Marching on Tuzla

By Greg Pickell

Marching on Tuzla is the story of two professional military officers, forced into conflict in the turbulent geopolitics of the Balkans in the 1990s. Initially unaware of each other, the two men find professional satisfaction and career success as they grapple with their demons. Darius Grant, a West Point graduate disillusioned by the Army's detachment from the realities of modern combat, resolves to right at least some of the wrongs he sees affecting the safety of his men. Alekse Savic, a Bosnian Serb nationalist and gifted military leader and planner, commits himself to the preservation of his homeland in Serb-controlled Northern Bosnia. International politics and strategy bring them into conflict as each attempts to attain his goals. Along the way, they find love in the arms of Megan Rostov and Zhanna Anisimov, women as accomplished and driven as themselves. The climatic events at the conclusion of this story find the two men in direct confrontation in the hills of Central Bosnia, with victory hanging in the balance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781684568451

Book preview

1

Arrival

Headquarters, 3rd Squadron, 7th Armored Cavalry Regiment (ACR), Fliegerhorst Kaserne, Hanau, Germany, 12 April 1988

The thin young man stood quietly as the cab driver extracted two heavy military duffel bags from the trunk of the taxi. He shivered slightly in the cold morning air typical of springtime weather in central Europe. His discomfort was compounded by a distinct lack of insulation—he stood 5'9" tall but weighed less than 140 pounds.

Arrival at his first duty station should have been a seminal moment in the life of Darius Grant, 2nd Lieutenant, United States Army. Unfortunately, lurking distractions conspired to spoil the moment. Grant tried not to think about the poor choices and worse luck of his recent past, but the attempt didn’t make it so. The net result was a kaleidoscope of emotions warring for supremacy where there should have been nothing save anticipation.

The significance of this day and place for Grant stemmed from his upbringing, for he was a lifelong practitioner of the military arts. As long as he could remember, Darius had been fascinated by the theory and application of warfare. As a child, he had played with the same toy soldiers as had many of his friends, only he hadn’t stopped when his compatriots moved on to other things. As a teenager, he had discovered military simulations—wargames. His favorites were those developed by the Avalon Hill Company, and his obsession with the genre had grown. By the time he was ready to graduate high school, Grant was running large scale maneuvers in his basement and devouring military classics by authors like J. F. C. Fuller, Clausewitz, and Chandler.

At some point during his formative years, Grant had determined to attend the US Military Academy at West Point. It seemed a natural choice. For Darius, the military represented a calling in much the same way that one might enter the priesthood or a career in the arts, and West Point was an almost mythical destination for someone with his particular interests.

Against the odds, he succeeded. Surprising everyone, not least his high school guidance counselors, Darius gained admittance to the US Military Academy class of 1987. The mixed blessing of this accomplishment was brought home to him by his parents, who feared the hazing traditionally associated with military schools. Most others in his small Midwestern town were ambivalent upon hearing the news, having little idea what or where West Point was. For his part, Grant was ecstatic, recognizing that the future he had envisioned was becoming reality.

On July 1, 1983, Darius reported for R-Day (R stood for Reception, he later learned) activities at Michie Stadium, the US Military Academy’s football venue overlooking the academy grounds on the banks of the Hudson River in upstate New York.

That was when the trouble started.

Trouble was probably the wrong term to describe the reality check cadet Darius Grant experienced during the following months and years. Disillusionment would have been more accurate, for while Grant exhibited many of the characteristics of a model member of the Corps of Cadets, this was due more to his stubborn nature than to the fulfillment of his life’s ambition. The problem lay in the disconnect between Grant’s conception of the academy’s mission and a very different reality.

The fault lay with Grant, not the Academy. It was all there, starting with West Point’s Mission statement, which every cadet was required to memorize. "The mission of the Unites States Military Academy is to educate, train, and inspire the Corps of cadets so that each graduate is a commissioned leader of character committed to the values of duty, honor, country, and prepared for a career of professional excellence and service to the nation as an officer in the United State Army¹." In other words, the academy didn’t train future MacArthurs, or Pattons it set the conditions for their training. The Army would do the rest following graduation.

Having failed to read the fine print, Grant was shocked to learn that the instruction in the military arts at the academy generally took a back seat to other priorities. The curriculum focused on physical sciences like engineering and mathematics, along with other disciplines like English, foreign languages, and so on. Study of military history consisted of two required courses during four years of instruction. A few military science courses were offered, through these appeared to exist only to meet equivalent ROTC training requirements. Ironically, the detailed study of tactics and military affairs was relegated to an extracurricular activity, to be indulged in during cadets’ free time, of which there was precious little.

Fortunately for Grant, the stubbornness that led him to master the mundane aspects of cadet life, like the wear and care of uniforms dating from the war of 1812 also served to sustain him in his calling. He availed himself of the various military history electives as were made available. Much of his limited free time was devoted to the after-hours tactics club, where he and other assorted outcasts dabbled on all manner of military simulations, from the ancients to space combat. Along the way, he helped himself to West Point’s extensive military technical library, gaining access to authors and military theorists from around the world. Where previously his studies had been limited to well-known names like Sun Tzu, Napoleon, and Alexander, he now delved deeper, discovering the likes of Balck, Simpkin, and Tukhachevsky, along with more colorful figures like Sydney Smith and Gebhard Blucher.

By the time arrived for graduation, Darius Grant was as well versed in the nature of warfare as any West Point graduate, and far more than most. He had arrived at the academy to find that it was far from what he had expected. Despite this, Grant had found the will and the obstinate courage to persist in his calling. Along the way, he had come to better understand his purpose in life. As quixotic as it seemed both then and later, Darius Grant set as his goal the return of the academy and the Army to their core purpose—mastery of warfare in all its variations.

Grant was no fool. He recognized the unlikelihood of success. H also understood the absurdity of making his plans known to his fellow officers. That, at least, was of little concern to Grant as he stood for the graduation ceremony in May 1987. He had been something of an outcast growing up in the rural Midwest, and West Point had proven to be little different. Keeping secrets was easy when very few were interested in the musings of a young man who generally kept to himself. On the positive side, his relative isolation meant that Darius was comfortable in his own skin, with little need for affirmation from his friends and classmates. Perhaps most important of all, it meant that he was free to pursue his calling without falling prey to the mundanities of military life.

If thoughts of Army reform had been the only things occupying Grant’s attention that crisp April 1988 morning in Hanau, Germany, the day would have been auspicious indeed. Unfortunately, they were not, for if Darius was blessed with opportunities for in the pursuit of his professional calling, he was less fortunate in affairs of the heart. Indeed, one could have reasonably argued that his outsized understanding of the military art was more than counterbalanced by a pronounced lack of acumen regarding members of the opposite sex.

Grant’s experience with romance had occurred late in his cadet career. The experience was at once exhilarating, and very shortly thereafter, emotionally devastating. Having identified the object of his affections, the experience of losing out to another suiter caused the first real crisis in Grant’s life. The affair had even impacted his classwork, though in fairness no one was really studying in the final semester of senior year. The result was a young second lieutenant, standing on a sidewalk in Central Germany, possessed of emotions ranging from exhilaration to abject depression and most points in between.

A polite noise from behind him reminded Darius that he had been gazing at his new home for a bit longer than he’d planned.

Danke fur mein Gepack, Grant offered in passable German, holding out a fifty-deutsche-mark note. The amount was enough to cover both the ride from the Frankfurt am Main airport along with a healthy tip for the driver. Darius had chosen to study French and German at the academy, the better to understand texts by the leading European theorists, though this idea stood at odds with convention. Germany had been defeated in the Second World War; it stood to reason there was nothing to learn from them, or so his instructors had said. Worse, the French had succumbed to the Germans with embarrassing rapidity during that same conflict and had shown little aptitude during their Indochinese adventures in the 1950s—surely there were no lessons to draw from their experiences.

Grants had concluded otherwise, and his experiences at the academy had only strengthened a resolve to chart his own course in the study of military affairs.

Bitte, und viel Gluck, Herr Lieutenant! responded the cab driver, an older gentleman who recognized a new officer on his first assignment.

Grant smiled, saying nothing. There really wasn’t much to say, after all.

Shouldering his bags, Grant made his way through the security checkpoint located outside one of several large portals providing access to the facility. The passageway led in turn to a large cobblestone area flanked on all sides by large ornate barracks buildings. The older-style structures were the former property of the World War II German Wehrmacht, long ago put to good use by American forces stationed in the area.

Looking about, Darius noted a number of soldiers hurrying this way and that as well as the presence of wheeled vehicles of various types, but the overall impression for Grant was one of emptiness. A moment’s consideration suggested that this was because most of the unit’s vehicles would be stored elsewhere, not inside the barracks square where they would no doubt take up every inch of available space.

Any confusion regarding his destination dissipated as he spied a neatly lettered sign pointing the way to the orderly room for 3rd Squadron, 7th Armored Cavalry Regiment. His pulse quickening, Darius made his way to the entrance, excited and not a little apprehensive about what would happen next.

Upon entering the 3/7 orderly room, Grant was confronted by two solders, each busily engaged at similar gunmetal gray desks. After a suitable pause, meant to convey annoyance at the interruption, the senior of the two sergeants looked up and motioned him to a chair.

Good morning, Lieutenant, the sergeant began. Reporting in? he asked, as if the presence of Grant’s two bags could have meant anything else.

Several impressions struck Grant at once. First, the sergeant’s form of address had been deliberate; it would be a long time before anyone in 3/7 would address him as sir. Secondly, the sergeant had chosen not to stand as he addressed his visitor, making it quite clear where Grant stood in the pecking order of things. Which was to say, at or below the bottom.

Well aware of the protocol involved, Grant’s instinct was to call out the sergeant, imposing his authority. He banished that particular impulse almost immediately. Any sergeant charged with managing the squadron orderly room was not to be trifled with lightly. Grant settled instead for what passed for a grin.

Recognizing the silence for what it was, the sergeant rose from his chair and offered his hand. Sergeant Torres, he offered. I’ve got someone from your troop coming over to help get you settled in. We have you staying at the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters, the BOQ, for the time being, so parking your gear won’t take long. He paused. You’ll be assigned to Mike Troop for the moment. The sergeant glanced at a document on his cluttered desk, then continued. Assuming you meet Captain Forrest’s standards, he’s the Mike Troop Commander, you’ll be a platoon leader before too long. Here the sergeant paused again, assuming an unreadable expression. Darius experienced a sinking feeling that the sergeant’s train of thought was not a pleasant one.

Mentally shaking himself, the orderly sergeant continued. Once you’ve parked your bags, we’ll take you over to meet your new boss. This time the expression on Sergeant Torres’s face was more intelligible and even more foreboding.

Grant’s instincts were all too accurate. A short time later, he found himself standing in front of a large ornate wooden desk, behind which Captain William Forrest, Commander, Mike Troop, 3/7 Cav., sat, surveying his newest lieutenant with obvious disdain. Welcome to Germany, Lieutenant, Forrest began, though his tone was anything but warm.

Grant stood quite still, careful to show no expression. Standing was the operative word. The Mike Troop commander had not offered him a seat though there were several scattered around the captain’s well-appointed office. Darius suspected that it was a calculated insult, meant no doubt to reinforce the commander’s superiority.

Though he was dismayed by the tone of his reception, he was more than prepared for this type of petty brinksmanship. If West Point had failed to live up to some of his hopes and dreams, it had provided a brutally effective course in psychological warfare. Grant had been fucked with by the very best; no pissant captain was going to get under his skin with something as sophomoric as forcing him to stand in front of his desk.

Grant decided two could play the game. Thank you, sir. He smiled brightly. It’s a privilege to be here! Just as the captain had conveyed the irony in his welcome, Grant more than effectively communicated the sarcasm intended in the response.

Forrest paused, evidently undecided whether Grant was being a smart ass or whether he actually believed that membership in Mike Troop was a good thing. Yeah, well, it is a privilege, all right, and don’t forget it, he continued. We have a shit ton of things to get done before we head to Hohenfels next week for training. We can’t afford any dead weight, so get your act together and see me here at 0800 tomorrow. By that time, I hope to have identified a few tasks so simple even a second lieutenant can’t fuck them up.

Ever quick to anger, Grant responded in kind. Understood, sir! he responded in the same bright tone. I’ll try not to get in the way, he continued, then looked around in feigned confusion. Now if someone could help me out—I can’t seem to recall how to find my way back to the orderly room.

Forrest froze, clearly having taken the remark as it was intended. Just get out of my sight, lieutenant, and remember no one likes a smart ass. Me least of all, he finished.

Grant pivoted with parade ground precision and exited the office. Returning to the orderly room he stopped once again at Sergeant Torres’s desk. Thank you, Sergeant, he offered, smiling slightly.

For what, Lieutenant? the orderly room sergeant responded innocently.

Darius paused, considering. Glancing out the door in the general direction of Forrest’s office, he repeated his thanks.

Torres nodded his unspoken understanding. Then making a decision of sorts, he leaned closer, speaking quietly. You should know that you’ve been appointed the motor officer for Mike Troop, effective this morning, Lieutenant. Ignoring Grant’s look of surprise, he continued. The squadron executive officer has a pacing report update scheduled for 1100, Friday morning. It was Tuesday. The pacing report, Grant knew, was a critical readiness indicator for any combat unit. The report provided a precise status on all assigned combat systems. In the case of 3/7 Cav., that meant the ability of her M1A1 main battle tanks and M2 Bradley infantry fighting vehicles to engage the enemy.

Forrest had deliberately not mentioned the event, leading Grant to conclude that an ambush was in the offing.

Bachelor Officers’ Quarters, Fliegerhorst Kaserne, Hanau, Germany, Friday, 15 April 1985

Grant rose from his bed at 0500, transitioning quickly from sleep to fully awake at the sound of his alarm. The days since his arrival had passed in a blur of activity, mostly associated with drawing uniforms and equipment, meeting the men of Mike Troop, and acclimating himself to the daily routine of the unit. The troop’s morning physical fitness routine had come as a particularly rude shock—a reminder that he had not engaged in routine exercise since leaving the academy the previous summer.

Dressing quickly, he completed his toilet and then made his way into the chilly predawn morning, seeking the mess hall and as much black coffee as might be found there.

An hour later found him at the Squadron’s morning formation, appropriately dressed for the occasion. The 525 men of 3rd Squadron paraded in their physical training uniforms, ugly yellow nylon-dacron-polyester outfits the men derisively called banana suits. Similarly clad, Grant stood well to the back of the formation, where he waited for the morning’s accountability to be taken. While Forrest had ridden him unmercifully since his arrival, Grant was largely spared his attention at morning formation as the troop commander fulfilled his duties as part of the assembly.

Returning to the barracks following morning calisthenics and a two-mile unit run, Grant quickly showered and donned his woodland camouflaged uniform in preparation for the day’s activities. Shortly thereafter, Forrest came through the door to the troop area, seemingly surprised to see Grant. If you’re done with your coffee, Lieutenant, he snapped, perhaps you’ll grace us with your presence this morning.

Darius was careful to put on the type of cheerfully obedient expression he had affected since his arrival. Just say when and where, sir! he responded.

1130 hours with the squadron XO, the commander shot back. You’re the new troop motor officer, he continued, his expression changing into something resembling a grin. So if I were you, I’d spend the time between now and then familiarizing yourself with the status of your equipment.

Headquarters, 3rd Squadron, 7th ACR, 1130 hours, 15 April 1988

Darius entered the headquarters building with a sense of foreboding, well aware of the trap that had been set. He pondered his options as he made his way to the office of the squadron executive officer on the second floor.

It is occasionally pointed out that real men and women rarely conform to the Hollywood stereotype, and Major Joseph Muzzy, Executive officer and second-in-command of 3/7 Cav., was no exception. Possessed of a Marine-style high-and-tight haircut unique to the unit, Muzzy sported not one but two hearing aids, compliments of an explosion in an ordinance depot early in his career. Bantam thin, with a fierce countenance, Muzzy was feared throughout 3/7 for his uncompromising standards and an intolerance for weak performers. His possession of a lively sense of humor was a carefully guarded secret, known to only a select few.

At the moment, this last characteristic was conspicuously absent as he surveyed the two officers seated in his office. The first he knew well and disliked more. In Muzzy’s opinion, Captain William Forrest was every bit the lazy, good-for-nothing bastard that he looked. The XO’s only consolation came through his ability to effortlessly fuck with the Mike Troop Commander, who never seemed to see through his machinations. At the moment, for example, Forrest was clearly fidgeting in his seat. Somewhere else you need to be, Captain? Muzzy growled in his best Chesty Puller impression.

Uh, yes, sir, Forrest responded. The operations officer asked for a word. Lieutenant Grant can—

Can’t you tell the S-3 you have more important things to do? Muzzy demanded, glaring at the hapless Mike Troop Commander.

I’ll do that, sir. Forrest practically leapt from his seat, disappearing around the corner for several long seconds. Upon his return a few moments later, Muzzy turned to the business at hand.

A US Army armored cavalry regiment circa 1985 consisted of three squadrons, each with five troops. Three of the five troops in each squadron were combat elements, with the remaining two providing headquarters and support functions. Each troop in turn consisted of four platoons possessing either four M2 Bradley infantry fighting vehicles or four M1A1 main battle tanks.

Forrest’s Mike Troop was typical, consisting of eight M1A1s in two platoons and eight M2 Bradleys in the other two platoons. A further two Bradleys supported the headquarters platoon, for a total of ten Bradleys and eight Abrams in the Troop.

As the primary combat systems in the squadron, the M2s and M1A1s were called pacing items. The readiness of pacing items was carefully tracked and reported to the Seventh Armored Cavalry Regimental Headquarters on a weekly basis.

In other words, the pacing report was a very big deal, perhaps the single most important document maintained by the squadron.

As the executive officer proceeded down the list of combat systems assigned to Mike Troop, it quickly became clear that Forrest was only passingly familiar with the equipment under his charge and stunningly ignorant of the details. Muzzy had experienced this phenomenon in the past and grew progressively more irascible as the meeting proceeded.

Finally, Muzzy exploded, having reached his limit. "So, Captain, what can you tell me about Mike 12? he demanded, referring to the M1A1 Abrams with bumper number M-12. The tank was the troop’s hangar queen"—perpetually possessed of one problem or another. Its current malady, a mysterious issue with its turbine engine, had kept the vehicle on the deadline report for several weeks.

Evidently taking this as his cue to escape, Forrest responded. Sir, I’d like to refer that question to the troop motor officer, Lieutenant Grant! he said, carefully not looking at the subordinate he had just hung out to dry.

Muzzy paused, momentarily taken aback. His assessment of the Mike Troop commander dropped even lower, a shift he had not previously thought possible. Then he brightened, turning to a clearly taken aback Lieutenant Grant. Well, Lieutenant? he began in a dangerously calm voice. What the fuck is going on with Mike 12?

Well, sir, Grant began, struggling to gather his wits.

Come on, Mr. Grant, it’s a simple question. We don’t have all day. Muzzy waited, his countenance growing darker as the seconds passed.

It’s the fuel pump, sir, Grant blurted finally, having marshalled his thoughts. Muzzy’s attitude had actually helped. Something told him that the XO was screwing with him, and the thought led to anger. Grant was at his best when pissed off.

And? Muzzy prompted, intrigued by the unexpected response.

The fuel pump assembly has an S curve in the feed pipe. If you get water in it often enough without cleaning it, you get corrosion and rust. In the case of Mike 12, we had rust particles in the fuel system, and they were coming from the corrosion in the fuel pump assembly.

Muzzy stared, momentarily at a loss for words. Most lieutenants would have been hard put to identify the fuel pump assembly on an M1A1, much less troubleshoot one. The XO’s conclusion was immediate—the lieutenant was clearly talking out his ass.

So, Lieutenant, Muzzy responded, his voice dripping with sarcasm, which dead drunk sergeant fed you that line? He half smiled, knowing that he had likely hit on the source of Grant’s sudden inspiration.

Stung by Muzzy’s accusation, Grant fired back. Actually, sir, Sergeant Crane and I looked over the assembly last night before I left the track park, he began, referring to Mike Troop’s senior mechanic. Grant’s reference to the sergeant ensured that Muzzy knew that he had been in the track park and not sitting behind a desk. I saw several other instances of this type of problem two years ago during my summer duty with 3rd Armored Division, he continued. When Crane told me about Mike 12, that was the first thing I checked. We fitted a replacement assembly, flushed the system and Mike 12 is off the deadline list.

The room was silent for a long moment. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the vestiges of a smile made their way across the craggy countenance of Major Joseph Muzzy. Thank you, Lieutenant Grant, he offered in an utterly different tone of voice. Then the smile disappeared as he turned to the hapless Mike Troop commander.

So, Captain Forrest, perhaps you can explain why the pacing report update you provided this morning failed to note that your single deadlined M1A1 was actually fully mission capable?

Forrest struggled to reply, but Muzzy interrupted, Don’t bother, Captain. Just get out of my sight.

As Forrest and Grant rose to leave, Muzzy offered one parting shot. And, Captain. The next time you try throwing your platoon leader under the bus will be the last. Are we understood?

As he parted ways with an ominously silent Captain Forrest, Grant reflected that he had made an enemy and an ally that morning.

Combat Maneuver Training Center, Hohenfels, Germany, 4 April 1990

Darius crouched miserably in his crude command post, wishing that the enemy would hurry the hell up and make their appearance. April in Germany routinely sucked weather-wise, and this year was no exception. The locale didn’t help. Hohenfels Training Area was devoid of most primary colors in any season except summer, consisting instead of a motley mix of light green and mud brown as the dirt competed with the foliage for dominance.

Grant’s misery warred with another very different emotion. Today—this day—afforded the rarest of opportunities for the acting commander of Mike Troop, 3/7 Cav. With Captain Forrest in the States on leave, Mike Troop’s executive officer, one Darius Grant, was commanding the unit in the squadron’s annual Hohenfels training cycle.

The fact that the Mike Troop commander had been permitted his leave in the States at what was a critical time wasn’t lost on Darius or the other members of the unit. Forrest was a lost cause in most respects, but he had managed to avoid anything egregious enough to be relieved from duty, so the squadron commander was stuck with him. On the other hand, Forrest’s typically self-serving request for leave during the unit’s most important training event presented the Mike Troop executive officer with an opportunity, and he was not long in taking advantage of it.

All of which led to Darius’s current discomfort in a small fighting position adjacent to a muddy woodland trail in Southern Germany. The time was fast approaching for the finale of the unit’s two-week training cycle. The capstone event involved a simulated enemy attack on the defenses established by 3/7 among the woods and meadows that made up the sprawling Hohenfels training area.

This day’s scenario called for the enemy to attack at dawn, driving through the 3/7’s defenses in an attempt to reach to a small town aptly named Ubungsdorf.² The defenders, adhering to US Army doctrine, were deployed in small groups centered on forest clearings throughout the sector. The intent, spelled out by the commander the night before, was to attrit the enemy throughout the depth of the battle area.

It was, Grant had concluded, a stupid plan. He’d seen the technique tried time and again over the previous two years, and it had never worked. The approach was so ineffective that the enemy typically suffered minimal casualties as they drove boldly along the roads on the way to their objective. And why not? Darius thought to himself. The bad guys know exactly where we’re going to be! Army doctrine was based on fighting the enemy in Engagement Areas, or EAs, which were invariably centered on the largest open areas available, the idea being to allow missile systems like the Army’s vaunted TOW-II to engage the enemy at maximum range. The problem, Grant understood, was that the engagement areas in Central Germany were generally far too small to take real advantage of the TOWs nearly four-kilometer range. That meant the TOW was in range of the bad guys when it launched, and that spelled disaster for the missile crews. Which one wins? Grant had rhetorically asked one of his fellow lieutenants. A missile traveling 100 meters per second or a 125-mm high-explosive shell traveling at 2,500 meters per second?

Having studied the problem, Grant arrived a radical solution, and he was about to learn whether his approach was the right one. Mike Troop boasted four platoons of Bradley infantry fighting vehicles under his command, a recent reorganization in 3/7 Cav. having resulted in pure troops of Bradleys or Abrams tanks. The sixteen Bradleys in Mike Troop were currently arrayed on the far side of a large clearing some hundreds of meters on toward the rear of the 3/7’s defensive position. That part of the play was doctrinally correct, and the enemy had already taken advantage, shelling the Bradley’s expected location and destroying two of Mike Troop’s vehicles.

Which was fine with Darius.

The Bradleys were bait, intended only to show the enemy what they expected to see. Grant had stripped his Bradleys of their dismounted infantry, along with every portable antiarmor system at his disposal. These numbered nearly forty, and Grant had supplemented them with additional systems borrowed from the other troops in the squadron, who had little use for them. Studying the map, Grant had identified a wooded trail that led to the clearing he was charged with defending. Grant’s officers and sergeants then identified keyhole firing points along the length of the trail for several hundred meters prior to its arrival at the clearing. These keyholes were little more than breaks in the foliage, allowing an engagement of the enemy with minimal risk of return fire. As a final touch, Grant had scrounged a dozen inert antitank mines used for training purposes from squadron supply to use in blocking the trail as it curved sharply prior to entering the clearing.

Their preparations complete, he and his men settled down to wait.

The first opposing force to arrive was the enemy reconnaissance platoon, consisting of four HMMWVs³ tricked out to resemble Soviet wheeled BRDM armored personnel carriers. Grant watched as these troopers made their way along the trail and through his ambush position, failing to detect Grant’s men. Encountering Grant’s Bradleys on the far side of the clearing, the recon element retraced its steps along the forest trail, radioing the opposing force (OPFOR) commander and confirming the location of Mike Troop.

Grant waited impatiently for the enemy reconnaissance troops to depart, then keyed his radio, instructing his men to place the simulated antitank mines on the trail just beyond the point where it turned sharply to the right. The placement was hasty, even slapdash, but Grant didn’t mind. He was counting on the mines being seen by the OPFOR.

A short eternity later, the lead enemy vehicle, an M-60 Main Battle Tank ill-disguised as a Soviet T-72, hove into view, traveling at a low rate of speed along the track. It was followed by another and yet another, until Grant realized he was facing the OPFOR’s main effort. The OPFOR regiment, as Grant had been briefed, consisted of two battalions of mechanized infantry and one reinforced company of tanks. The presence of the M-60s confirmed that Grant was in fact facing the enemy’s primary line of attack.

Grant watched in amazement as the tanks rattled by, bare meters from some of his concealed positions. Grant’s surmise had proven correct—the tank crews had done this numerous times before; they knew where the defenders would be and exactly how to engage them once they had reached the clearing. Another thirty minutes, they knew, would see their arrival at Ubungsdorf, none the worse for wear.

The OPFOR’s complacency ended abruptly with the discovery of the antitank mines scattered about on the surface of the forest track. The column ground to a halt as the lead tank commander radioed the news to his chain of command. As he did so, Grant keyed his own radio, springing the ambush. The M-60 leading the column was the first to be hit, struck by M-72 Light Anti-Tank Weapons simulators and a single Dragon medium antiarmor missile equipped with MILES (multiple integrated laser engagement system). The M-60 at the trail end of the column was attacked and disabled almost simultaneously, effectively blocking the trail at both ends.

The rest of the ambush was almost anticlimactic. Within a few seconds, most of the yellow flashing lights affixed to the thirteen M-60s were flashing, indicating a kill. Grant’s men suffered several simulated casualties as two remaining M-60s quickly returned fire at point-blank range. Then both succumbed to missile fire from infantry they could hardly see, and the brief engagement was over.

Scarcely crediting his eyes, Grant shook himself and keyed his radio once again. His men along the track grabbed their equipment and quickly made their way to alternate positions. It was always possible that the enemy would try again. If they did, Grant was determined that he would be ready.

3/7 CAV Deliberate Defense After Action Review, Ubungsdorf Training Classroom, Hohenfels, Germany

Colonel Andrew Mixon, Commander, 7th Armored Cavalry Regiment, sat quietly in the rear of the large conference room as the Combat Maneuver Training Center (CMTC) staff took the members of 3/7 Cav. through the After Action Review (AAR) process. AARs were both ubiquitous and heartily disliked by nearly everyone involved, and this morning’s event was no exception. The key leaders and staff of the 3/7 sat in their chairs, fighting to stay awake after as much as thirty-six hours without sleep. The CMTC Observer Controller (OC) staff recognized their impatience and lack of interest but ignored it. They’d seen it all too often before.

Today’s event, however, was different, at least in some respects. It wasn’t often that a visiting unit bested the OPFOR. In fact, it was practically unheard of. The 3/7 Cav. had suffered its own losses at the hands of the CMTC professionals, but the annihilation of the OPFOR heavy-armored element had effectively decided the issue. The squadron’s M1A1s and Bradleys had experienced little difficulty in dealing with the mechanized elements of the OPFOR, which were armed with little more than simulated 12.7-mm heavy machine guns and 30-mm cannons.

The surprising outcome was also the reason for Mixon’s presence at the AAR, though he didn’t expect much from the event itself. After-action reviews focused on what were known as ‘Battlefield Operating Systems, or BOSs. Lacking an effective mechanism for the analysis of tactical events like the 3/7’s defense against the OPFOR, Army leaders had punted, developing a process-based approach based on the various functions found in modern combat. It wasn’t all bad—homage was paid to the identification of the enemy’s ‘Center of Gravity’ (COG) and the need to concentrate decisive combat power at key points on the battlefield, but in the end, it often came down to process absent results.

The ninety-minute AAR dealt in detail with BOSs’ like communications, logistics, fire support, and other disciplines. Mixon was willing to concede that the evaluators were quite thorough in their own way. In fact, the only thing missing from the review was the result. The 3/7 Cav. had decisively defeated the OPFOR in an event rarely seen at CMTC, but the outcome of the engagement wasn’t included in the AAR. The only inkling that something extraordinary had occurred came in the discussion of battle damage, where the major conducting the out-brief complimented the unit on its destruction of thirteen simulated T-72 tanks.

Mixon snorted derisively in his seat in the back of the room. It’s like an evaluator told me once, We’re not so much interested in the outcome as we are the process! Jesus Christ! Mixon understood that one necessarily started with outcomes and worked backward. The Army’s approach is about 180 degrees out of sync with reality!

As a tactician, Mixon was a rarity among serving combat leaders. Well-known throughout the army for his passion regarding the challenges of modern combat, he was also aware of the disadvantages of earning such a label. Mixon understood that his career would end as a colonel largely as a result of his interests; tacticians were rarely allowed among the general officer ranks of the Army and only then if the adherent in question managed to effectively conceal his interests. Unable to subvert his calling to the necessary degree, Mixon had long ago determined to indulge his passion rather than hiding it. Along the way, he had come to recognize the denial of senior rank as a liberation of sorts.

Mixon had also decided the he owed it to his fellow officers and the Army in general to do what he could to foster interest in the tactical arts wherever possible. He was attending the 3/7 Cav. AAR specifically to further that agenda.

As Mixon watched, the major running the AAR reached the closest thing to an analysis of Mike Troop’s battle with the OPFOR Tank Company. What came next shocked nearly everyone except the CMTC staff.

While the blue forces engaged with the enemy’s main effort were successful, the major intoned, there were significant deficiencies in the doctrinally correct use of their major combat systems. Antiarmor systems should always be used at maximum range to make best use of their standoff capabilities, he continued. As this chart shows, the blue force largely failed to achieve standoff and created significant unnecessary risk in the process.

Nearly asleep until that point, Grant came fully awake as the narrator, far from lauding his success, suggested instead that he had mismanaged the engagement. His senses and judgment dulled by lack of sleep, Darius was determined not to take the criticism lying down. What about the results? he demanded in a loud voice, earning glances from the more senior members of the unit.

The major smiled tolerantly at the wayward lieutenant, accustomed to outbursts like this. Yes, well, you did succeed in decisively engaging the OPFOR, Lieutenant, he began in a somewhat condescending tone. But we can ascribe that more to luck more than anything else. As the data shows, you never even engaged the enemy with your primary antiarmor systems. I would hardly count that as a positive lesson learned.

Grant stood, now fully enraged and nearly out of control. Bullshit. If I’d done it by the book, my guys would be KIA and the OPFOR would be heading for their final objective. Darius glared at the major. What the hell are you teaching, anyway? I think—

Fortunately for Grant, the squadron commander, a genial lieutenant colonel who sensed events were spiraling out of control, intervened. Turning to face Grant, who sat several rows behind him, he silenced Darius with a firm glare. Darius, I get it. We’ll discuss this later, over a beer preferably. Having put his lieutenant in check, the commander’s reference to a drink made it clear he no more accepted the major’s assessment of the battle than Grant had.

A short time later the meeting broke up, with most of 3/7’s exhausted, disheveled leadership heading for the Squadron cantonment area and much-needed rest. Grant exited with them, still seething over the critique offered by the CMTC staff.

A tug on his sleeve revealed a tall captain in crisp, pristine battle dress uniform. Lieutenant, the officer began without preamble. "Colonel Mixon would like a word."

In an instant Grant’s day transformed from bad to catastrophic. Mixon was a largely unknown quantity to Grant, but what