Major Randy Medway, the operations officer of Task Force 3-68th Armor, was traveling with the tank company charged with overwatching the advance of the rest of the task force. Under ideal circumstance the overwatching element never moved while the maneuver element was in motion and exposed. But the distances that needed to be covered by the ground elements of the 4th Armored that night dictated that the overwatching tanks move forward, from time to time, behind the elements they were supposed to be protecting. Medway was in the process of making one of these moves when Aguilar’s company was hit. He saw the same flashes and heard Aguilar’s excited report. Medway didn’t need to wait for anything more. Mashing down on the lever on the side of his crewman’s helmet that keyed the radio, he shouted to the B Company commander, “Bravo Six, get those people up there, now!”

All around him, Medway watched as the tanks of B Company came to a halt even as their tank commanders slew the massive main gun toward the spot where the Guard tanks sat. Almost as an afterthought he gave his own driver the order to follow suit.

Medway’s tank was still gliding to a stop when his gunner yelled out. “Target identified!” Dropping down, Medway shoved his eye up to the commander’s sight extension. Clear as day he saw the turret of an M-1 tank silhouetted on the horizon. The gunner had already laid the aiming dot and ranged to the target. Impatiently, the gunner called out again, “Target identified!”

Quickly, Medway glanced over to his loader. Private Cleeves sat on his seat, pressing himself against the turret wall with one hand on the gun’s safety, ready to flip it to the off position when he heard the fire command. He returned Medway’s stare. Whether it was the rain that had pelted them earlier or sweat from the same nervousness that Medway felt, Medway understood what the loader’s expression meant.

Turning back to his sight, the task force S-3 looked at the turret of the Guard tank sitting there before him. This was for real, Medway told himself. That was a real tank, an American tank. And the round in the chamber of his own tank was equally real. He was still wrestling with all of this when Medway saw the turret of the Guard tank rotate to the right. He watched as the gun was depressed. The Guard tank was getting ready to fire, Medway told himself. He was going to kill another one of our tanks.

“GUNNER! SABOT! TANK!” The words thundered from Medway’s mouth without thought, without effort.

Almost simultaneously the gunner responded “Identified” as the loader snapped a crisp “UP!”, meaning that the gun was loaded, the gun safety was off, and he was clear of the main gun’s path of recoil.

Without any further hesitation, Medway screamed his command of execution. “FIRE!”