Major Conflict Read online

  As I made my way down the line, listening to each man introduce himself to me, I was struck by how diverse a group it was. There was, for example, Private First Class Fair, a black soldier from rural Georgia; there was Specialist Rodriguez, a Latino from Los Angeles with tattoos all up and down his arms; there was the white kid from Delaware, Private Johnson, who’d joined the army, I’d later learn, solely for the college money; and there was Sergeant Grajaba from San Antonio, who, I’d soon discover, had a wicked sense of humor and a knack for irreverence that often got him in hot water with his bosses, though never with me. Looking at the whole motley crew of them, I couldn’t help but wonder just how a group of young men like this, with seemingly so little in common, would be able to function as a unit in close quarters for a long period of time.

  After the last man had introduced himself and I’d shaken his hand, I stepped back and tried to think of something to say. The introductions had put me somewhat at ease, but I was still struggling to find the right tone, to strike a balance between friendly approachability and authoritative distance. I tried to imagine what a great general would say upon meeting his troops for the first time. What would Patton have said, I asked myself, and then immediately, in an effort to regain some sense of modesty, pushed the thought from my mind: You, sir, I thought, after all, are no George S. Patton, echoing Senator Bentsen’s memorable slam against Dan Quayle during the vice presidential debates of the election the year before. Still, I was inspired. So I decided to give an impromptu pep talk that was brief, powerful, and, judging by the expressions on the faces of Fair and Rodriguez and the others, totally inappropriate. I’m sure they all had a good laugh over the new lieutenant later on that day.

  “Men,” I started, “let me begin by saying just how honored I am to have the opportunity to serve with you. And I want you know from the get-go that I am fully—I mean fully—committed to helping you realize your true potential as the most devastating, rock-solid FIST the U.S. Artillery has ever known. Your skill and lethal power will make you stand head and shoulders above your peers in the greater Artillery community.”

  Fair and Rodriguez exchanged glances at this point but I went on, convinced that any new leader has to fight for the loyalty of his troops.

  “Let me just say this. My goal is simple. I want us to be feared on any battlefield we might find ourselves. And we can only do it together. Men, let’s be clear. Make no mistake about it—I am committed to you one hundred fifty percent and I expect nothing less than one hundred fifty percent from each and every one of you in return. You will engage training, maintenance, everything—like you would the enemy! And above all, above all, men, fight hard to be all that you can be!”

  The speech by itself was not actually so inappropriate, it was just ill-timed and kind of out of place. I mean they were doing maintenance, for God’s sake, not fighting their way up the beaches of Normandy! For my own part, I walked away feeling elated at how my first meeting had gone, completely oblivious to the cool, though respectful, reception it had gotten. I wasn’t going to let anything ruin my first day on the job!

  CHAPTER NINE

  Reforger

  My experience in Germany was, in most respects, wonderful. We worked hard, and I learned a great deal, and I bonded with a group of men who, sexual orientation aside, seemed very much like me. We spent a lot of our time in the field doing maneuvers and exercises, and whenever we had a couple free days we’d take a day trip, most of Europe being virtually a day trip away.

  When I arrived in Germany at the end of the Reagan era, the military was like a college football player, pumped up and ripped on steroids. A decade’s worth of lavish military spending had created a psychology of invincibility and swagger. Everyone had a certain look, an air of untapped power, as if we were spoiling for something, anything at all, to happen. Nobody seriously believed that a war was imminent, but the attitude was that active duty no longer meant just sitting around and drawing a paycheck; it meant working hard in preparation for something, though no one knew exactly what.

  At that time an average unit spent roughly 250 days a year in the field, training. There was an open-minded attitude about it. Mistakes weren’t viewed so much as failures as opportunities for soldiers and units to see what they’d done wrong and to learn from the experience. Those with big egos were quickly disabused of their own brilliance by objective assessments based on the facts as captured by impartial third parties.

  In addition to this, once a year we participated in what was called REFORGER, a shorthand term for Return of Forces to Germany. This annual exercise, started in 1969 in an effort to demonstrate continued U.S. commitment to NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization) after withdrawing roughly twenty-eight thousand troops from Europe in 1968, tested the ability of the army to deploy forces from the States in the event of a Soviet invasion or some other outbreak of aggression or war. It was an immense and powerful display of force designed not only to give our commanders and generals an opportunity to test our readiness but also, and perhaps more significant, to remind the Soviets of the very real threat we posed to any form of aggression they might be considering against Europe or our other Allies around the world. The Soviets denounced the first REFORGER in 1969 as a “major military provocation.” The end of the cold war, coupled with huge advances in computer technology, brought REFORGER to a close, in 1993, when the last one occurred as mostly a computer-driven logistical exercise in which only one part of one unit was deployed from the United States.

  During REFORGER, troops from as many as six divisions would come from the States and draw prepositioned equipment in Belgium and the Netherlands and in a matter of weeks deploy to Germany alongside those of us already stationed in the country. Then the maneuvers would begin, right through the cobblestone streets of quaint German towns and over the fields of the German countryside. I realize that this is hard to imagine. I mean, picture a convoy of M1 tanks rolling down the main street of your own hometown! Once a year we went to a different part of the country, deployed thousands of troops, then tore up fields and streets and damaged property and infrastructure, in the process of our “show of strength.”

  What did the Germans think of all this? The impression I got over the four years I spent there was that the population was pretty much divided on the issue. Divided not only in terms of the annual exercise, but in terms of our mere presence in their country as well. It was mostly a generational thing, which makes sense if you think about it. Older Germans tended to support our presence, while people my own age tended to despise us with a ferocity that often took me totally by surprise. Many of those who hadn’t lived through the devastation of the war viewed us as unwelcome occupiers bent on prolonging the cold war instead of working toward a definitive and lasting peace. To them, the REFORGER exercise was simply visible proof of the arrogance of both superpowers. Anyone who lived through the war, however, understood that though the Americans weren’t perfect, they were a far better alternative to the overlords in the East. With a massive force—millions strong and armed to the teeth—just a stone’s throw away, our presence was a pragmatic and comforting counterweight to the Soviet threat.

  The exercise we were about to deploy was to take place in the south of Germany near Munich. Our equipment would be sent ahead by freight, and we would then drive down separately. Once there, we would conduct final checks and then begin tactical operations.

  It was still a little unclear to me just what was meant by “tactical operations.” Everyone I asked simply said we’d do a lot of driving through the countryside and through a few small towns. I couldn’t imagine how the actual fighting exercise would fit into the whole scheme of things. I’d learn soon enough.

  Having driven down and spent a day in final preparations, we were ready to begin Exercise Centurion Shield the following morning. It was bitter cold on that first morning. I’d positioned myself in the turret of my vehicle, and as we moved into the operational area and then into the first town the wind
was so cold it felt as if my face were burning. Trying to ignore the cold, I let my mind wander a little as we pushed through the town in a neat row, like baby ducks crossing a lake behind their mother, toward our first objective. Suddenly, my radio flared to life, spitting out voices giving reports and orders. I jerked myself upright and began to focus on what was going on. An ambush had been set up about a mile and a quarter ahead of us, just outside of town, and we were the first company to receive contact. The enemy was positioned on a small ridge next to a group of farm buildings. A Hummer marked with blue tape had moved quickly to our column and informed the lead vehicle that it had been hit; it was out. This caused the flurry of communications as the column swung into action to defend itself, pulling off the road and into the open field to engage the enemy.

  The column of Bradleys parted like the Red Sea and began a mad dash across the field, destroying a whole crop of what looked like beets. The vehicles quickly deployed into a formation that maximized firepower and speed, aggressively moving against the farm buildings, turrets swiveling wildly in order to engage multiple targets. It was determined that the enemy was located in the farm buildings, so my boss called for fire on them, and I quickly responded by getting the ball rolling with the tubes waiting for use.

  In my naïveté I found myself overly concerned about the state of the beet field, convinced that a mistake had been made, that we’d inadvertently moved across the wrong field, that a field left fallow for just this purpose was right ahead of us and we’d engaged too soon. Wouldn’t we get in trouble for destroying this poor farmer’s field? Why weren’t they stopping the exercise? Was it my fault? Had I missed something, a signal, an order? Had I overlooked something during the preparations? For a moment, looking down at the ruined crop of beets, I became convinced that I would end up being the most quickly relieved lieutenant in the history of the U.S. Army. As the line of vehicles continued to rumble across the field, it began to look like a very large pig pen, the crops smashed into a thick slurry of mud, with huge ruts forming that were beginning to bog down the Bradleys.

  But apparently no mistake had been made. The referee stood by, serenely watching the carnage of the beet field, until the battle had actually run its course. Signaling with a small flag, he drove first to Captain Kreuz’s Bradley and conferred with him and then moved on to the enemy position. The boss’s voice came over the radio and explained that the company had taken casualties and that the two Bradleys at the front of the column had been destroyed and would have to report to a holding area. The idea was that if you got “killed,” you left the game for however long it would normally take to either repair or replace your vehicle. The logisticians got a great workout by implementing the repair procedures and ordering.

  Once the adjudication process was complete we got on our way again, re-forming on the road and moving off smartly. There was another small town about two miles ahead of us. At a little over a mile out we stopped and pulled into a defensive formation—half the turrets were pointed to the right, half were pointed to the left and one was pointed to the rear. Three of the Bradleys lowered their ramps, and about eighteen troops slowly disgorged themselves, looking like troglodytes who had been awakened from a deep sleep. Quite frankly, they were taking a long time to get their bearings and put all their gear on. I could sympathize with them because I knew that spending hours being tossed around inside a Bradley was not the most pleasant experience in the world. It fell to these troops to carefully reconnoiter to determine if there was an ambush waiting for us. As they checked out the town, it was up to my team and me to submit possible targets to the gun batteries in the event we had to fight at this location.

  About a half hour later, the grunts returned, looking refreshed and alert. Amazing, I thought, what a little fresh oxygen and light can do for a man! The commander signaled that all was clear, and we pulled back onto the road to continue our convoy. We pulled out in the same order and proceeded on through the town. As we moved through, I watched as curious onlookers began to congregate on their front lawns and in their front windows to get a good look at the Americans. Slowly, we negotiated our way through the narrow streets of the old town, occasionally tearing up a cobblestone or two or crushing a piece of the curb, or flattening a hedge that had gotten in our way. At one point, the Bradley just ahead of us got too close to a metal divider and caught the edge of it. The divider crumpled almost instantly, snapping free from its supporting columns, and ending up a twisted and jagged reminder that the Americans had passed through yet again. Just as I’d been in the beet field, I was amazed that this seemed to be accepted as business as usual. Later on, I would learn that during every one of these exercises an MDCO (maneuver damage control officer) was positioned behind every unit. It was his job to identify all damage done and to provide the owner with the proper paperwork for reimbursement. The total for repairs on an exercise like this could run as high as a hundred million dollars. What’s more, the exercises had been going on for so long that some Germans would actually try to get commanders to cross their property so that they could be reimbursed for damages. In some cases, if a field was torn up, we were billed not only for the loss of any current crop, but for every crop it was estimated that plant would have yielded over the course of its natural life span. We did these exercises at least twice annually, so over the years quite a lot of money was paid out to the Germans for damaged crops and torn-up cobblestones.

  As we pulled out of town I couldn’t help but admire the beauty of the small piece of German countryside we hadn’t managed to turn to mush, and as I looked back to face the vehicle in front of us I was confronted with a horrible sight. The road banked gently to the right. Captain Kreuz had placed one of the M1s from the platoon of tanks at the head of the column, and dragging along behind that tank was a mangled Mercedes Benz with what appeared to be a driver still behind the wheel. At first I didn’t believe my eyes. I actually shook my head, thinking I wasn’t seeing things right, since what I was looking at didn’t seem possible. And it got worse when it became clear to me that the tank driver and the tank commander apparently hadn’t even noticed and were driving blithely along, enjoying the same scenery I’d been looking at just a moment ago. It made me think of those stories you hear about dog owners tying their beloved dogs to the back of their cars at a campsite or something, then forgetting about them and driving two hundred miles until some shocked stranger at a red light points out to the clueless owner the dead and mangled dog still attached to the rear bumper.

  But Captain Kreuz noticed. He was the shocked stranger, in this case. His Bradley suddenly jerked out of the formation as he simultaneously ordered the whole column to stop. For a twenty-six-ton vehicle, the Bradley can move pretty fast in a pinch, and it was doing just that now. Kreuz was halfway out of the turret, waving his arms frantically, trying to get the attention of the tank commander. But the commander just continued on, oblivious, until Kreuz grabbed a full bottle of water and hurled it at the guy, who, catching sight of the small missile flying past his face, finally realized something was wrong. As the massive tank slowed and finally came to a halt, Captain Kreuz ripped off his helmet and scrambled off the Bradley to the rear of the tank. The tank commander was next to him a moment later, and then he jumped back onto the vehicle; I could see him reaching for his map. They were calling for help. Then the executive officer spoke over the radio. There’d been an accident, we were told. We would be here for a while. We were to move into a larger formation and begin maintenance on our vehicles.

  Once we took our position in the perimeter, I decided to get a closer look at the accident. As I approached the scene I noticed the tank crew standing off to the side of the road in a drainage ditch. They all looked pretty shaken up. The section leader seemed especially upset; he looked to be on the verge of tears. Captain Kreuz tried to calm everyone down. His crew was in the field holding bright orange pieces of vinyl. He had obviously called for a medevac. Just then the blaring horns of an ambulance and fire truck
could be heard on the road behind us.

  As I approached the mangled Mercedes lodged up under the M1 tank on that cold October morning in the south of Germany, I found myself experiencing a horrific sense of complicity. My heart was racing as I got close to the vehicle. Each step closer seemed to come with increasing difficulty, as if I were slowly falling into one of those dreams in which you find yourself walking and walking and walking but unable to move, unable to get anywhere at all. Suddenly, I was in the cool stream again at camp, treading that black water, frozen, looking up at the boy on the rock, waiting for him to stand, to scream, to laugh, to lift up his hand and flip the finger at us all.

  Reaching the accident I saw that the hunter green Mercedes was worse than it had looked from a distance—it had been reduced to a mere crumpled hulk, a mangled jumble of steel and shattered glass. It seemed impossible that anyone could be pulled out of there alive. Reaching the driver’s side of the car, I found myself getting a little queasy and short of breath. What I saw was imprinted on my memory as indelibly as the image of the twisted body of the boy on the rock.

  The body of a young man was slumped over the bent steering wheel. Blood was splattered everywhere in semicongealed rivulets, some actually dripped from the frame of the car as I stood there and watched. It looked as though the bottom half of the man’s body had been crushed by the tank as the Mercedes had crashed into the back of the armored behemoth. The windshield was completely shattered, and its frame had actually been loosened and was now jutting out from the body of the car. The car was pinned under the back end of the tank, and the frame was bent so that one of the rear wheels was slightly up in the air. I just couldn’t understand how this happened, and once again a great curtain of sadness descended on me as I was forced back to the memory of the cadet at camp, the boy on the rock. It was another training exercise and another casualty, with no good reason to answer the simple question, Why? I thought that maybe the second time around I might have a different reaction, but here it was again, and once again I was simply flailing against questions I couldn’t possibly answer.