WARNO: First Contact

 

In this city so proud

Full of noises and crowds

This once was a monument

Now, it's a grave

And they warned us about

When reason gave out

Now, it's too late for miracles

There's nothing to save

Armageddon

Armageddon

It came too soon

- “Armageddon” by Planet P Project (1983)

Private Lance Nigels starred intently at that “Woodland” camouflage pattern on the BDU (Battle Dress Uniform) trousers on the soldier seated beside him inside the M113 APC.  Black swirling to brown swirling to green swirling back to black again, round and round, he thought.  You can’t escape the black. Nothing can escape the black. 

The M113’s Detroit V6 two-stroke diesel engine suddenly roared, as if in warning, and the entire vehicle lurched to a halt, causing the soldiers inside to bump into each other as they sat side by side on the twin benches that lined the interior of the aluminum hull.   The vehicle commander, perched on his elevated seat for better visibility from outside the hull, called down. “We’re at your destination, Sarge!  Time to go!”  He pulled a lever and the back ramp of the M113 began to lower with a whine of hydraulics. Nigels was startled by the activity.  He squinted as the bright mid-summer sun flooded the formerly dim interior.  

His squad leader, Sergeant Brad Omar, stood from the jumpseat mounted on the reverse side of the metal beam that also hosted the vehicle commander’s seat, adjusted his M16 rifle and battle harness, and trotted to the opening to take a look before allowing his men to disembark the vehicle.  He turned to say something but was pre-empted by the vehicle commander's sudden call.  “Enemy vehicle spotted!  Front!  200 yards! Engaging!”  Nigels felt trapped in a fever dream as he watched the M113’s commander pull the charging handle on the large .50 caliber heavy machinegun that was the vehicle’s only defensive weapon, and pull the trigger. It all seemed to happen in slow motion to Nigels stunned mind.  The large weapon barked like a demon as the firing mechanism engaged and quickly spit the empty brass bullet casings out in quick succession like spent cigarette butts.  It really was happening, Nigels thought.  We really are going to do this. We really are going to kill some guys.  

The vehicle commander paused in his firing to shout at Sergeant Omar.  “What are you waiting for? Leave! Now! I don’t know how long I can hold this red bastard off with just a .50 cal! I’ll cover you as long as I can!“

Omar calmly saluted the VC and nonchalantly replied, “Thanks for the ride.”  He turned to the squad. “Okay! We are getting a hot welcome from the Russkies.” As if to punctuate his words, Nigels heard rounds pelting the steel-reinforced hull armor.  It sounded like hail on the roof of his Datsun back home.  Home, he thought wistfully.  Why did I get myself into this? Omar’s basso voice snapped him from his sudden onset of homesickness.  “When you leave this vehicle, you WILL dash LEFT. LEFT! Then surmount the wall lining the road and take cover in the yard on the other side. Clear?” His question was only met with a slight murmur. Nigels realized he wasn’t the only one coping with the discovery of being in a lethal nightmare.  “CLEAR?!” shouted Omar. “Yes, sarge!” they all replied. He nodded and calmly walked down the vehicle’s ramp. He peeked around the corner. “Looks like just a BMD. We’ll be okay,” he shouted.  “Ready!” Nigels felt his heart hammering in his chest in what he believed was a thoroughly unhealthy way. He suddenly felt nauseous and starved for air.  He hadn’t been this sick since he stopped getting high on weed back in high school.  What if I pass out? he thought? What if I am having a heart att… but Nigels didn’t get to finish the thought. Omar shouted “Go!” and Nigels found himself mindless following the guy in front of him down the ramp and out into the summer air.  Nigels paused for a lungful of fresh air at the base of the ramp, causing the guy behind him to bump into him, eliciting a curse as he needed to run around Nigels.  Even though the air was tainted with diesel exhaust and cordite, he gulped it like a drunk gulped bourbon.  Around him, the neatly picturesque West German community was at odds with the chained Bang! Bang! Bang! of the .50 caliber pounding away at the Soviet - SOVIET! - vehicle. He became aware of other sounds, from the nails-on-concrete crack! of enemy rounds hitting the hull of the M113 to the distant spang! of the vehicle’s return fire striking back at the other vehicle. He was also startled to see how blue the sky was. On a day like this, he expected nothing less than a black void.  Sergeant Omar suddenly grabbed his shoulder, hard, and practically threw him one-handed to the left while shouting, “Move your ass, Nigels! Go! Go! Go!”  

He ran both mindlessly and, paradoxically, obsessively towards the imagined safety of the not-to-distant wall that filled his vision. That was his objective. That was all that mattered. He didn’t dare look at the enemy vehicle, lest it strike him down for impertinence.   He didn’t even pay attention to the green tracers that raced up the street and struck the M113, causing brilliant showers of sparks that reminded him of Independence Day, when he and his brother would light sparklers and laugh at the pointless spectacle.  He was surprised, in a detached fashion, to discover his vision blurring as tears welled up in his eyes.  

And then he was over the wall and down on the ground.  He didn’t even recall reaching the wall or throwing himself over it.  Am I dead? he briefly wondered.  Is that how I got here so fast? Why I can only see the sky? But then another body came over the wall and landed on him, causing Nigels to grunt with pain. “Still with us, Nigels?” It was the sarge.  He smiled, rolled off him, and patted his chest.  

Omar got to one knee, careful to keep his head below the lip of the wall.  “Good! We all made it! Easy, right?” The squad grumbled.  “I need my AT guys with me! Get those LAWs (Light Anti-tank Weapons) out, Miller and Sanchez! We are going bear hunting,” he concluded with a feral grin. But before the men could respond, a terrific explosion sounded up the road.  In the vacuous silence that followed, all that could be heard was the tinkle of metal fragments hitting the ground and the occasional pop! of ammunition cooking off. A wild cheer came from the driver’s compartment of the M113. The squad stood and looked, curiosity on their faces. Sure enough, the enemy BMD was burning.  “Well, I’ll be damned,” declared Omar.  

The M113’s vehicle commander was pumping the air with his fists.  “That’s the way we do it!”  Comically, he kissed the .50 cal.  

“I didn’t think an MG would take out a Soviet recon vehicle.” Omar rubbed his chin and turned to the squad. “I think this war might be over by Christmas if that's how fragile the reds are!” he smiled. 

Nigels didn't know whether to vomit or rage. Was that it? Was that my war? A crazy dash and then a stolen victory? Nigels watched as the M113 roared to life and moved off to pick up another squad of troops.  Black always wins. Nigels adjusted his gear and helmet and followed the rest of the squad to the next objective. 

'80s Flashback: