Casey should have been restrained by force, if necessary and held until resupply arrived, no matter how long that took, but that wasn’t going to happen. Casey wanted to go on the mission down to the river and confront the tank. In the dark. With a small band of men armed with little more than tiny and undependable LAW anti-tank tubes. And the Gunny wanted him to go. Our reinforced scout team, without machine guns, was to go against what was likely a Russian main battle tank. I would lead the mission, while Captain Casey would be the make believe commander, or the other way around, depending on the perspective.
“Big planes are called Sandys,” Casey said, kneeling on my spread out poncho cover. “The Gunny says you have sand. Does that have something to do with the planes?”