Chapter 3

We stopped at the top of the mountain, it was cold there, with nothing to stop the wind, from gusting and blowing snow flurries around us. I crouched down as far as possible in my drivers hatch, wishing again that our heater worked. The heating system in an M113 armored personnel carrier wasn't much good unless you were stopped and buttoned up, but it did help a little. I guessed the temperature to be around 20 degrees or so, and didn't even want to know the chill factor at 25 miles per hour. If you've never experienced it, you can't understand how damn cold your face can get exposed like that. First, it burns like fire, then it becomes wooden, like a mask, your nose runs at the beginning, until it freezes. Finally it just aches like hell. When you finally get to a place where you can thaw it, its needles and pins and burning all over again. It definitely doesn't rank as one of my favorite things to do.

Uncle Sam, in his wisdom, had someone build a little vinyl and plastic windshield for the drivers, but your breath froze to it and fogged it up in minutes rendering it worthless. You could try ski masks, but they weren't much help either. Once I tried coating my face with Vaseline hoping to keep it a bit warmer, but the result was a smooth, soft and frozen mug. I had resigned myself to being cold.

My track commander, 1Lt. Hearn, stamped his feet as he surveyed the trail below us, he was possibly colder than I was, he stood in the hatch with half his body out of the vehicle, where as I had only my head and shoulders exposed. Looking back at him, I could see ice frozen on his parka, his face looked raw and chapped. He and I had learned to check each others faces for the whitish yellow patches of skin that signified the dreaded frostbite. I'd had a touch on my nose, and it wasn't something I cared to repeat. Stories came to mind of people in the old days freezing all their toes, I'd read of one man chopping them off with a hatchet to prevent gangrene. Not for me thank you very much.

Behind us the three tanks we were leading clawed their way to the top and stopped along side of us. I looked over them curiously, not failing to see the heat signature emitting from the heater exhaust, and the closed drivers hatch. The M1A1 Tank had been developed long after the aluminum M113 personnel carriers, and had much better arrangements for the drivers. He could see to drive with no effort while remaining buttoned up and warm. Some guys had all the luck. Then again, they had to sleep outside the vehicle unless they were willing to become human pretzels.

The senior tanker stepped down from his vehicle for a conference with the Lieutenant, the concern evident in his face. It was obvious that he didn't think highly of the route ahead, and I didn't blame him, Hell, I didn't like it either. The road was a narrow strip of blacktop, which wound down the side of the mountain, twisting back and forth in a series of switchbacks like a sidewinder rattler. Snow covered the roadway completely in some areas, and it obviously hadn't been traveled or salted in a while. Between each switchback, industrious Germans had built little gardens, complete with gazebos or summer cottages. Some of them were elaborately decorated with carved wooden signs and figurines, like a fairy tale village straight out of a book. It was a postcard view, with the little snow covered roofs, and draping fir trees, you half expected to see Hansel and Gretal skipping through. But to me, as a driver, it looked like Maneuver Damage waiting to happen. Every maneuver we went on, the first thing you were briefed on, right after the usual threats about loosing weapons and sensitive items, was maneuver damage. Anything we destroyed in the field had to be paid for, and the cost could run very high, dependant on what you totaled. The German farmers could estimate to the last cent what you'd cost them, and each field problem was followed by miles of paperwork for reimbursement. Some farmers had even filed for maneuver damage before we rolled out the gate, and in many cases, gotten away with it. I'd heard, though, it wasn't confirmed, that if you killed a chicken, you not only paid for the chicken, but the eggs it would have laid in the next year.

Evidently, the tank commander had the same thoughts as me, because he was gesturing wildly trying to get his point across to the Lt. I could tell from the look on Lt. Hearn's face that he wasn't thrilled either, but he had his orders from Battalion, and it didn't matter what he thought. Catch-22, complete the mission, create maneuver damage, and get chewed out for it, or not complete the mission and catch hell for that. I was glad to be a lowly Private, without that on my shoulders. All I had to do was keep the vehicle running and drive where I was told to go. Easy enough, most days.

I thought back to my first field problem in country, coldest winter in forty years we were told, in the unit not even 30 days, assigned as a driver and didn't even have my licenses yet. So I was stuck in the back of the vehicle as excess cargo. My section sergeant had to drive and the Lieutenant acted as vehicle commander. Our cargo hatch was damaged, and couldn't be safely left open, my squad leader and myself, bouncing around in the rear of the vehicle, had no idea what was going on outside, we only knew we were moving and climbing hills. We could feel when the treads slipped on the ice, and when the vehicle skidded, but as to what was going on, no clue.

The track, as the vehicle was most often referred to, started climbing again, we knew this by the tilting of the floor, and the whine of the supercharged engine. The angle of the climb was steep, unsecured gear slid towards the rear of the vehicle, then we felt the treads on the ice outside lost traction, the engine roared as the treads spun without grasping the roadway. Suddenly, we were moving sideways, skidding and then the engine dropped to an idle, I heard the Lieutenant yell at Sergeant N, "Floor it you fool, floor it!" Then we were sliding backwards and to the right, the engine screamed again, treads rattling as they sought traction, it seemed as if we slid backwards forever. I remember the Lt. dropping inside the hatch, his face white. He shouted at us "Hold on we're going over the edge!" Just as he said it, the track flipped on it side, the rear dipped down and we were thrown around inside like puppets. I flew from my seat across the vehicle and landed on Sergeant K, knocking the breath from him, he pushed me off just in time to have the radio which had torn from its mount, smash into his stomach. My head bounced off the back hatch so hard it took my breath. The vehicle lurched again, then sat still, engine going full blast, until suddenly it died.

Dazed, we stared at each other, then wildly scrambled to get out of the vehicle. I opened the back hatch door and it swung away from my grasp and smashed against its stop, looking out into the dim light I could see that it was perhaps 6 to 8 feet to the ground, and we were lodged tight against a large evergreen tree, had it not been there, we would have continued down the mountain side below. Gently we climbed out the upper hatch, and onto the roadway, fearful that any sudden move would send the 13 ton vehicle and all our gear smashing on down. Sgt N stood to one side, shaking, his eyes had a bright nervous look to them, and he seemed incapable of speech. Not the case with Sgt K, who was alternating between cursing Sgt N's driving ability and trying to hold a match still enough to light his cigarette. The Lieutenant was holding a handkerchief to his nose which was pouring blood, apparently from a chance encounter with the 50 caliber machine gun. As for myself, aside from a large knot on my forehead, and painful shoulder, I seemed to be fine, though I had a hard time lighting my smoke too.