The massive rotor of a helicopter creates huge drag when flying forward, so helicopters aren't very fast; the Hind cruises at barely two-hundred-plus kilometres per hour, and the Rocket Pods and anti-tank missiles hanging from its external racks add even more resistance.
Thus, by the time six Hind attack-helicopter squadrons arrived, the battle for the Susangerd Swamp was already drawing to a close.
Yesterday the 35th Armored Division had been pinned down and pounded; its losses were heavy. This morning it had again been shelled without being able to hit back. Now, at last, it was time to show their might.
Every tank and every APC started up—even the battle-damaged vehicles that had received only hasty repairs and whose main guns still couldn't fire rolled forward.
Iran's elite armored division was now a routed mob.
Against the strikes from the sky they put up a feeble resistance: apart from damaging one fighter they scored no successes, while eighty percent of their armored vehicles were destroyed by rockets from above.
The last surviving Chieftains, knowing all hope was gone, chose to withdraw.
Rajavi tried to organise one final assault, but by now his men no longer obeyed his orders.
A defeated army collapses like an avalanche.
The ground was littered with burning armour; the furious strikes from overhead had finally stripped the Chieftains of yesterday's majesty, and they fled in disgrace.
Yet in this swamp, running away was no easy matter.
The concrete road laid these past few days still existed, but retreating along it would invite the special attentions of the gunships overhead.
Everywhere else the ground was marsh; one careless step and a vehicle would bog down.
The tank drivers floored the throttles—nothing mattered but escape!
Seeing the tanks ahead pulling back, the APC crews naturally joined the rout.
Lighter than the ponderous Chieftains, the M113s actually found it easier to flee.
Still, none of them handled the marsh as well as Iraq's wide-tracked T-62s and Type-63 infantry fighting vehicles.
The battle had become a one-sided slaughter.
From the air the gunships singled out the foremost APCs, launched rockets and turned the aluminium hulls into scrap.
An American-made M113 uses aluminium armour; once a rocket hits it the vehicle bursts into flames and the aluminium—melting point barely six-hundred-odd degrees—melts away.
Behind them, the Thirty-Fifth Brigade chased the Chieftain Tanks like shepherds herding sheep.
Had the Chieftains turned to fight they could have inflicted real damage, but their sole aim now was escape.
Rajavi jumped down from his APC, oblivious to the risk of stray bullets, surveyed the scene and saw only despair; the division had lost its morale and there was no saving it now.
A day earlier he had been the imposing commander of an armored division, poised for promotion to Lieutenant-General and entry into the army's inner circle—glory within reach.
But all those dreams died in this swamp; the instant Iraqi jets appeared overhead his hopes were brutally shattered.
What galled him most was that his defeat came not from the incompetence of his tank crews but from the air force—and from certain conspiracies.
Even if Rajavi were a fool he would know that his patron Abolhassan was out of favour with the Supreme Leader Khomeini; the two were deeply at odds. This operation had been ordered by Chairman Abul, yet the air force had dragged its feet—because of certain people.
He had been defeated by intrigue; he was merely a sacrificial pawn in a power struggle, and the entire division had been sacrificed with him.
It was a crime, a blasphemy against almighty allah! Rajavi's heart seethed with rage and despair.
He raised his pistol to his head.
Low-ranking soldiers could run; a commander, the man directly responsible, could only die for his country—only then could his family avoid purges and humiliation.
"Commander!" His Bodyguard rushed forward and snatched the pistol away.
"Corporal, you dare disobey an order?" Rajavi demanded.
"Sir, you can't die for nothing! You still have much you can do. Our whole division has been smashed—maybe it'll be written off the army rolls—but we didn't lose to ourselves; we lost to the sky. Where was our air force? Sir, we must see the Chairman and lay the facts before him!" the guard said firmly.
The Chairman? Chairman Abolhassan was probably in danger himself. Rajavi looked at the guard—he and Abul were on the same side; many of his men were loyal to the Chairman. Only by reaching Abul could he give an accounting.
"Hit the dirt!" Suddenly the guard heard a helicopter roaring past and threw himself over Rajavi.
"Dakka-dakka-dakka…" A burst of cannon shells struck nearby.
Rajavi pushed the guard aside and found the man's skull blown open, blood and brains oozing out—dead.
Yes—he had to reach Chairman Abul! Hope flared anew in Rajavi's heart.
Trying to break out in an APC now would be suicidal; alone, he was a smaller target and far likelier to slip away.
He scanned the chaotic battlefield and chose to head east, slipping away alone.
That day would go down in the annals of the Iran-Iraq War.
Because Saddam's younger son Qusay had gone missing in the Susangerd Swamp, the military took notice; when Iran launched its assault the command detected it early. After the Thirty-Fifth Brigade had held the swamp through an afternoon, Saddam himself, the next morning, ordered massed aircraft to deliver a devastating blow to an Iranian armored division.
For reasons unknown, the mighty Iranian air force—lords of the sky—never appeared.
It was a complete and overwhelming victory.
Swaggering Thirty-Fifth Brigade troops now disarmed Chieftain Tanks single-handedly; the Chieftain crews surrendered meekly, daring not resist.
One private with a rifle could take prisoner an entire mechanised squad.
Most surviving Iranian soldiers chose to surrender; fewer than one in ten escaped. With gunships patrolling overhead, getting away was nearly impossible.
Yet Brigade Commander Muhammad felt no joy in victory—Qusay was still missing.
Interrogating prisoners, especially several senior officers, Muhammad learned that victory had hinged on Iranian shortages of fuel and ammunition—shortages caused when their supply depot was blown up by a small band of men wearing Iranian uniforms.
Had fuel and shells been plentiful, the Iranians would have opened with Self-Propelled Howitzers, then kept the Chieftains firing and charging; a single small brigade could never have stopped them. Out of the swamp yesterday, they would have reached Khuzgan today and the Karun River the day after.
Muhammad knew the strike on the logistics base must have been Qusay's work. After the depot exploded Qusay had been hunted by Iranian helicopters; whether he still lived—and where—remained unknown.
He knew that if this ended badly, even a great victory might earn him not promotion but dismissal—or worse, a purge by the President.
Where are you, Qusay? May allah keep you safe.