The Ten Thousand (49 page)

Though the wounded kept coming in, they would have to wait for a moment while the Army’s caretakers took care of their own invisible wounds and suffered for a moment in silence together.

Outside, in any direction you cared to turn, officers and soldiers of the U.S. Tenth Corps and the Bundeswehr moved about through the woods and around the hills of central Germany hunting each other like animals. For at company and platoon level, the grand strategy and sweeping maneuvers discussed by commanders and staff officers at corps and division had no meaning. War to the company commander, platoon leader, and the soldiers entrusted to them was nothing more than a series of chance meetings, sudden firefights, and swift mad charges and countercharges as attacker and defender rushed forward to tear blindly away at their enemy whenever they were found. For the next two days, opposing German and American companies and platoons collided in the cold, damp, snow-covered hills, fields, and woods.

When that happened, they would hurl themselves at each other, exchange fire, and push for an advantage. In this way they generated more wounded, more broken bodies, broken bodies that would eventually find their way to Cole, Ritter, and other nurses, German and American, working hard to undo the damage caused by officers doing their duty and national policies run amuck.

While the problems faced by all the commanders throughout the 1st Brigade, 4th Armored Division, up to this point of Malin’s March to the Sea had been varied, complex, and numerous, they were for the most part taken in stride and carried out swiftly and efficiently. Even the sudden change in orders, jerking them from the nerve-racking task of playing rear guard for the corps to an offensive mission that would require them to charge off into the flank of an advancing German panzer division, was taken in stride with hardly a break in the tempo of the brigade. Scott Dixon, after all, had gone to great extremes during training exercises to stress and test the flexibility, both physical and mental, of all of his commanders.

“Every conceivable problem and difficulty in war,” he told his officers and noncommissioned officers at every opportunity, “is possible. The only thing that any of you can be sure of,” he warned his subordinates, “is that in war, the next mission or next problem you face will probably be the one which you were never trained to deal with or weren’t prepared to deal with.” While these words were coming back to haunt every officer and sergeant in Dixon’s command the further north they went, they had special meaning to Captain Nancy Kozak that morning.

Though everyone by this point was tired and a little ragged from the constant movement and stress brought on by maintaining a high state of combat readiness around the clock, the effectiveness of Scott Dixon’s training paid off as the 1st Brigade went through the throes of changing its mission and direction of movement. Having received the new orders just after occupying a new defensive position, Kozak accepted the battalion order that would hurl them into the flank of the 2nd Panzer Division and without any fuss quickly prepared her own company order. With the efficiency of a well-trained drill, Kozak gathered her platoon leaders, described the new situation that they were about to face, and issued the necessary orders that would initiate their movement to contact in the clear, concise, and crisp manner that Fort Benning taught its young officers. With salutes that were as crisp as Kozak’s orders, her platoon leaders had acknowledged their new orders and turned away to go back and brief their platoons, when without warning the company first sergeant presented Nancy Kozak one of those unexpected challenges that Scott Dixon had taken great pains to warn them about. The challenge came in the form of a Mrs.

Emma Louisa Richardson and her two children.

As all good soldiers quickly learn, it is important to establish a routine, a disciplined routine, for taking care of oneself in the field and maintain it even under the most pressing of circumstances. Kozak, having discharged all of her responsibilities for the moment by issuing out a quick and complete operations order for their new mission, found herself with a few minutes to herself. Informing the executive officer that she was going to clean up and grab something to eat, Kozak climbed inside of her Bradley. Sitting on one of the seats free of personal gear and equipment, Kozak removed her helmet and dropped it to the floor.

With both hands she violently began to scratch her head. As she did so, all she could think of was how filthy and oily her hair got during operations like this. At that moment Nancy Kozak would give just about anything to spend five minutes under a hot shower beating down on muscles that ached and skin that was so dirty that it almost made her cry. Knowing that such a dream, however, was only a dream, she pulled her rucksack over to her and began to dig for her ditty bag and towel, shouting up to Sergeant Wolf, who was standing radio watch in the turret, to keep an eye open for visitors and wave them off if possible. Within a few minutes, Kozak was stripped down to her T-shirt and preparing to spend the few minutes she had to herself getting as clean as her spartan conditions would allow.

She was just beginning to enjoy the warmth of the Bradley and the fact that she had no web gear, bulky jacket, or itchy sweater on when Wolf yelled down to her. “Yo, Captain. First sergeant’s coming our way.”

Taking the washcloth she had been wiping the back of her neck with in both hands, Kozak wrung it out over the small bowl of soapy water that sat between her feet, dropped it into the bowl, and muttered a curse that Wolf couldn’t hear. When she heard the first sergeant pound on the armor plate of the rear troop compartment door, the tone of Kozak’s voice betrayed her disgust at being disturbed. “Come on in, Top.”

Twisting the heavy metal handle, First Sergeant Gary Stokes let the door swing out, then stuck his head in. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am. But I got this little problem I’d like your opinion on.”

Despite her anger at losing her only chance to clean up, Kozak couldn’t help but smile at Stokes’s shy country-boy approach when he was trying to tell her that something had come up that needed her attention. “What seems to be the problem, Top?”

“Well, ma’am, it seems some colonel’s wife decided that she didn’t need to go home with the rest of the dependents when they were evacuated last week.”

Though she knew what was coming, Kozak didn’t rush Stokes. Instead she brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “And?”

“Well,” Stokes continued, “she and her two kids just showed up in front of 2nd Platoon’s position and asked to see an officer about food and evacuation.”

With that, Kozak let her head drop down between her shoulders and began to shake it from side to side. “Great, fine. We’re about to go charging off with the mission of ripping off the head of a German panzer division and suddenly we have camp followers.” Looking up at Stokes, Kozak sighed. “Where is she?”

“Right outside, ma’am.”

That there was the possibility that the woman had heard Kozak’s comment didn’t bother her. Instead she told Stokes to help her into the Bradley while Kozak moved some gear out of the way. As Stokes helped Mrs. Emma Louisa Richardson climb into the vehicle that was so foreign to her, Kozak studied her. In her mid-forties, Emma Richardson looked haggard but still very dignified. Reflecting on her own state, dirty hair and stripped down to combat boots,
BDU
pants, and T-shirt, Kozak could only reflect how officers’ wives, regardless of what the circumstances, always took great pains to maintain that look and air of dignity. Once she was settled, Emma Richardson looked over to Kozak, cocked her head to one side, reached out with one hand to touch Kozak’s arm, and smiled. “Oh, thank God. _You’re _ a woman.”

In an instant Nancy Kozak understood what the woman meant. Mrs. Emma Richardson apparently was under the impression that because Kozak was a woman she would be treated differently and that all her troubles were over. Though the worst was in fact over for Emma Richardson and her children, Kozak couldn’t help but reflect how far from the truth that woman was about her. The very idea that Kozak would do something different than a male Army officer under the same circumstances slapped Kozak across the face like a wet towel. Though both women had been raised by the same society and as children and teenagers been molded and judged in the same manner, the worlds that Emma Richardson and Nancy Kozak moved through now bore no resemblance. For while Emma Richardson went to college and chose to follow a career and lifestyle acceptable to a female that allowed her to continue to move through life using her natural and learned feminine skills, Nancy Kozak had turned her back on the conventional and gone into a pursuit that was anything but feminine.

The art of war as practiced by Western societies is a most barbaric and brutal pursuit. The skills and practices of a soldier, when applied, are physically and psychologically demanding in the extreme, even to the strongest man. With few exceptions, the Western military traditions are a celebration of masculine values, virtues, and prowess. Anyone and everyone desiring to be a soldier and to be accepted as one has to accept those traditions and measure up to them without question, without fault. Early on at West Point Nancy Kozak learned that this requirement was more than a simple initiation or a rite of passage. It was a hard, brutal necessity. For soldiers in combat must be able to depend on each other and on their leaders. They must have unflinching trust and confidence in themselves, in their fellow soldiers, and in their leaders. Anyone who for whatever reason does not measure up to those demanding standards is viewed by any competent soldier as a danger to himself and those around him. So Nancy Kozak found that she had to leave the safety of being a woman, something that her parents and her society had prepared her for, and enter a gray area where, despite her skills, despite her achievement, she would always be on trial, a woman having to conform without question to a very male world. These hard truths, never far from Kozak’s mind, weighed heavily on her as she listened to Emma Richardson talk.

“I’m so glad to be back in the arms of the American Army. My husband, Lieutenant Colonel Frank T.

Richardson, the commander of the 126th Maintenance Battalion, always said that the Army takes care of its own, and, you know, he’s right.”

Forcing a smile, Kozak pulled her dark thoughts back to the matter at hand and shook her head.

“Yes, Mrs. Richardson, I suppose he was right.”

“But of _course _ he was right, dear. Frank is _always _ right.”

The patronizing tone of Emma Richardson and reference to her, Kozak, as dear, irked Kozak. Yeah, Kozak thought, this is a colonel’s wife, half of a “command team,” a concept in which the Army expected a commander’s wife to take charge of the other wives in the unit. Deciding that she didn’t want to waste any more time with this woman and in a less than subtle move to put Mrs. Colonel in her place, Kozak let her face go into a stone-cold stare. “This, Mrs. Richardson, is a combat unit. We will be moving in the next few minutes and have little time to spare for civil-military concerns. My first sergeant will evacuate you and your children back to the battalion aid station, where they should be able to take care of you.

Other than that, there’s nothing that I can do. Now if you would excuse me, I need to finish washing up and get dressed. My company is waiting for me.”

The reaction that Kozak elicited from Emma Richardson couldn’t have been any more devastating if Kozak had punched Emma Richardson in the face. Like a child being scolded by a parent, Emma Richardson sat up straight as the warm smile that she had plastered across her face was replaced with a look of genuine shock. She couldn’t understand, Kozak concluded, how another woman, especially one junior to her in age and status, could treat her like that. Though for a brief second Kozak felt bad about what she had done to the older woman, that thought quickly passed. Instead Kozak rationalized to herself that the pompous ass deserved it. Perhaps, Kozak thought, Mrs. Colonel Emma Richardson will think twice before treating an officer in the Army like she was one of her little Army-wife friends.

Turning to Stokes, who had been standing in the open door of the Bradley throughout this whole scene and trying hard not to laugh, Kozak nodded. “If you would, First Sergeant, arrange for transportation back to the aid station for this lady and her children so we can get on with the business of the day.” Finished, Kozak reached down, fished the washcloth out of the bowl of soapy water between her feet, and paid no more attention to Emma Richardson as she made her way out of the Bradley.

Finished with his second briefing of the day to Chancellor Ruff and glad to be afforded the opportunity to flee the press of politicians and reporters that crowded the corridors and offices of the Chancellery, General Lange began his headlong flight back to his operations center. Even his brisk pace and choice of less well used exits, however, was not enough to ensure his unhindered escape. Lange was about to leave the building when a shout from Colonel Kasper, Ruff’s military aide, stopped him. “General Lange, a moment of your time, please.”

Upset that he had not even made it out the door without being summoned back to answer another absurd question, Lange paused and turned to face Kasper as he approached. That Kasper had framed his request more as a command and less like a question did not escape Lange and increased his anger.

As the young colonel approached, the general watched him like a cat watches a strange dog. He did not trust Kasper. No one, in fact, on the General Staff trusted Kasper. He was to them an opportunist, a General Staff officer who used his training and proximity to the Chancellor to benefit his own career. A few who had dealings with him openly wondered if Kasper was singlehandedly trying to resurrect the old Prussian king’s adjutant. Under that system, a relatively junior officer assigned to the king to handle administrative matters often served as a personal advisor to the king. Depending on how the king felt about the officer and the General Staff, the junior officer, or king’s adjutant, could have power that was greater than his rank or experience warranted. The more Lange saw of Kasper, the more convinced he became that the talk of his staff might not be far from wrong. Looking at his watch just as Kasper came up to him, Lange gruffly reminded him who was the leader and who was the led. “I have, Colonel, already spent far too much time here. Whatever it is will have to wait.”