Close Enough

Chapter Four - The Incident

Chapter Four - The Incident


The stop north of Kassel had been little more than a nap, and Mark was glad he'd drawn the day shift; he'd be able to get some sleep soon.  Alpha Company now occupied positions just east of Wolfsburg, home of the Volkswagen Beetle.  Mark and his team had sited their communications shelter and generator trailer on the reverse slope of the hill.  This meant that, when fully extended, the receiving antenna would be about ten feet above the hill's actual crest, allowing them to receive signals and practice their wartime mission while remaining concealed from direct observation.

Mark ducked under the low opening in the camouflage netting, taking care not to snag the blank adapter attached to the muzzle of his M16A1 rifle in the netting.  Those two things sure seemed to have a natural affinity for each other, he thought to himself.  He checked the fuel can currently in use on the generator trailer, then opened the commo shelter's door to check on operations.  Specialist Clanton interrupted his radio equipment checks to greet his supervisor.

"Hi, Sergeant Waters.  what's up?"

"Just checking to see how far along you were; Specialist Holliday will be here shortly to relieve you.  You know we've got the zero two to zero four hundred guard shift, right?"

"Yes, Sergeant; Sergeant Carlson dropped by a few minutes ago to tell me.  I'm hitting the sack right after chow."

"Okay, see you then."

Mark headed for his tent, smiling to himself yet again over the coincidences between his two team members.  Although neither claimed to be related to the legendary Wild West figures, Specialist John Holliday was known as Doc and Specialist William Clanton was called Billy.  Interestingly, the parallel carried over to firearms proficiency.  Holliday consistently qualified higher than Clanton, shooting Sharpshooter to Clanton's Marksman, or Expert to the other's Sharpshooter.  Well, Doc had walked away from the OK Corral, and Billy hadn't, so it made a certain kind of 'sense'.  Funny how things are, sometimes, he thought.  Reaching his tent, he quickly stripped off his web gear and uniform, laying the items at the foot of his cot; his M16 went into the sleeping bag with him.  Nothing gums up the works of a field exercise like a misplaced sensitive item, and none of the other guys in the tent were going to mistake his weapon for theirs.  Knowing the current Sergeant of the Guard would wake him, he didn't bother setting his watch's alarm.  He was asleep in minutes.

***

Senior Lieutenant Moellemann continued his inspection of the company's deployment.  Garrisoned near Buchholz, a village located southwest of the town of Stendal, the company's road march had gone reasonably well and the various elements of the unit he commanded--1st Motorized Rifle Company, 1st Motorized Rifle Battalion, 27th Motorized Rifle Regiment, 8th Motorized Rifle Division--were now dispersed well to the west of their normal field positions in the Training Area near the town of Letzlingen.  They were, in fact, less than one kilometer from the border with West Germany.

The lieutenant was excited to be almost literally on the front lines in the defense of his countrymen from the capitalist West.  As part of his monthly classes, the Regiment's Political Officer would tell them not only about the shortcomings of the enemy's equipment, but he would also remind them how weak the imperialists really were, especially the Americans.  He remembered one lecture in particular:  "They sleep in sleeping bags laid on cots--cots, if you can believe it--and they grow petulant if their food arrives cold from the central mess!  We who serve at the vanguard of Socialism have no need to fear these Americans, who revere their comforts so.  Consider this: our homeland is blessed with, shall we say, variable weather.  If the temperature falls below 15, or if it starts to rain or snow, they won't want to fight!  According to my almanac, that leaves us at risk only three days a year.  Today is one of them, and it's almost over!"  Laughter had echoed through the lecture hall.

Yes, he thought, the Americans were weak--but they were close.  According to the radio conference call with the Regimental Commander this morning, the American 2nd Armored Division had deployed from their home base and was, even now, taking up positions directly opposite the Regiment's area of responsibility.  This was unusual, he told them, as the Americans normally didn't show their faces north of Kassel, so they may be up to something.  It is up to each leader, he had said, to take responsibility for securing his sector.  At that, Moellemann's battalion commander had looked each subordinate commander in the eye.  The unspoken message was crystal clear: You are responsible for anything that happens in your sector.  Well, he thought, everything's fine so far.  One more position to check, then some sleep.  He checked his watch: 0145.  With a little luck, he'd get a few hours of sleep, before the sun came up.

***

Movement below and to the right caught Bonnie's eye, and she stopped her evening jog and bent down; a moment later, she let out a shriek and jumped back.  Sensing the vibrations caused by Bonnie's landing, the tarantula quit moving, its forelegs waving gently.  After a minute or so, it finished crossing the trail and disappeared into the weeds.  Well, she told herself, there's my scare for the week.  Bonnie chided herself to pay more attention to her surroundings - especially when not on a sidewalk - and completed her third trip around the block.  Passing in front of her neighbor's house, she moved little Seth's tricycle from the middle of the sidewalk to the yard - again - then went inside to get a cold glass of water and decide on something for dinner.  Noticing that it was almost seven, she said a short prayer for Mark.

***

Lieutenant Moellemann approached the observation post, expecting at any moment to be challenged.  Ten feet from the concealed position, he heard soft snoring.  Moellemann was incensed.  The fool was sleeping!  The lieutenant stepped forward.  The sentry was leaning against the north side of a tree, literally asleep on his feet.  Moellemann drew his Soviet-made Makarov and pointed it at the ground between the man's feet.  Here was another difference between East and West.  While American forces typically trained with blank ammunition, Moellemann's men were accustomed to training with live ammunition, the rationale being that the popping of blank ammunition didn't impart the same level of seriousness as live rounds whizzing over one's head.  He squeezed the trigger.  At the pistol's report, the man jerked and clenched his hands.  Unfortunately, his right forefinger had been resting on the AK-47's trigger; the automatic rifle stuttered out a short burst.

Moellemann's satisfaction at having made a point the man would never forget--sleeping on guard duty is a serious matter--suddenly turned to horror.  The man had been leaning against the north side of the tree--the bullets had gone west!  The battalion commander's face, and that wordless message came immediately to mind: Your responsibility, your fault.  He wouldn't care about the border fortifications, he wouldn't care about the observation towers; he wouldn't care about any of it.

"You fired into the West!" he screamed in the man's face.  "Do you realize what you've done?  You've created an international incident and disgraced our country!"  The lieutenant fired his pistol once more, raged at the unmoving figure at his feet another few seconds, then raced to inform the battalion commander.  As he ran, he hoped the man wouldn't be so furious that he'd be unable to properly aim his own pistol.

***

Mark and Specialist Clanton had just relieved Private Hayes, who began making his way down the hill toward his tent, when something made a clearly audible thunk as it impacted the tree just above Mark's head.  At the same time, he heard a somewhat muffled spang! a few feet to his left.  Specialist Clanton made a soft "oof" sound and then collapsed.  As Mark bent down to check on Clanton, from the east came a single pop, the sound of what appeared to be a five- or six-round burst from an automatic weapon and then, some seconds later, another pop.  Mark immediately noticed two things about Clanton: his helmet was no longer on his head, and his face was covered with blood.

"Hayes!  Private Hayes!" Mark shouted down the hill, "Get Lieutenant Sawyer!  I think Clanton's been shot!"

***

Chapter 4 word count = 1425 words
Running total word count = 3866 words