Ralph Peters - Red Army

Now he had to work around this exodus. He could not see how he would be able to make adequate time.

But remaining static would not solve anything. Bezarin figured that, at a minimum, he could stay close to the refugee column, exploiting them as passive air defense. The enemy would have to strike his own people to hit Bezarin's tanks. Bezarin was far from certain that the NATO officers would show any compunction about such an action, but it offered a better chance than driving openly through fields all day long. Bezarin wondered if the West Germans had perhaps even planned this, using their own people as a shield to block the progress of the Soviet Army on the roads.

Well, he would make the most of this situation, too.

He found himself thinking of Anna. She did not fit in here, but her image was insistent. She scolded him, flashing her high Polish temper, 257

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demanding that he see the mass of frightened humanity down on the road as a crowd of terrified individuals, seeking nothing more than safety.

All the same, the refugees were an annoyance. Bezarin felt like a cavalryman with new spurs since the engagement along the ridgeline with the British, and he wanted to drive his steel horse faster and faster, to water it on the banks of the Weser.

His tattered battalion unfolded from the high road and the crown of trees, opening into a quick, if somewhat ragged, battle formation. The self-propelled guns sidled off to firing positions as the wave of tanks, followed by infantry fighting vehicles, plowed toward the valley floor.

The warriors who had survived the morning's engagement had a changed feel to them now. Bezarin could sense it even through the steel walls of the tanks. It was, he suspected, the feel of men who had tasted the blood of their enemies.

Tanks sprayed dirt and mud in their trails as they maneuvered across the declining slope. Turrets wheeled to challenge the flanks. Bezarin saw only the readiness, the will to combat, ignoring the unevenness of the line. He knew that his demanding approach to training, despite the resentment it caused, had paid off. He felt that he could match his tankers against any in the world.

Along the highway, still nearly a kilometer distant, the refugees on foot began to run at the sight of the skirmish line of tanks. First a few of them ran, then other runners gathered around the first clusters like swarming insects. Some fell. Others discarded their last possessions.

At first, this response surprised Bezarin. It had never occurred to him that this slow river of humanity should be afraid at the sight of his tanks.

The idea of causing them any intentional injury had never crossed his mind. In a moment's revelation, he saw the world through the fear-widened eyes of the refugees. Despite the seal of his headset over his ears, he imagined that he could plainly hear their screams.

Bezarin was about to redirect his formation toward a secondary road heading off to the west, refusing his right flank, when the first muzzle blast flashed from across the valley.

Beyond the stream of fleeing civilians, an enemy force of undetermined size either had been waiting in ambush or had just reached the wooded ridge on the opposite side of the valley. Other muzzle blasts flared in quick succession, and Bezarin's tanks maneuvered to take advantage of the sparse local cover. They had been caught fully exposed on the slope.

On his right, Bezarin saw one of his tanks erupt, its turret lifting like 258

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the top of a mountain raised by the force of a volcano. Some of his platoons had begun to fire back, but the enemy was at extreme range, and the tanks had to fire from the halt to have any hope of hitting their targets.

Another of his tanks began to burn.

Good gunners, Bezarin thought. The bastards.

His first instinct was to pull everyone back up into the treeline. His ridge was considerably more commanding than the one occupied by the enemy.

"Attention," Bezarin called into the radio mouthpiece. "Do not return fire unless you have positively identified a target. Voronich," he called, dispensing with call signs, "your task is to identify targets for volley fire.

The artillery is to suppress the enemy position along the treeline.

Neshutin, you—"

Bezarin froze. The enemy were coming out. It was senseless. They had good concealed firing positions. They were willingly putting themselves at the same disadvantage Bezarin's vehicles were in.

Then he got it. They were trying to rescue, to cover, the refugee column. Again, Bezarin was startled by the enemy's apparent perception of the threat his tanks posed. But he did not waste time on moral philosophy. The enemy had just told him, frankly, where their values lay.

"Everybody," Bezarin called over the radio net. "All tanks and fighting vehicles. Move forward now. Full combat speed. Get in among the refugee traffic. Use the automobiles for cover. Fire smoke grenades and move now. All tanks back on line. Now."

His vehicle lurched forward at his command. Bezarin triggered the reloaded smoke grenade canisters and drove headlong into the rising puffs. His vehicle jounced wildly over the uneven field.

The smoke made him cough. But he did not want to seal himself in the belly of the tank. He was afraid he would lose control of this engagement, as he had lost control in the morning's fighting.

Beyond the thin screen of smoke, the column of automobiles soon blocked the enemy's fields of fire. Bezarin looked quickly to the right and left, unsure how many tanks should be there now, but satisfied with the grouping he saw. Quick armored infantry fighting vehicles nosed their sharp prows in among the tanks, losing drill formation in the headlong dash for the highway.

Bezarin's tank roared through an area of low ground from which the column of automobiles on the built-up road actually stood higher than his turret. Then the tank slanted back upward, heading for the multi-colored column of civilian vehicles.

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The last drivers deserted their automobiles, leaving doors wide open in their haste. Bezarin's tank shot up over the berm of the road and slammed down on the pavement of the highway. His driver only halted the tank after its glacis had crunched into the side of a big white sedan.

The meadow beyond the road had filled with running figures, their bright clothing like confetti thrown over the green fields. The refugees scrambled toward their own forces. But now the tables had turned. The enemy tanks had lost the race to the road, and they stood embarrassed in the open fields, uncertain sentinels attempting to cover the human flood.

Bezarin could see that the enemy unit was weaker than his own after all, its vehicles scarred by combat and spread thinly across the long slope.

"Get them," Bezarin screamed into the mike, "get them while they're in the open. Don't let them get away. Platoon commanders, direct fire."

He felt himself bursting with adrenaline; his determination to destroy his enemies was so powerful he felt it could propel him into the sky. He had not paused to consider his choice of words as he issued his command.

"Target," Bezarin said, dropping into position behind his optics.

"Range, six hundred meters."

"Six hundred meters."

"Correct to six-fifty. Selecting sabot."

"Six-fifty. Sabot loaded."

"Fire."

Bezarin's tank rocked back, and an instant later an enemy tank jerked to a stop, lifting slightly, like a man punched hard in the lower belly. The enemy tank failed to explode, but smoke began to fluster from its vents.

Bezarin was in a killing mood.