Fallen Sniper by David Healey

Author:David Healey [Healey, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Intracoastal
Published: 2020-10-27T00:00:00+00:00

The counterattack began before first light. A remnant of the monsoon had moved in, resulting in a light drizzle adding to the misery of the already damp troops. After the gathering at the command post, the officers had returned to their units to prepare for the attack. For the men of the tank unit, this preparation had meant stacking rounds both on the ground and high on the back deck of their tanks for easy access.

Normally, ammunition was stored within the tank itself. But with the tanks stationary and acting as artillery, the idea was to enable a high rate of fire. Lieutenant Dunbar’s plan was to essentially create a bucket brigade passing shells into the tank turrets. Hardy could have sat out the fight as an observer, but he volunteered to help with passing the shells.

“Much appreciated,” Dunbar said, clearly pleased because the tankers were going to be shorthanded, even with the mechanics pressed into service. “This is going to be harder than pushing a pencil, you know.”

“No worries there,” Hardy said, flexing his big shoulders. He had stuck his reporter’s notebook in his back pocket. “I grew up tossing hay bales, so this is nothing.”

“One bit of advice,” the lieutenant said. “Stuff some cotton in your ears.”

When the firing began, Hardy was glad for that cotton. The four tanks on the hill opened up on the outpost with a deafening cacophony amplified and echoed by the hills and valleys.

Soon enough, Hardy realized that tossing hay bales into the loft of a barn had been good preparation for tank duty. Each 90 mm high explosive round weighed forty pounds and required wrestling it up from the ground to the tank turret. The first few shells weren’t so bad, but then the work became grueling. It was taking two smaller men working in pairs to lift the shells, while the bigger men like Hardy insisted as a matter of pride that they didn’t need help. They soon swallowed their pride and worked in pairs. The surface of the tank itself became slick with mud and rain. Hardy slipped and banged his knee hard against the tank. He felt his trousers rip and blood trickle, but there was no slowing down.

“Keep ‘em coming!” one the tank crewmen shouted, popping his head out of the turret. If this was hard work out in the open, Hardy couldn’t imagine what it must be like handling the heavy shells inside the cramped, stifling interior of the tank. The tankers’ knees, elbows, and shins paid a heavy price with all of the jutting metal configurations of the tank interior that they navigated in semi-darkness.

It didn’t help that the monsoon had left steamy summer-like temperatures in its wake. The sun hadn’t even made an appearance, but the young men stripped off their shirts and let the sweat run off them in the humid pre-dawn stillness.

Hardy barely had time to look up and notice the fireworks show taking place on Outpost Kelly. Not only were four tanks hammering the Chinese-occupied position, but also the artillery.

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