by Larry Bond
They’d never imagined that their own sons would be among those trying to fight their way through the choke point they’d created.
Now Bergland’s narrow streets were crammed with armored cars and troop carriers. Their scarred metal sides and gun turrets looked out of place among pristine, gabled homes and shops dating from the German colonial period.
South Africa’s spearhead had ground to a complete and unexpected halt.
Commandant Henrik Kruger jumped down off the Ratel before it had even stopped moving and jogged toward the small group of dust-streaked officers clustered around a Rooikat armored fighting vehicle. A map case and canteen slung from his shoulder clattered as he ran. A young lieutenant followed him.
Maj. Daan Visser saw them coming and snapped to attention, an action swiftly imitated by his subordinates. All showed signs of increasing wear and tear. Visser’s bloodshot eyes were surrounded by dark rings, and sweat, oil, and grease stains further complicated the camouflage pattern on his battle dress. Five days of nonstop driving punctuated by several short, sharp, and bloody skirmishes had left their mark.
“What’s the holdup here, Daan?” Kruger didn’t intend to waste precious time exchanging meaningless pleasantries. His battalion was nearly a full day behind schedule, and the fact that the schedule was ludicrous did nothing to soften the complaints coming forward from Pretoria.
“My boys and I ran into some real bastards just beyond that ridge. ” The major gestured to the north, his words clipped by a mixture of fatigue and excitement.
“Caught us coming out of the cut.”
Kruger raised his glasses to study the spot. The paved two lane road crossed an east-west ridge there, and its builders had cut a path through the higher ground. The result was a narrow passage barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass. The kommandant was certain that every antitank weapon the enemy possessed was pointed at the other end of that lethal channel. As he examined it, searching for other passes, the major continued to report.
“They were zeroed in on us. We didn’t have room to deploy, so we popped smoke and reversed back here to regroup. “
Kruger nodded, agreeing with Visser’s decision. The defile was a potential death trap for any troops or vehicles trying to force their way through against determined opposition.
“Any casualties?”
Visser shook his head.
“None, thank God. But it was damned close.” He pointed to a thin wire draped over the Rooikat’s turret and chassis.
“Some kaffir swine nearly blew me to kingdom come with a fucking Sagger.”
Kruger pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. The Sagger, a wire-guided antitank missile, must have passed just centimeters over the Rooikat’s turret-leaving a length of its control wire as testimony of the near miss.
And Namibian missile teams on the other side of the ridge could mean only one thing: they planned to stop his battalion’s advance right here and right now.
Very well. If the Narnibians wanted to risk a stand-up slugging match, he’d oblige them. The more Swapo troops they killed now, the fewer they’d have to contend with later.
Kruger stared up the steep slope leading to the ridge crest.
“Can you get your vehicles over that?”
Visser nodded.
“No problem, sir. But I’ll need infantry and artillery support to deal with those blery missile teams. “
“You’ll have it.” Kruger snapped open his map case, looking for a chart showing the terrain beyond the ridge. It wasn’t the best place he’d ever seen for a battle. Pockets of dense brush and small trees, ravines, boulder fields, and rugged hills all offered good cover and concealment for a defending force. He didn’t relish making a frontal assault against people holding ground like that, but there wasn’t any realistic alternative-not in the time available. Taking the only other southern route onto the Windhoek plateau would involve backtracking nearly sixty kilometers and then making another approach march over more than three hundred kilometers of mountainous, unpaved road.
Kruger shook his head wearily. He was out of bloodless options. The battalion would simply have to grind its way through the Namibian-held valley beyond Bergland-trusting in superior training, morale, and firepower to produce a victory.
He turned to the young lieutenant at his side.
“Radio all company commanders to meet me here in fifteen minutes.”
Operation Nimrod was about to escalate.
FORWARD HEADQUARTERS, 8TH MOTOR RIFLE BATTALION, CUBAN EXPEDITIONARY
FORCE, NORTH OF BERG LAND
Senior Capt. Victor Mares crouched beneath the tan-and brown camouflage netting rigged to cover his wheeled BTR60 APC. He shook his head slowly from side to side, not wanting to believe what he’d just heard through his earphones. He clicked the transmit button on his radio mike.
“Repeat that please, Comrade Colonel.”
The bland, cultured voice of his battalion commander took on a harder edge.
“You heard me quite well the first time, Captain. You are to hold your current position. No withdrawal is authorized. I repeat, no withdrawal is authorized. Our socialist brothers are depending on us.
Remember that. Out.
The transmission ended in a burst of static.
Mares pulled the earphones off and handed them back to his radioman. Had his colonel gone mad? Did the idiot really expect two companies of infantry, a few antitank missile teams, and a small section of 73mm recoilless antitank guns to hold off the entire oncoming South African column? It was insane.
The lean, clean-shaven Cuban officer ducked under the camouflage netting and moved forward to the edge of the small clump of trees occupied by his command group. Helmeted infantrymen squatting behind rocks or trees glanced nervously in his direction. Most carried AKM assault rifles, but a small number carried RPK light machine guns or clutched RPG-7s.
Fifteen other BTR-60s and infantry squads were scattered in a thin line about three hundred meters closer to the South African-held ridge-concealed where possible in brush, behind boulders, or in shallow ravines. The foot soldiers hadn’t even had time to dig in. Everywhere weak, nowhere strong, the captain thought in disgust.
Mares and his men had been rushed south from Windhoek in time to block the highway above Bergland, but not fast enough to seize the ridge just north of the village. In his judgment, that made the position completely untenable. The ridge blocked his companies’ lines of sight and lines of fire -allowing the South Africans to mass their forces in safety and secrecy. They could attack his overextended line at any point without warning.
And now his politically correct, but combat-wary commander had refused permission to retreat to more defensible positions closer to Windhoek.
All apparently to impress the Narnibians with Cuban courage and determination.
Wonderful. He and his troops were going to be sacrificed to make a political point. Madness, indeed.
“Captain!” A call from farther down the line. With one hand on his helmet to keep it from flying off, Mares dashed over to where one of his junior lieutenants crouched-scanning the ridge through a pair of binoculars.
“I see movement up there, Captain. Men on foot, in those rocks.” The lieutenant pointed.
Mares lifted his own binoculars. Uniformed figures, antlike despite the magnification, came into focus. South African infantry or forward observers deploying into cover. He slapped the lieutenant on the shoulder.
“Good eyes, Miguel. Keep looking.”
The young officer smiled shyly.
Mares rose and raced back to his command vehicle, breathing hard. The
South Africans might have all the advantages in this fight, but he still had a few surprises up his sleeve. A few high-explosive surprises.
The Cuban captain slid to a stop beside the camouflaged BTR-60 and grabbed the radio mike.
“Headquarters, I have a fire mission! HE! Grid coordinates three five four eight nine nine two five!”
B COMPANY, 20TH CAPE RIFLES
High on the ridge overlooking the road to Windhoek, Capt. Robey Riekert squatted behind a large rock, watching as his lead platoon filtered through the boulder field looking for good observation points and clear fields of fire. His senior sergeant and a radioman crouched nearby.
Engine noises wafted up from behind the ridge where two troops of Major
Visser’s armored cars, eight vehicles in all, were toiling slowly up the steep slope. Ratel APCs carrying B Company’s two remaining infantry platoons were supposed to be following the recon unit.
Satisfied that his troops were settling in, Riekert turned his attention to the desolate, tangled landscape to the north. Ugly country to fight a war in, he thought.
“See anything?”
The sergeant shook his head.
“Not a damn thing.”
Riekert focused his binoculars on the nearest thickets of brush, panning slowly from left to right.
“Maybe they’ve gone, eh? Pulled back closer to the city.” He winced as he heard the hopeful note in his voice. He didn’t really want to fight in a pitched battle. He’d seen the statistics too many times. Junior officers died fast in close contact with the enemy. And Robey Ri&crt wanted to live.
“I doubt it, Captain.” The sergeant jerked a thumb northward.
“No birds, see? You take my word for it. Those bastards are still out there.”
“Perhaps, but…” Riekert froze. There. Outlined vaguely against dead, brown brush and tall, yellowing grass. A squat, long-hulled shape.
Oh, my God. The enemy had armor, too. He whirled to his radio operator.
“Get me the colonel. Now!”
A high-pitched, whirring scream drowned him out, arcing down out of the sky. Whammm! The ground one hundred meters below Rickert’s position suddenly erupted in smoke and flame-ripped open by an exploding shell.
The young South African officer sat stupefied for an instant. He’d never been under artillery fire before.
Whammm! Another explosion, closer this time. Rock fragments and dirt pattered down all around.
Riekert snapped out of his momentary paralysis.
“Cover! Take cover!
Incoming!”
The whole world seemed to explode as more and more shells rained in-shattering boulders and maiming men, blanketing the ridge in a boiling cloud of smoke and fire.
Capt. Robey Riekert, SADF, never heard the Cuban 122mm shell that landed just a meter away. And only a single bloodsoaked epaulet survived to identify him for burial.
FORWARD COMMAND POST, 20TH CAPE RIFLES
“Damn it!” Henrik Kruger pounded his fist against the metal skin of his
Ratel as he watched the barrage pound his forward infantry positions.
“Sagger missiles, armor, and now artillery! Goddamn that stupid, bootlicking bastard de Wet! What the hell has he gotten us into?”
His staff looked carefully away, unwilling to comment on his tactless, though accurate, assessment of the SADF’s commanding general.
Kruger forced himself to calm down. Rage against his idiotic superiors could wait until later. For the moment, he had a battle to conduct and a battalion to lead.
Unfortunately, his choices were strictly limited. Tactical doctrine said to suppress enemy artillery with counter battery fire. But tactical doctrine didn’t mean squat when the nearest artillery support was still six hours away by road. And the battalion’s heavy mortars didn’t have the range to reach the enemy firing positions.
That left him with just two options: either retreat back behind the ridge, pinned in place until friendly guns could get into position; or charge into close contact with the enemy troops, making it impossible for them to use their artillery superiority for fear of hitting their own men.
Time. Everything always came down to a question of time. The longer he waited, the longer the Narnibians had to bring up reserves and fortify their positions.
Kruger thumbed the transmit switch on his mike.
“Delta
Charlie Four. Delta Charlie Four, this is Tango Oscar One. Over. “
Hennie Mulder’s bass baritone crackled over the radio.
“Go ahead, One.”
“Are you in position?”
Mulder’s reply rumbled back.
“Sited and ready to shoot.”
Kruger nodded to himself. Good. D Company’s 81mm mortars were his only available indirect fire weapons. And Mulder’s heavy weapons crews were about to earn their combat pay for the first time in this campaign.
8TH MOTOR RIFLE BATTALION, CUBAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE
Karrumph. Karrumph. Karrumph. The first South African mortar rounds landed fifty meters in front of the thin Cuban skirmish line. Gray-white smoke spewed skyward from each impact point, More rounds followed, each salvo closer still to the soldiers and vehicles scattered across the valley. In seconds, a gray haze drifted over the line, billowing high into the air and growing steadily thicker as more and more shells slammed into the ground.
Senior Capt. Victor Mares stood close to the open side hatch of his parked BTR-60 and stared south, straining to see through the South
African smoke screen. Nothing. Nothing but the dull, dark mass of the ridge itself. Damn it.
His hand tightened around the radio handset. The smoke made his Sagger teams useless. The wire-guided missile had to fly at least three hundred meters before its operator could control it. Visibility was already down to one hundred meters or less.
He clicked the handset’s transmit button.
“All units, report in sequence!
“
Negative sighting reports crackled over his headphones, rolling in from the platoon commanders stationed left to right along his line. Nobody could see through the smoke or hear anything over the deafening noise of the mortar barrage.
Crack!
Mares jumped. That wasn’t a mortar round exploding. It was the sound made by a high-velocity cannon.
Whaamm! A BTR near the middle of his line blew up in a sudden, orange-red fireball, blindingly bright even through the obscuring smoke screen. Greasy black smoke from burning diesel fuel boiled into the air.
“Here they come!” Panicked shouts poured through his headphones as South
African Rooikat and Eland armored cars surged out of the smoke at high speed with all guns blazing. Three more BTRs exploded, gutted by 76 and 90mm cannon shells that tore through thin armor intended only to stop fragments. Machinegun fire raked the nearby thickets and boulder fields-slicing through brush, ricocheting off rocks, and puncturing flesh.
Cuban soldiers screamed and toppled over, some still twitching, others already dead.
Helmeted South African infantrymen were visible now, advancing in short rushes, firing assault rifles and light machine guns from the hip. Squat, boxy shapes trundled out of the concealing smoke behind them-armored person el carriers armed with machine guns and 20mm semiautomatic cannon.
Mares stood motionless, shocked by the ferocity of the South African assault. His troops were being cut to pieces right before his eyes.
A BTR roared past him, sand spraying from under spinning tires. Hatches left open by its disembarked and abandoned infantry squad clanged to and fro. Other vehicles followed, fleeing the carnage spreading up and down the
Cuban front line.
The 8th Motor Rifle Battalion was collapsing.
FORWARD HEADQUARTERS, 20TH CAPE RIFLES
Henrik Kruger’s Ratel command vehicle lurched abruptly as its front wheels bounced over a rock the driver hadn’t seen. He braced himself against the open turret hatch and kept scanning the steep, brush-choked slope stretching before him.
Three Ratels were moving a hundred meters out in front
-spread wide in a wedge formation. More APCs were farther ahead, already down on the valley floor and vanishing into the smoky haze. Incandescent, split-second flashes from inside the smoke screen showed where vehicles were firing. Flickering, molten
-orange glows marked the smoldering funeral pyres of their victims.
A blurred, static-distorted voice crackled over the radio
Kruger took one hand off the hatch coaming to press his headset closer.
The constant din created by barking tank cannon, chattering machine guns, mortars, and screaming men made it difficult to hear-let alone think.
“Say again, Echo Four. “
“The bastards are running, Tango Oscar One! Repeat, we have them running!” Maj. Daan Visser’s wild exhilaration came clearly over the airwaves.
“Am pursuing at full speed!”
What? Kruger suddenly felt cold. At full speed, Visser’s armored vehicles would soon outpace the rest of the battalion. And that meant his infantry companies wouldn’t have the armored support they needed. It would also leave the Rooikats; and Elands moving blind through enemy-held territory.
He squeezed the transmit switch on his mike.
“Negative, Echo Four. Wait for the infantry. Do not, repeat, do not pursue on your own!” He released the switch, listening for a reply.
He never got one.
ROOIKAT 101, ATTACHED RECON SQUADRON, 20TH CAPE RIFLES
Diesel engine roaring, the eight-wheeled Rooikat AFV bounced up and over the lip of a narrow gulley at high speed. Small trees and thorn bushes lining the gulley were either knocked aside or flattened and crushed by its big radial tires.
Maj. Daan Visser stood high in the Rooikat’s open commander’s cupola.
Dark, tinted goggles and a fluttering orange scarf protected his eyes and his mouth from the sand and acrid smoke. The long barrel of a cupola-mounted machine gun bounced and rolled beside him.
For the moment, Visser and his crew were effectively alone on the battlefield. Swirling smoke and dust had so cut visibility that the seven other Rooikats and Elands of his two troops were out of sight and out of command. And they’d left the supporting infantry far behind. From the sounds echoing through the haze, the foot sloggers were still busy mopping up scattered resistance.