Posted on 08/11/2006 7:49:09 PM PDT by patton
Boyevaya Mashina Pekhoty (Боевая Машина Пехоты) – Pravda
“The Boyevaya Mashina Pekhoty, or BMP-1, has long been recognized as the first true infantry fighting vehicle. Combining elements of an armoured personnel carrier, a light tank, and an armoured reconnaissance vehicle, the BMP is capable of a variety of missions. In it, troops may be transported in relative safety to the forward edge of the battle area, regardless of terrain or inclement weather conditions. Enemy forces may be engaged either with the infantry forces mounted, utilizing the nine firing ports provided, or dismounted, with the vehicle providing support from an overwatch position. To this end, the BMP is equipped with a smooth-bore 73-mm cannon, a PKT coaxial machine gun, and AT-3 Sagger Antitank Missiles…”
Boyevaya Mashina Pekhoty – Glasnost
I was standing half out of the gunner’s hatch, on top of the turret. It was cold. The exhaust fumes from the diesel stack, just forward and to the right of the gun tube, were blowing directly in my face. My goggles got so dirty that I finally gave up and took them off, leaving my exposed eyes to water like Niagara Falls. Squinting through the fingers of one hand in a futile attempt to shield my eyes, I could just make out the next road sign.
“Autobahn 299: Auerbach im Odenwald.”
I reached up, and activated the intercom switch on the side of my crew helmet. “Gale,” I told the driver, “Turn right up here at this sign.”
“What?” Gale responded, “The damn Russian commo is breaking up again.” Between the static and the background noise, his voice sounded like a 1930’s radio broadcast.
“TURN RIGHT!”
“Oh.. Don’t yell.” The BMP slid sideways a little, as Gale cut the corner too fast. “Oh, well,” I thought. “That’s why they armor the things – in case you wreck.”
As we merged with the traffic on A299, the other drivers had a sudden attack of good manners, and they spread out just a little, giving us room to maneuver. Gale revved the engine, and we passed a BMW doing about sixty miles an hour in the snow. When I glanced back to clear us for a lane change, I saw the expression on the poor guy’s face. It made me laugh. I guess most people don’t think that a tank is capable of passing their car on the open road.
Our little BMP was special, though. We had recently dropped an oversized engine into it – a Cat 3202 diesel. Not that we had much choice, after the original Soviet engine crapped out – they were not selling us any spares, in the middle of the Cold War. So the Cat was our best option – it fit in the track, and with out too much modification, we could even bolt it down in the engine compartment. And we quit complaining, once we discovered how much better this engine performed.
Our greatest worry now was the possibility of loosing a track. Once, one had broken while we were traveling at about 50 miles per hour up the Autobahn. I nearly died of fright, before Gale had managed to finally stop the vehicle. When the track broke, it left little shrapnel-sized bits of steel all over the highway. Tracks do that at high speeds – they don’t just break, they explode.
But that had been on dry pavement. Tonight, it was snowing. That cooled the tracks, some.
Gale raised the driver’s seat to the “travel” position, bringing his head and shoulders up out of the hatch. This allowed him the best visibility for highway driving, if also exposing him to the snow and wind more than he liked. It also ensured that he could not see any of the gauges without dropping the seat back down to the combat position – an unwelcome proposition at this speed, to say the least. Along with the new engine, we had installed a set of duplicate gauges in the turret. This enabled me to monitor such minor details as the engine speed, oil pressure, fuel pressure, fuel level, and running temperature from my position on top of the track. Periodically, I would let Gale know that everything was ok. “Periodically” meaning the rare instances when the commo would burst fitfully into life.
Like the rest of the vehicle, it was just more cheap Soviet junk.
An hour or so on down the road, I noticed the engine was running hot – almost into the red. Slowing down would mean missing our time-on-target, as we were already behind schedule. Our inclusion in this little exercise had been a last minute idea on the part of the General, and we had almost no warning. To make matters worse, the weather forecast for the day looked pretty grim. Frankly, it was going to take some sort of miracle to get us there before the training was over. Only direct intervention by the hand of God would get us there before it began.
We really had no choice, though. Blowing the fan tower wasn’t going to get us there any faster. I told Gale to slow the track down to about thirty-five miles per hour, and radioed the boss about the delay. He instructed us to do our best. From my boss, that meant be there, or he would let me explain to the General why we didn’t make it … in person. On this pleasant note, I settled back for a long, miserable ride, lulled by the constant drone of the tracks slapping on the pavement.
The last glimmer of twilight was fading as we entered Auerbach, our halfway point. The headlights, which had began life as swivel-mounted spotlights on an M558 Recovery Vehicle, were normally very bright, illuminating the road ahead for quite some distance. Tonight, however, the snow was reflecting the light right back at us. It had started to flurry some time before sunset, and developed into a major storm by this point. The road was very slick, and light vehicle traffic had fallen to just a few scattered know-it-alls who weren’t going to let a little thing like a blizzard ruin their evening. We had the troop heaters going full blast, but they were understandably of little use to us, since we were half out of the track. Such is the curse of armored vehicles; the crew must continuously seek a happy medium between freezing to death on the outside, and putting up with the extremely limited visibility provided by the vision ports from the inside. In a blizzard like this one, personal comfort ceases to be a consideration. The snow had completely covered the ports, and we had to see where we were going.
We had to keep moving; that decision had been made for us. We weren’t very happy about it, though. Both of us were freezing in the wind. We were sick from continuously breathing the noxious diesel exhausts. The poor road conditions forced us to slow down to about twenty miles per hour. The heater started malfunctioning, and that prophesized disaster.
“Damn,” I heard Gale say, “You’d think the Russians could at least build heaters right. After all, they only live in the world’s coldest climate.”
“Gale,” I replied, “They have never built anything right. Nor will they, until they stop manning the factories with convict labor. Kick in the damn deicers before the fuel freezes up.”
“Which switch?” Gale was less familiar with the original Soviet equipment than I, as he had first been assigned to the track as the new engine was being installed. He was, however, much more conversant with the modifications. After all, he had dreamed up and built most of them.
“First and third on the left dash, counting from the rear,” I told him.
“OK. Got it – and, got it.”
I glanced down at the gauges to check the fuel temperature in the tank. It was leveling out at fifty degrees Fahrenheit. I could already feel the increased warmth on my legs. “Hey, Gale, did you flip the second switch by accident? The troop compartment lights are on.”
“No,” he said, “It’s still in the ‘off’ position.”
“Now what in God’s … “ I began, squatting down in the turret to get a better look. “OH SHIT! We’re on fire!”
“What?” Gale asked. “I can’t hear you over the static. Do you smell smoke?”
“You’re right! Stop! The troop compartment is burning!”
This time Gale heard me. He slammed on the brakes, just as I yanked the fire control lever. This combination served to prove only that the brakes were in better shape than the extinguisher system. The track stopped, but the expected gush of chemical fire-retardant foam failed to appear as advertised on T.V. the system gave one sick, pitiful fizz, and quit.
“Damn those communist sons of Satan … “ I was swearing up a storm by this point. As the track slid to a halt across the road, Gale shut off the engine and we both leaped off and ran for the troop doors, where the hand-held extinguishers were kept. Fortunately, the fire was still small, and we had it quickly under control. A moment later, the last flame was smothered out.
“Too bad,” I thought, “That’s the first time I’ve been warm all day.”
Gale began to survey the damage as I radioed the boss. His response was predictable, “If it runs, keep going. I’ll have a maintenance team flown out to meet you at the target site.”
“Damn that General,” I said, “His fancy ideas were going to get someone killed, and it will probably be us.”
Walking back around to the rear of the track, I asked Gale, “How’s it look? Much damage?”
“It’s minimal. The troop heater was leaking on the power leads for the deicers. The wires are trashed, and the heater’s beyond repair. Other than that, it looks OK, just some scorch marks.”
“Alright. The boss say’s we’re to keep going. I guess we’ll just have to go on without heaters.”
Gale looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “Have you noticed that it’s not getting any warmer out here?”
“Uh-huh. Remove the access panel between the drivers compartment and the engine. I’ll do the same for the turret. That’ll give us some heat, anyway. Then we move. We’re under orders.”
He just shook his head, and started to climb his was back on the track. A few moments later, we were rolling again.
This route, through Auerbach and then up into the pass beyond, was the only one still navigable after the first wave of winter storms. The cobblestone street rose sharply and we wound our way up and out of the small city. It was slow going for the BMP, and not just because of the poor weather. To be honest, the track was never very good at climbing hills in the first place. Like a truck, it was capable of great speeds on level roads, but slowed considerably at the first hint of an upgrade. There was a long line of cars following us, and they made me nervous.
“Sarge,” Gale asked suddenly, “Is that ice or water on the road up ahead?”
“I can’t tell,” I responded, trying to judge through the glare of the headlights. “Gale, it looks like ice. Better be careful.”
The BMP was not designed for icy roads. On glare ice, the blunt metal cleats of the tracks gave it less grip than a Volkswagen. Gale knew this, and avoided making any sudden moves on the controls as we crept up the hill. For a while, it looked as if we were going to make it without any problem. We almost did.
About twenty feet from the top of the hill, the left track made a horrid grinding noise, like a slurpee machine run amok. Slowly, almost gently, the BMP began to skew to the left, as the track spun furiously.
Gale reacted perfectly, letting up on the accelerator completely, and not touching the brake. The left track stopped spinning almost immediately.
Unfortunately, the BMP did not.
For one eternal instant, it hung, suspended, sliding ever so slowly to the left. We held our breath, wondering if it would stop. Then the nose of the BMP whipped completely around, so that we were facing the cars behind us.
“GOTT IM HIMMEL!” I heard someone yell.
It didn’t stop there. By this point, the BMP, massing 27,000 pounds, had considerable momentum. It gave me a funny feeling, riding back down that hill, as we turned one beautiful pirouette after another. The cars behind us did the most expedient thing. They pulled off to the side of the road – into the woods, really – and waited for us to spin our way past. The drivers stared, glassy-eyed, as we made our way along the lane that mysteriously opened up behind – no, in front – well, downhill.
Near the bottom, the road curved to the right, following the shore of a small lake. Understandably, the BMP did not. It spun its merry way right off the road, at stopped up to its skirts in the town fish pond.
“Congratulations,” I murmured. “We have just discovered the world’s first thirteen-and-a-half-ton hockey puck.”
“Did we hit anything?” Gale asked.
“I don’t know. Get us out of this damned lake, and we’ll go find out.”
He leaned over the side of the hull, and stared at the water right under his nose, amazed.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Next time I’ll try it with my eyes open.”
The muddy bottom of the pond presented no problem for the combat tracks. The BMP lurched as Gale shifted into low gear, and then backed easily up the bank and out of the water, onto the road again. As we came to a halt, the civilians gathered and stood around the vehicle in awed silence, looking at it, and at us.
“Ist jemand verletzt?” I asked. “Is anyone hurt?”
A big burly man, looking for all the world like Paul Bunyan’s father in his winter clothes, stepped forward and spoke up. “No,” he said, “You have made this with perfection … right down the middle. Our cars are untouched.”
With a sigh of relief, I looked back up at the hill we had just come down, and shook my head in disbelief. “No one,” I thought, “Is ever going to believe this…”
Paul Bunyan, senior, must have had the same thought. He smiled at me sympathetically, and offered me a flask that he had produced from somewhere down inside his jacket. I took a long swig, and then threw the flask up to Gale, who was still sitting on top of the track, staring at the hill.
The silence was broken by the crackle of the radio. “Bravo Mike Two-Five, Bravo Mike Two-Five, this is Oscar Papa One. Report status, over.”
I took the microphone which Gale handed down to me. “Oscar Papa One, Oscar Papa One, this is Bravo Mike Two-Five. We’re, uh, stalled in the water, over.”
“Bravo Mike Two-Five, you have less than four hours to report on target. The general is waiting. Oscar Papa One, out.”
This time we both winced.
“I think that we had better avoid the paved roads from here on in, and just use the fire breaks.”
I was sitting on the front deck of the BMP, pouring over a topological map of the area, trying to find an alternative to attempting that hill again. Gale and our erstwhile lumberjack friend sat on either side of me, trying to help.
The German was native to the area, and knew some trails that were not on any map. He pointed to a small lane, little more than a cow path, and told us, “This is the land of my family. We have made this way wider for our tractors. Your Panzer – tank – should have no difficulty passing.”
“Good,” I said. “That route not only avoids the hardball, it’s also a couple of kilometers shorter. Can we make it over this saddle though?”
He jumped to the ground and walked around the BMP, studying it. “How is it in the snow?” he asked.
Gale told him, “Up to a meter deep, we’re OK.”
“Sehr gut. It becomes not a problem, this saddle.”
I thought for a moment, weighing the options. “All right. Gale, start her up. We’ve got to get rolling.”
We climbed back into the BMP, and, following the directions given to us by this good Samaritan of the north, we were soon out of Auerbach and into the Odenwald forest. The BMP was really in its element in the woods. The Soviets designed it with just such an operating environment in mind. It was a small vehicle, so that narrow confines and relatively tight corners presented no problem. The weight of all that armor forced it down in the snow, and the track cleats were directly on the soft turf below, which afforded it the best traction. The curved front of the hull forced the snow down, much like the prow of a boat. In general, it was easy going. The trail paralleled the main road up into the pass, then hooked sharply to the left, and climbed through the saddle to emerge on the plateau beyond. It was a little steep to be driving up in an armored vehicle, and I began to wonder just what kind of “tractors” this guy had up here. We made it though, and without further mishap.
Thereafter, the trail wound it’s way across the plateau, and then ended at an intersection with our original route. We were relieved to be back on the designated path once again. It would have been difficult to explain to my boss, had we gotten lost in the woods. Difficult, and embarrassing.
The storm finally died down, and the remaining flurries were more of a nuisance than a problem. Once again, we were able to see the road ahead. It was an improved gravel road, of the type commonly referred to as a ‘tank trail’. On the map, it looked like smooth sailing all the way to the target area. We had only one more pass to cross, leading up to another, higher plateau, but on this road it didn’t look to be a problem.
As the flurries ended, the cloud cover began to dissipate. Without their envelope of insulation over the mountains, the temperature fell quickly. That worried me. The new engine performed better at colder temperatures, but without the troop heaters, there was some danger of the controls freezing. Already, there was ice forming on the floor of the turret, where the melting snow had left a puddle just a couple of hours earlier.
“Gale,” I asked, “How do the controls feel?”
“So far so good, Sarge. How does the fuel temperature look?”
“Forty degrees and falling. It won’t freeze for a while yet, and hopefully we’ll be there by then. Once we’re at the target site, we can shove a space heater right inside the troop compartment.”
“Sure. If we don’t freeze to death on the way.”
“Tell me about it.”
The road began to rise again, up into the second - and last - pass. Bit by bit it became steeper and steeper. The cleats were holding well, but Gale had to shift down from overdrive into third, second and finally “granny gear”, which was usually reserved for towing very heavy loads. Still, the BMP made steady progress, even if it was slow. The tachometer read well over the critical point, where the clutch, power steering, and brakes would fail because of decreasing pressure.
The steering mechanism on all tracked vehicles works on the same principal. In order to change directions, the brakes are applied to one track, while the other runs free. It is comparable to throwing an anchor out the window of a car; the drag of the anchor, coupled with the cars’ momentum, causes the car to turn sharply in the direction of the anchor. In the same fashion, a tank turns to the left or right. Usually, this presents no problem. But on a cold night, traveling uphill on a steep road with numerous switchbacks, it can spell disaster.
Our luck ran out after we rounded the last corner before reaching the top of the pass. The drag of the inside track had slowed us considerably. Then, right around the corner, the road rose even more sharply upward than it had been. We didn’t have enough speed to get up the hill
“Gale! Slam the clutch in and lock up the brakes!” I yelled. My stomach tried to climb up my throat and jump over the dashboard, as I watched the tach sink into the red.
“Too late. I didn’t get it before the pressure fell off!” Gale said.
The BMP was still straining forward, but it was slowing down rapidly. The big diesel engine wasn’t purring anymore, it was chugging like a steam engine, in little jerks and gasps, as we inched up the grade. Then it stalled altogether, leaving us on a very steep hill with no brakes and no steering.
We had one last chance. The vehicle was fitted with a reserve pressure tank, with a constant charge on it, for just such an occasions. “Release the pressure valve by your right foot,” I screamed, as we started to roll back down the hill. “It locks the tracks!”
I saw Gale drop his seat down to combat position, so that he could reach the valve. “Oh my God. The thing is frozen.” He said that quite calmly, considering the circumstances.
The most sensible thing that I could think of was “Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…” So I said it. Then we looked behind us, only to discover we were rapidly approaching that ill-fated corner. As we shot off of the road and into a thicket of young saplings, gaining speed all the way, I was overcome with a feeling of deja-vous. I dropped down into the turret, slamming the hatch after me.
“Gale! The handbrake! Pull the goddamn handbrake!” it’s funny, one forgets the simplest things in an emergency.
“I tried that,” he said, “It broke off in my hand. Maybe the trees will stop us.”
I spun the turret around to face backwards. This way, I could use the infrared gun sight to see where we were headed. I really wish I hadn’t. As soon as I looked through the scope, it became immediately apparent that 1) the little trees had done nothing to slow the BMP down, 2) we were running out of trees anyway, and 3) we were also about to emerge from the wood line, onto the steepest slope of the local ski resort!
“Gale,” I asked, “Are you strapped in? Fasten your seatbelt. Then hang on. Then pray.”
I switched my microphone over to broadcast, and made the only priority call of my life.
“Flash! Flash! Flash! Oscar Papa One, Oscar Papa One, Bravo Mike Two-Five, EMERGENCY! Accident in progress! Dispatch medivac to Tannenberger Lift, ASAP! I say again, send medivac ASAP! Fatalities in progress.”
Our luge, formerly known as a Carrier, Personnel, Armored, BMP-1, 1969 Model, had gained speed. I figured that we were traveling down that slope at about fifty miles per hour, out of control, and backwards. The support poles for the main lift were flying by off of our right side, and straight ahead at the bottom of the hill, stood the fanciest, most beautiful lodge that I ever saw.
“Last calling station, last calling station, say again, over.” the boys at HQ were slow to get the message tonight.
“Emergency! Send medivac to Tannenberger Ski Lift - Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” I said, as I saw the parking lot, full of Mercedes and BMW’s to the side of the lodge. “Hell, send two!”
With an enormous crunching jar, we ricocheted off of a boulder that had been sitting next to one of the lift supports. It deflected the BMP just enough so that we missed both the lodge and the parking lot. Instead, we shot directly into yet another lake, setting the world record for the belly flop on an ice covered pond.
The ice saved us. It couldn’t support the weight of the track, but piled up behind it instead, slowing us down before we got into really deep water. As we slammed to a halt, I could see the water rushing up over the hull, right up into the base of the turret.
“Are you hurt?” I asked Gale.
“No. but this hatch leaks something fierce.”
“It … leaks?” panic dissolved into confusion, and then hysteria. We started laughing uncontrollably.
“Well, get us out of the water,” I finally said, after I had managed to calm myself down. Amazingly enough, the BMP started right up. We pulled out of a lake for the second time that night, and stopped on the shoreline. Again, Gale got out to survey the damage while I radioed in.
“Oscar Papa One, Oscar Papa One, Bravo Mike Two-Five, Over.”
“Go ahead, Two-Five.”
“Cancel medivacs. Send recovery vehicle instead. I say again, keep the birds at home. Send recovery vehicle to Tannenberger lift. Bravo Mike Two-five out.”
Not being in the mood to answer a lot of nosey questions, I quickly turned the radio off.
“Gale, shut her down.” the gyros whined to a stop, and I climbed out onto the ice-encrusted snow.
“Sarge,” Gale said, “the return roller is cracked from where we hit that rock.”
I looked at it, lighting up a cigarette. “Okay”
“So what do we do now?”
“Well, first I’m going to water that tree. Then I’m walking over to the lodge and get a drink. No, on second thought, I’m going to get drunk.”
Gale smiled, like it was the first sensible thing that he’d heard all evening. We carefully avoided looking at the hill, as we trudged through the snow, and into the bar. The place was packed. As we walked in, stomping our boots to shake off the snow, the crowd stood up and applauded. They had seen the whole thing through the picture windows.
“Hey, it’s hot in here,” Gale said.
have a laugh.
ya better pay your typist more ... ;)
Guess I better. ;)
Needs photos.
The best part is something they didn't mention.
The rear doors of the BMP-1 and 2 series are filled with diesel fuel, offering some risk from incendiary rounds - and rupture when you hit rocks.
LOL!
Please tell me that this is part of your movie script.
thanks
Regards
alfa6 ;>}
(The fuel in the rear doors was actually armour - it insulated against HEAT rounds.)
That's an understatement..............
ah hem.
Back atchya........
ok, leda gets a raise. LOL.
woohoo!
(nod to gabz for being an awesome lobbyist) :D
Funniest thing I've read in a while,, sequile?
yeah, I have a few pages somewhere....
Get 'r done!
Soon as somebody throws money at me. LOL.
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