Chapter 3
We stopped at the top of the mountain, it was cold there, with nothing to stop the wind, from gusting and blowing snow flurries around us. I crouched down as far as possible in my drivers hatch, wishing again that our heater worked. The heating system in an M113 armored personnel carrier wasn’t much good unless you were stopped and buttoned up, but it did help a little. I guessed the temperature to be around 20 degrees or so, and didn’t even want to know the chill factor at 25 miles per hour. If you’ve never experienced it, you can’t understand how damn cold your face can get exposed like that. First, it burns like fire, then it becomes wooden, like a mask, your nose runs at the beginning, until it freezes. Finally it just aches like hell. When you finally get to a place where you can thaw it, its needles and pins and burning all over again. It definitely doesn’t rank as one of my favorite things to do.
Uncle Sam, in his wisdom, had someone build a little vinyl and plastic windshield for the drivers, but your breath froze to it and fogged it up in minutes rendering it worthless. You could try ski masks, but they weren’t much help either. Once I tried coating my face with Vaseline hoping to keep it a bit warmer, but the result was a smooth, soft and frozen mug. I had resigned myself to being cold.
My track commander, 1Lt. Hearn, stamped his feet as he surveyed the trail below us, he was possibly colder than I was, he stood in the hatch with half his body out of the vehicle, where as I had only my head and shoulders exposed. Looking back at him, I could see ice frozen on his parka, his face looked raw and chapped. He and I had learned to check each others faces for the whitish yellow patches of skin that signified the dreaded frostbite. I’d had a touch on my nose, and it wasn’t something I cared to repeat. Stories came to mind of people in the old days freezing all their toes, I’d read of one man chopping them off with a hatchet to prevent gangrene. Not for me thank you very much.
Behind us the three tanks we were leading clawed their way to the top and stopped along side of us. I looked over them curiously, not failing to see the heat signature emitting from the heater exhaust, and the closed drivers hatch. The M1A1 Tank had been developed long after the aluminum M113 personnel carriers, and had much better arrangements for the drivers. He could see to drive with no effort while remaining buttoned up and warm. Some guys had all the luck. Then again, they had to sleep outside the vehicle unless they were willing to become human pretzels.
The senior tanker stepped down from his vehicle for a conference with the Lieutenant, the concern evident in his face. It was obvious that he didn’t think highly of the route ahead, and I didn’t blame him, Hell, I didn’t like it either. The road was a narrow strip of blacktop, which wound down the side of the mountain, twisting back and forth in a series of switchbacks like a sidewinder rattler. Snow covered the roadway completely in some areas, and it obviously hadn’t been traveled or salted in a while. Between each switchback, industrious Germans had built little gardens, complete with gazebos or summer cottages. Some of them were elaborately decorated with carved wooden signs and figurines, like a fairy tale village straight out of a book. It was a postcard view, with the little snow covered roofs, and draping fir trees, you half expected to see Hansel and Gretal skipping through. But to me, as a driver, it looked like Maneuver Damage waiting to happen. Every maneuver we went on, the first thing you were briefed on, right after the usual threats about loosing weapons and sensitive items, was maneuver damage. Anything we destroyed in the field had to be paid for, and the cost could run very high, dependant on what you totaled. The German farmers could estimate to the last cent what you’d cost them, and each field problem was followed by miles of paperwork for reimbursement. Some farmers had even filed for maneuver damage before we rolled out the gate, and in many cases, gotten away with it. I’d heard, though, it wasn’t confirmed, that if you killed a chicken, you not only paid for the chicken, but the eggs it would have laid in the next year.
Evidently, the tank commander had the same thoughts as me, because he was gesturing wildly trying to get his point across to the Lt. I could tell from the look on Lt. Hearn’s face that he wasn’t thrilled either, but he had his orders from Battalion, and it didn’t matter what he thought. Catch-22, complete the mission, create maneuver damage, and get chewed out for it, or not complete the mission and catch hell for that. I was glad to be a lowly Private, without that on my shoulders. All I had to do was keep the vehicle running and drive where I was told to go. Easy enough, most days.
I thought back to my first field problem in country, coldest winter in forty years we were told, in the unit not even 30 days, assigned as a driver and didn’t even have my licenses yet. So I was stuck in the back of the vehicle as excess cargo. My section sergeant had to drive and the Lieutenant acted as vehicle commander. Our cargo hatch was damaged, and couldn’t be safely left open, my squad leader and myself, bouncing around in the rear of the vehicle, had no idea what was going on outside, we only knew we were moving and climbing hills. We could feel when the treads slipped on the ice, and when the vehicle skidded, but as to what was going on, no clue.
The track, as the vehicle was most often referred to, started climbing again, we knew this by the tilting of the floor, and the whine of the supercharged engine. The angle of the climb was steep, unsecured gear slid towards the rear of the vehicle, then we felt the treads on the ice outside lost traction, the engine roared as the treads spun without grasping the roadway. Suddenly, we were moving sideways, skidding and then the engine dropped to an idle, I heard the Lieutenant yell at Sergeant N, “Floor it you fool, floor it!” Then we were sliding backwards and to the right, the engine screamed again, treads rattling as they sought traction, it seemed as if we slid backwards forever. I remember the Lt. dropping inside the hatch, his face white. He shouted at us “Hold on we’re going over the edge!” Just as he said it, the track flipped on it side, the rear dipped down and we were thrown around inside like puppets. I flew from my seat across the vehicle and landed on Sergeant K, knocking the breath from him, he pushed me off just in time to have the radio which had torn from its mount, smash into his stomach. My head bounced off the back hatch so hard it took my breath. The vehicle lurched again, then sat still, engine going full blast, until suddenly it died.
Dazed, we stared at each other, then wildly scrambled to get out of the vehicle. I opened the back hatch door and it swung away from my grasp and smashed against its stop, looking out into the dim light I could see that it was perhaps 6 to 8 feet to the ground, and we were lodged tight against a large evergreen tree, had it not been there, we would have continued down the mountain side below. Gently we climbed out the upper hatch, and onto the roadway, fearful that any sudden move would send the 13 ton vehicle and all our gear smashing on down. Sgt N stood to one side, shaking, his eyes had a bright nervous look to them, and he seemed incapable of speech. Not the case with Sgt K, who was alternating between cursing Sgt N’s driving ability and trying to hold a match still enough to light his cigarette. The Lieutenant was holding a handkerchief to his nose which was pouring blood, apparently from a chance encounter with the 50 caliber machine gun. As for myself, aside from a large knot on my forehead, and painful shoulder, I seemed to be fine, though I had a hard time lighting my smoke too.
We stood there staring at the underside of the vehicle for minutes, then the shock wore off and we began to laugh, what else could you do? Many times in my tour of service, I found myself laughing at something that had little or no humor in it, but sometimes, a situation can get so out of hand that you can only laugh.
Looking at the road ahead of us, I felt that this could easily turn into one of those situations, all the conditions were right for it. We had to get those tanks down the mountain and in position before the opposing force came, and the only way was down this road. The powers that were had spoken, we would comply.
“Wind it up Duke” came the order.
“You got it LT” I replied.
I started the engine, and released the brakes, gently eased the throttle in and we moved off the hilltop. As soon as we started down the road, I knew we were going to have trouble, I could feel thru my controls the treads slipping, each correction I made with the “sticks” caused the track to slew and skid. I let the engine act as my brakes, with the transmission locked in low gear. Keying my microphone, I spoke to the Lieutenant, “Sir, you might want to stay real low in the hatch.”
“Duke, you’re preaching to the choir.” Came his reply. ” All Second Lieutenants aint’ dumb.”
We approached the first bend, I eased the vehicle into the turn, catching my breath with every skid or slip. Thus we negotiated our way down the mountain side, I managed to make the trip destroying only my nerves and two plastic roadway markers. As we leveled out at the bottom, I could hear the Lieutenant calling the tank commanders over the radio.
“Bravo Six two, this is Romeo 16, send down your first element over.”
“Bravo Six two, 10-4, best get out of the way, out”
We backed down the road a little further, and eased off the side of the road. Looking up the mountain, I saw the first tank creep forward over the edge of the hilltop. The crew had the foresight to turn the main gun tube to the rear and lock it down, the only person showing was the Tank commander, and he was riding low in the turret.
As soon as the tank started down the road, I heard the Lieutenant draw a sharp breath, his eyes riveted to the descending tank.
The M1A1 Abrams tank is a heavy weight, tipping the scales at over 65 tons and while it is one of the most modern and sophisticated armored vehicles in the world, but it wasn’t designed to be used as a sleigh, or more aptly, a bobsled.
We watched spellbound as it gathered speed, sliding and twisting down the road. At the first switchback, the driver made a valiant effort to turn, however the ice and snow gave him no traction. In a futile attempt to follow the road, he gunned his tank in reverse, sending snow and mud flying, yet the tank kept its course, Straight down the mountain.
Leaving the roadway, it smashed through the ornate picket fence surrounding the first garden plot, plowing through the fruit trees and bushes and smashed into the beautiful little garden house, never slowing, it burst out the fence on the other side and back onto the road way. The dirt and debris from its slaughter of the garden gave the treads a measure of traction, and the driver managed to bring his vehicle to a halt. It sat straddle of the road, leaves, splintered wood, and muddy snow covering it, like some giant green hog, digesting its meal.
We sat there a moment, then the Lieutenant keyed up his microphone and called for them to continue down, we were committed, there was definitely no retreat.
The tank turned back down the hill and started rolling forward again, and, once again, immediately began to slide on the icy roadway, only this time, it seemed to be moving a lot faster. At the next turn it didn’t even hesitate, but tore thru the garden plot like a bulldozer, carefully carved, varnished wood splinters flew into the air as it demolished the hut and its porch, shattered a stone birdbath, and slid across the road, thru the next garden plot, and the next, and the next until it finally ran out of momentum at the bottom of the mountain.
The crew clambered out of the hatches, and turned to stare up the mountain side at the damage they had wrought. Shattered wood, glass, and plaster lay strewn in the raw gash the tank had made. By some miracle, two huts had survived the onslaught, but there were still two more tanks to come down. If I was betting, I wouldn’t take odds on the huts…
The next tank started over on command, and again, the scene was much like the first, except there wasn’t as much smashed wood flying around, as the first tank had for the most part leveled everything in its path.
Narrowly missing the last two huts, the second tank rolled to a stop nearby, all eyes now turned to the top. The best route of course was to follow the trail of destruction left by the first two tanks, I mean, come on, once something has been smashed to hell, what is the harm in hitting it again. But No, this driver decided to show that he was master of his trade, and tried to negotiate the switchbacks and turns. Somehow he made it thru the first and second turns, before hitting a patch of black ice which spun the entire tank around and had them facing uphill, at which point it started to slid backwards down the mountain and of course, smashing the two remaining huts, and slid to a stop with its nose still facing up the mountain. Total annihilation courtesy of the Third Armor Division, First Brigade. At the top of the mountain, stood two small German boys, staring as if in shock.
Looking over at the Lieutenant, I could almost read his thoughts. No matter what the reasons, or orders followed, he knew, knew, that it was his butt in the wringer. This was way up there on the price list of Maneuver damage.
We stared at each other, and then at the dazed tankers standing nearby, suddenly, if on cue, we all began laughing. Hell, it beat crying didn’t it.
