amongst the convoy, where they should be safe from air attack. Once the decision was made to stick for a while longer, Fred broke radio silence for the first time:
Barnacle. Barnacle. To 9 at 100.
He was answered by a double click from Team 2, then a short message:
To 2 at 100 .
The decision was made: Stick to it a while longer. [This was a decision they came to regret. They had always said, do not push your luck. There is always another day, if you are alive. And dead heroes never fight again. If they had listened, what happened would never have happened. Battlefield lessons, they reflected later, have high tuitions.] In their pre-arranged code, they informed each other where they were moving, so each team would know where the other was. They did it simply, by looking down on the convoy from above, and imposing a giant clock face, with the 12 at due North. Team 1 just told Team 2 that they are moving up to the road 100 yards in front of the convoy. Team 2 responded they hoped to get north of the road, and about 100 yards out. The closer they got to the now-crippled convoy, the less they had to fear from air. The trucks did not worry them, but the APCs were a real danger.
The teams are air-conscious, alert and scanning the sky. [But not as much as they would be in the future.] Each team has a sky watcher, but everybody scans whenever he can. The appearance of air made them wish for a fourth team member so their firepower would not be cut by a third. Actually, the sky watcher, if a quick scan revealed no A/C, could resume firing for up to 30 seconds [about a mag]. The team SOP required him to scan at least every 30 seconds. The at least was always underlined. If he was not firing, he was to scan continuously.
They had talked it out beforehand. A single-engine, slow-moving, low-flying spotter could be handled in a number of ways. And, they decided, the best was to shoot him down. They were not a bunch of ill-trained troops with pea-guns they could not shoot. Nope, they were riflemen, and they knew it and were confident in their abilities. A slo-lo plane was meat....
Freds team stopped in place. Off at one oclock, the sounds of firing from the APCs continued.
They watched the spotter A/C disappear in a slow climbing turn. Ambush the spotter plane? Now that it was here, it was a tougher decision...
Tango One, this is Ruffpuff.
This is Tango, go ahead Ruffpuff.
Tango, nothing obvious down there. Can you give me a better steer? Over.
Ruffpuff, they have moved to the rear of the convoy, maybe 12-15 of them. We can not spot them from down here, but they may be near the RR embankment. Over.
Down in the APC, vibrating from the continuous firing, Boris, in the heat, fumes, noise, excitement, fear, with a rapidly-developing headache, and still not having checked his wounds, forgot to inform Ruffpuff about the first downed spotter, that he is dealing with an enemy that has fly-swatting capability.
Okay, Tango, rolling in for another look-see. Out.
Down below, Freds team had gone to ground, and was watching the plane dwindle to a speck as it made a slow climbing turn, then saw it line up on the convoy, start to lose altitude, and pick up speed.
He is coming around again. Get ready! We want to take him down. Remember, aim above him and in front, let him fly into the bullets.
It was an unnecessary comment. There in the alfalfa field, concealed both from ground and air, they knew how to do it, knew the how-to manual on shooting down a plane with small arms. This one was going to be a little tough. But they were not regular troops. They were riflemen, and there is no point in having the skills if you do not use them on your enemy.
The plane had nearly completed its circle back to the convoy, and was starting to get bigger as it descended. Ruffpuff looked hard at the ground below. Gonna to be hard to spot something in all that vegetation, he thought. The fields stretched out below, seemingly without end. Tango said between the highway and the railroad tracks. Hmmm.... tight, but doable. From the air, the strip seemed narrow, indeed. Plumes of smoke from two trucks in the convoy would be a good marker. Now, for a look-see. On the ground, the guys suddenly heard the engine slow down. This guy really feels safe, Fred thought. I hope we can do something about that.
Okay, guys, you know the drill - do it!
As the plane skimmed by them just to the south, only a few hundred feet up, its shadow racing across the field, rolling into a vertical bank as Ruffpuff scanned the ground, all three rose as one out of the field and started pumping out rounds, aiming just above and well in front of it.
Both APCs at the rear of the convoy, firing at Team 2, inadvertently provided cover for the team. Each team member had time to get off 4 or 5 shots before the plane was too far downrange. Disappointment: no change in the planes attitude or engine sounds. They dropped back into the field, then rose and continued slouching swiftly toward the first truck in the convoy.
Up in the air, it was a different story.
Tango, they are shooting at me!
Ruffpuff stared for an instant at the hole in the canopy, and another in the engine cowling in front. Instruments seemed OK. But Fred, and every man with him, would have been glad to know their shooting might have saved the lives of Team 2, distracting Ruffpuff just as he passed overhead, making sure he failed to spot them. [Two hits out of 14 shots at a moving plane? That is pretty good, and the boys on the team would eagerly have laid down a twenty apiece, just to settle whose bullets they were.]
Pushing the throttle to the wall, staying low and kicking the rudder from side to side to make a tougher target, Ruffpuff contacted his big stick, upstairs: Tiger, this is Ruffpuff. Do you copy? Over.
Roger, Ruffpuff, Tiger copies. Over.
Tiger, what we have is a convoy about to be overrun. I want you to plant your eggs south of the convoy, about 300 yards out, passing from west to east. The target box is a strip the length of the convoy, and just to the north of the train tracks. It is tight, so be careful. Be advised, the area is hot. You are cleared for a pass. Over.
Roger, Tiger will be first, followed by Two and Three. Tiger rolling in hot. Out.
Now, switching freqs: Tango, this is Ruffpuff. Be advised Tiger is inbound and will drop in a box to the immediate south of you. They are gonna be close! Button up and sit tight. Out.
Team 2 had ceased firing and was moving - too slowly! - closer to the rear of the convoy, planning to come out on the highway some hundred yards behind it. Harry, the team leader, formerly worked for the local paper. He was there because, having fought in the soft war, he did not want to miss the hard one. [Little knowing he was part of the American tradition. On 4/19, with the alarm bell in Concord ringing, the first to show was the pro-liberty town minister, in his clerical clothes, carrying a musket in one hand, and accouterments in the other.] Right now, Harry was in a near-panic, as his team was slowed by the need to essentially high-crawl 300 yards in stifling heat, weighted down with gear and ammo, the inside of their clothing like a sauna, the camo netting on their backs acting like blankets. Having spotted the plane, they knew they had to beat feet and move out, like now. The two APCs were still hosing down the area they had just departed with cannon and MG fire. They were about halfway along when the ground shook, an enormous pressure wave knocked them over, followed by a blast of heat. A sharp CRACK! followed by an enormous rumble. Looking back, they saw a huge chunk of sky obliterated by a heavy and rapidly-growing black cloud.
The shock wave that knocked them down also slammed the APCs like a kid tossing a toy, rocking them and shaking up the crews inside. The guns went silent, the gunners stunned. Already wounded, now thrown against the hatch, Boris shook his head, trying to clear it. Inside the carrier only dim internal lights alleviated the sudden outside gloom. Holy Mary!, he thought, then he realized, This is only the first one... BLAMMM! The APC shuddered and rocked again, as Tiger Two dropped. It was literally stunning, blurring vision, blotting out hearing, fouling the air in the vehicle with dust and smoke. BLAMMM! Tiger Three weighted in.
Ruffpuff, this is Tango, over. Boris, ears ringing, could barely hear his shaking voice. The radio squeaked back:
Tango, Ruffpuff. Target obliterated! I think your problem is over. Higher directs departing area, Ruffpuff out.
No-o-o-o, Boris silently protested. Like all ground personnel, he liked to have air immediately overhead in these sits, just waiting for his call. Well, maybe it was more than he could expect. Now to find out what can be salvaged...
[A brief excerpt from Battlin the UN, the tale of some riflemen on a hot afternoon who respond to a threat much like that of April 19, 1775 - the entire story, with maps, diagrams, and an overhead satellite photo is available for a measy $3.] |
|
