by Larry Bond
Unfortunately,
they’d apparently chosen the small depression occupied by his command post for their latest firing point. Even blind fire, when concentrated in a small area, could be devastating.
Whammm! He slammed the Ratel’s hatch shut again as an explosion just twenty meters away shook the APC and sent fragments, not pebbles, rattling off its armor. Von Brandis dogged the hatch and spun round to follow the situation through the vehicle’s vision blocks.
Twin hammer blows struck the Ratel’s left side. The first mortar round seemed to slide the eighteen-ton vehicle physically sideways, then a second shell lifted it and tipped it over.
Von Brandis and the rest of his staff tumbled and twisted inside the APC’s tangled interior. Loose gear fell through the air, and they fought to keep from impaling themselves on the troop compartment’s myriad sharp points and corners. Worst of all, someone’s assault rifle hadn’t been secured in its clips.
The R4 spun through the air as the Ratel tumbled, slammed into the deck, and went off. A single, steel-jacketed round ricocheted from metal wall to metal wall, showering the interior with sparks, before burying itself deep in the assistant driver’s belly. The man screamed and collapsed in on himself, his hands clutching convulsively at the gaping wound.
Von Brandis fought a personal war with the edge of the map table, a fire extinguisher handle, and his radio cord. Finally freeing himself and standing up on the canted deck, he tossed a first aid kit to his driver and reached up to unlock one of the roof hatches.
He bent down and looked before crawling out, taking his own assault rifle with him.
Everyone was still under cover against random mortar volleys and suppressive fire from the advancing enemy tank company. He scanned the forward edge of the battalion’s gray, roiling smoke screen. Nothing in sight there. Right, the enemy armor should still be about a kilometer away.
The Namibian mortars had shifted targets within his battalion’s position and now seemed to be bombarding an empty piece of desert. Good. That was one advantage of a dispersed deployment. A fine haze of dust and smoke obscured anything
over five hundred meters away and made him cough. It was getting warmer, but the sun wouldn’t burn off this acrid mist.
The disadvantage of dispersion was the difficulty of getting from place to place, especially under fire. His executive officer’s command Ratel was more than a hundred and fifty meters away, behind a low rise near
A
Company’s laager and fighting positions.
He leaned down through the open hatch.
“I’m going to Major Hougaard’s vehicle! Frans, come with me. The rest of you stay put! “
As soon as the radio operator crawled out and climbed to his feet, the two men sprinted off, ducking more out of instinct than reasoned thought as shells burst to either side. Mortar fragments rip through the air faster than any human can hope to react.
It was only the barest taste of an infantryman’s world, but the colonel longed for the relative safety of his command vehicle. Running desperately across open, hard-pack cd sand under fire seemed a poor way to run a battle.
They reached the side of Hougaard’s Ratel and von Brandis banged on its armored side door with the hilt of his bayonet. It opened after a nerve-racking, five-second pause, and the two men piled inside the
Ratel’s already crowded interior.
Von Brandis squeezed through the crush toward a round faced bearded man with deceptively soft-looking features.
“Colonel, what on earth … !” Major Jamie Hougaard exclaimed, then cut off the rest of his sentence as superfluous. It was obvious that his commander’s vehicle had been hit. And the details would have to wait.
“What’s the situation?” Von Brandis didn’t have time to waste in idle chitchat. He’d lost a precious couple of minutes while transferring to this secondary command post.
Hougaard held his hand over one radio headphone, pressing it to his ear as he listened to a new report just coming in.
“The FJands are engaging that verdomde mortar battery now. And that should put a stop to this blery barrage. They’ve killed a lot of infantry, too.”
Von Brandis nodded. That was good news, but not his main concern. What about the enemy tanks? They’d reach the edge of his smoke soon. Luckily, the forward observer for his own mortar battery was located in Hougaard’s vehicle.
He turned to the young artillery officer and ordered, “Fire only enough smoke to maintain the screen. Mix HE in with the smoke rounds, fuzed for airburst.”
The lieutenant nodded his understanding eagerly. A few mortar rounds bursting in midair, showering the ground below with sharp-edged steel fragments, should strip the attacking infantry away from their tanks.
Hougaard handed him a headset. He shrugged out of his helmet and slid the set over his ears in time to hear Hougaard’s voice over the circuit.
“Delta One, repeat your last, over.”
The armored car squadron commander’s voice was exultant. Though he was momentarily drowned out by the sound of his own big gun firing, von
Brandis still understood his report.
“Roger, Foxtrot Hotel Two. We are in defilade, engaging the tanks from the rear at one thousand meters.
Three, no, five kills! Continuing to engage. Enemy attack breaking up.
“
His voice was masked again by a boom-clang as the Eland’s 90mm gun fired and the breech ejected a spent shell casing.
“Excuse me, Hotel, but we’re a little busy here. Out.”
Von Brandis and Hougaard grinned at each other. They were winning. No enemy force could take that kind of pounding from the rear for long.
Von Brandis turned to the young artillery officer again.
“Change that last order. Cease smoke, and start a walking barrage fifteen hundred meters out with airbursts. Let’s really break these bastards up!”
As the smoke cleared, von Brandis saw burning vehicles and bodies sprawled in a rough band a kilometer from his own line. There were still a few enemy tanks operational, but as they turned to engage the threat to their rear, the battalion’s jeep-mounted antitank missiles had easy shots and quickly finished off the survivors. Dirty-gray puffs of smoke appeared up and down the enemy line as his mortars worked the exposed
Namibian infantry over.
The enemy attack was routed. Soldiers fled in all directions, a few raised their hands in surrender, and many just stood in shock and stared at nothing.
Von Brandis smiled. He had his victory and a clear road to Windhoek “Colonel, message on the HF set. ” Each command vehicle had one high-frequency radio, and several ultrahigh-frequency sets. The UHF radios were used for short-range battlefield messages sent in the clear or using simple verbal codes. High-frequency radio was only used for long-range transmission, and messages were always encrypted.
Von Brandis picked up the handset.
“This is Foxtrot Hotel One, over.”
“One, this is Chessboard. Stand by for new orders.”
He pursed his lips in a silent whistle. Chessboard was the call sign for
Gen. Adriaan de Wet, commander of the whole bloody South African Army.
Something big was in the wind.
Von Brandis recognized de Wet’s voice. Not even thirteen hundred kilometers’ worth of static-riddled distance could disguise those silky, urbane tones. It also couldn’t disguise the fact that the SADF’s commander was a very worried man. -Kolonel, our reconnaissance aircraft have spotted an enemy force approaching Swakopmund. They were only about a hundred kilometers northeast of the city at dawn this morning. Accordingly, I’m ordering you to turn your battalion around and intercept the enemy as soon as possible. “
What? Von Brandis didn’t immediately reply. He swayed on his feet, trying to make sense out of what he’d just heard.
Swakopmund was a small city just to the north of Walvis Bay-the 5th
Mechanized Infantry’s supply base. Every oun
ce of petrol, round of ammunition, and liter of water the battalion needed came through the port.
And now an enemy force threatened that? My God.
Von Brandis’s mouth and throat were suddenly bone-dry.
“What strength do we face, General?”
“Intelligence thinks they are Cubans, in battalion strength. “
Von Brandis was shocked. There would be no walkover this time.
De Wet continued, wheedling now.
“You have the strongest South African force in the area, Kolonel. More urgent logistic demands from the other columns have made it impossible to significantly reinforce Walvis Bay.
I repeat, you must return and crush this Cuban force or we will lose the port. We’re flying in additional troops now, but we can’t get them there fast enough to hold the city without help. Can you do it?”
There was only one acceptable answer.
“Yes, sir.” Still holding the mike, von Brandis leaned over Hougaard’s map table, silently calculating the amount of ammunition and fuel his men had left after the morning’s fierce tank battle.
“One thing, General, we’ll need a resupply convoy out here.
I’m low on petrol.”
“I’ll see to it at once, Foxtrot. Good luck. Remember that we’re counting on you.” The transmission from Pretoria faded into static.
Von Brandis tore the radio headset off. Those bloody idiots had really done it this time. They’d left him dangling out on a damned thin limb-and almost in sight of the whole campaign’s primary objective.
Now his battalion would have to make a hard, fast, vehicle wrecking journey back west on Route 52. A journey that could only end in a desperate battle with an enemy force of at least equal strength.
He bit back a string of savage curses and started issuing the orders that would put his battalion on the road in full retreat from the Namibian capital.
CHAPTER
Dead End
AUGUST 26-5TH MECHANIZED INFANTRY, 150 KJLOMETERS EAST OF WALVIS BAY
The blackened trucks and bodies stood out against the Namib Desert’s harsh landscape. Sun-scorched sand and rock did nothing to soften or hide the shattered remains of the battalion’s resupply convoy.
Dismounted scouts were already searching the area for possible survivors as von Brandis’s Ratel reached the scene and stopped. The wrecks were cold and the bodies blackened by a full day’s exposure to the sun.
Lieutenant Griff, the scout platoon leader, ran over as the command vehicle halted and called up to his colonel, “Nothing usable left, sir. And nobody left alive, either. ” Von Brandis sighed as the lieutenant continued his report.
“Definitely an air attack, Kolonel. No shell casings or tracks except those belonging to the convoy.”
Griff motioned toward the mass of charred wreckage and corpses.
“We’ve found eleven bodies and seven burnt
2M
V
out vehicles, including three fuel tankers and what must have been two ammo trucks. There are signs of one vehicle headed back west, but I can’t tell how many men were in it.”
Von Brandis nodded coldly, his expressionless face matching the scout officer’s matter-of fact tone. They’d both seen too many dead men in the past few days to care much about seeing several more. The wrecked convoy’s cargo was a much more serious loss.
He climbed out of the Ratel’s roof hatch and jumped down to the ground.
Stretching, he worked out the kinks that had formed in the last six hours of travel. They’d been moving since well before dawn, rattling and rolling along Route 52’s unpaved gravel surface. He smiled sardonically.
No doubt this road would have been a lot easier to drive in the BMW parked outside his home in Bloemfontein.
Von Brandis paced slowly around the remains of the resupply convoy, keeping clear of burial parties now going about their work with grim efficiency. Although the desert’s scavengers had already paid the dead men a first visit, nobody wanted to leave the Namib’s jackals anything more to eat.
Behind him, he heard the rest of his battalion slowing to a halt. Hatches clanged open as the troops got out and talked in low tones.
At first, he wandered almost aimlessly, his body working automatically as his brain tried to plow though the confusion to devise a workable plan. The Sth Mechanized Infantry’s officers and men knew how serious a setback this was, and von Brandis had to provide them with firm, decisive leadership.
They’d depended on this convoy for fuel and ammunition and food. Without it, they had barely enough fuel to reach Walvis Bay. F-ach of the battalion’s armored car and infantry units carried almost a full load of ammunition, but ammo disappeared fast in battle. At least they had rations and water for a couple of days.
All right. The Cuban column was still reported moving toward Walvis Bay. Von Brandis had orders to return and defend the port. The equation seemed simple and straightforward. Scouting, contact, and one hell of a fight.
He glanced at the horizon, silently calculating distances and fuel consumption rates. Right. It could be done. With effort, the 5th Mechanized could get back to the port with just enough fuel and ammo for one last battle-a battle it would simply have to win. As von Brandis turned and walked back to the parked Ratel, he was already starting to feel tentative ideas and plans forming.
His officers had anticipated his calling an orders group and were already gathered in the shade of the vehicle. The group of tired and dirty soldiers looked at him expectantly.
Von Brandis drew a deep breath and strode up confidently. He had to infuse strength and purpose into these men.
“All right, gentlemen. We’re inconvenienced, but we’re not out of options.”
He waved a hand down the length of the stalled column.
“Move the logistics vehicles off the road into laager and drain their petrol tanks. Strip off everything of value as well. Spare antiaircraft machine guns, medical kits, tool kits. Everything. We don’t want to make some wandering black scavenger rich, do we?”
“That drew a quick, guttural laugh. Good. They still had some spirit left in them.
“And Jamie, just before we leave, broadcast a message over the HF set-in the clear. Tell Pretoria that we’re critically short of fuel and will laager here until another supply convoy can reach us.”
More smiles and slow, delighted nods.
Von Brandis showed his teeth.
“That’s right, gentlemen. Let’s let the bastard Cubans think they’ve trapped us.” He clasped both hands behind his back.
“We’ll show them just how wrong they were at Walvis Bay.”
Half an hour later, the much-diminished battalion road column moved on, driving west in a cloud of dust.
AUGUST 27-FORWARD HEADQUARTERS,
CUBAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE,
SWAKOPMUND, ON THE NAMIBIAN COAST
The Strand Hotel’s restaurant windows looked out on a deceptively peaceful vista-a wide expanse of sandy beach and endless, rolling, white-capped waves. Tables crowded with late-morning diners reinforced the momentary illusion that life in the tiny seaside town was still moving slowly along its placid, everyday track. Only the fact that all of those eating were men in Cuban Army uniforms shattered the illusion.
One man sat eating alone at a table with the best view. Polished stars clustered on his shoulder boards.
Gen. Antonio Vega had taken a calculated risk in flying to Swakopmund.
Two risks, actually, if one included the antiquated An-2 utility plane that had carried him on a low level engine-sputtering flight from
Windhoek to Swakopmund. The real risk, though, was leaving the central fight, the defense of the capital, to oversee the progress of this secondary attack . “
But just as a well-balanced machine can rotate on a single pivot, the battle for Windhoek would be won or lost out here, at the coast.
Though Swakopmund was technically Namibian territory, when the war started it had been swiftly occu
pied and garrisoned by a company of South
African Citizen Force reservists. Since then, they’d been content to hold in place and enjoy the light sea breezes while the rest of the SADF fought its way through Namibia’s harsh deserts and rugged mountains.
Their easy life had ended the day before when Colonel Pellervo’s armored personnel carriers and T-62 tanks appeared on the horizon-driving fast for the town and the Atlantic coast.
Vega smiled sardonically. According to the reports he’d seen, the
Afrikaner conscripts had fled Swakopmund without firing a shot. A sensible decision, he thought, eyeing one of the two long-gunned tanks left by Colonel Pellervo to protect the Cuban Army’s hold on the former
German colonial town.
After its bloodless victory, Pellervo’s 21st Motor Rifle
Battalion had spent the night resting and refitting for its push south against the operation’s primary objective-Walvis Bay. It was a pause Vega regretted but knew to be necessary. The two-hundred-icilometer road march from Karibib had left the battalion’s officers and men short of sleep, fresh food, and water. More importantly, it had pushed many of their vehicles to the edge of mechanical breakdown. Longdistance travel was always hard on tank treads and engines.
Fortunately, ten hours of rest and frantic repair in a campsite on the south side of Swakopmund had worked miracles on the motor rifle unit’s combat readiness. It had also given Pellervo a chance to secure the town fully. Under his martial law decrees, the black residents who’d welcomed the Cubans as liberators were free to go about their daily business. The surly, suspicious white descendants of Swakopmund’s German colonists weren’t so lucky. They’d been confined to their homes to prevent them from passing information about the Cuban battalion’s movements and strength to the South Africans still holding Walvis Bay. They’d also been warned that anyone caught outside could look forward to a short trial and a speedy execution amid the sand dunes surrounding the town.
Vega and his forward headquarters staff had arrived at dawn and immediately occupied the Strand Hotel, picked because it offered the best food and accommodations available in this small resort town. He was detached enough to appreciate the irony of a Cuban general eating a meal of bratwurst and sauerkraut while fighting a war in Africa.