ARMAGEDDON'S SONG (Volume 3) 'Fight Through'

by FARMAN, ANDY

  Timothy nodded his agreement and Pat indicated the little spur of ridge they were on.

  “Whatever happens, you have to hold here…no more withdrawal beyond here or they will roll up 4 Company from the flank. I am going to pull a couple of men from each section in 1 and 2 Company and form a quick reaction force in Warriors. Jim Popham will command it and I will have him work his way into the trees next to the perimeter with the Argyll’s, so shout when you are being most closely pressed and he will hit them in their flank, hopefully breaking their attack.” The location in question was on the same contour as the CP and the flattish ground that connected the two places should make for a quick passage along the side of the hill by the vehicles.

  There was just enough light for Pat to see his former adjutant grin.

  “Don’t worry sir, we’ll play the anvil to Jim’s hammer and kick the bastards back down the hill.” With that he hurried down the slope to speak with his platoon commanders before the next enemy formation arrived, pausing only to give a cheerful wave before disappearing into the shadows.

  Pat did not know it, but it was the last time he would ever see Timothy alive.

  To the rear of Vormundberg, the 8 and 16 tonne Bedford’s of the Hussar’s logistical support packed up and left the copse, moving forward to the reverse slopes on the orders of Major Venables. In the past two hours the Hussar’s squadron had lost a third of their number which made the time spent reloading, and therefore out of action, a critical factor in the defence.

  Mark did not know what had happened to the Soviet artillery, he was just glad that it had, because he could now risk moving the pallet loads of main gun rounds into what had previously been one of the enemy gunners main target areas.

  On arriving back on the forward slopes he had immediately amalgamated the remnants of No.2 and 3 Troop before sending One Three Bravo to reload.

  There was no shortage of prepared firing positions but he preferred to stay as close as possible to the battalions centre, and so chose to sit behind cover and wait for the Romanian 93rd Tank Regiment to come within range. He sat on top of the turret where he could look across the valley, and he tried to ignore the stink of burnt rubber from the charred hulk of One Two Charlie, which sat off to his right with flames still feeding upon it.

  Colonel Lužar had received radio orders to disengage all but two companies from the intermittent, yet ordnance-consuming contacts that had begun in the late afternoon. He was to turn around the greater part of his command, prepare to advance to contact back towards the bridgehead, and he had to have it done within an hour. It seemed unreal at first and he had felt the need to ask for clarification not once, but twice.

  He had naturally requested an RV with his First Battalion in order to reunite his regiment, along with yet another request for fuel. The first request was rejected out of hand but the second was granted, so he asked for an ammunition replen too, and that was also granted.

  He worried for the men he had to leave behind but as night had fallen and the regiment moved out he was consoled with the thought that he had done what he could. He had deliberately selected one of the best company’s in the regiment for the least defensible area of the perimeter and had replaced the commander of the second company with his steadiest company commander. It was rough on the replaced man but Lužar wasn’t running for the title of ‘Most Popular’.

  The location given for their rendezvous with the fuel and ammunition trucks was a firebreak in a forestry block, which happened to be half a kilometre from the regiment’s current gun line. The commander of the regiment’s battery of Akatsia 152mm howitzers was there to meet the regimental commanders’ call sign when it arrived. Lužar clambered down to greet the officer but it had quickly become clear that it was not a social call. They strolled to a place out of earshot of the rest of the troops and his officer then gave the real reason for his presence.

  “Colonel, my guns are down to their last forty rounds per barrel and the fuel situation has become worrisome. I wouldn’t mind if I could get a straight answer from the logisticians as to what the problem is, but I either get bullshit or told it is none of my concern.” It was too dark to see his officer’s face but from his tone Colonel Lužar assumed that he had been having a frustrating time of it.

  “How the hell can they say it is none of my concern? I’m telling you sir if I had the rounds to spare I’d lob a few in their direction!”

  The shortage of both fuel and ammunition for the battery was a serious issue, as they were the primary source of artillery fire support for not just the battalion and a half that he had now, but also for the two companies attempting to cover a regimental sized frontage back on the perimeter.

  Something serious had gone awry, he was certain of that now, but what he could not do was confide his opinions to his officers and men.

  The colonel was able only to promise that he would speak with the commander of the supply unit that was serving them, and try to extract a few gallons for the battery’s self-propelled guns and he took his leaving of the artilleryman. It occurred to him that these supply troops may well have information for him too, that they could indeed know the whereabouts of First Battalion. They may be on detached duty but they were still his men and he could at least find where they were operating, and perhaps even the radio frequencies they were using in order to listen into their fortunes.

  At the supply unit commander’s vehicle he found the officer constrained by the presence of a colonel of field police who was there to thwart the unauthorised issue of fuel, ammunition or the answers Lužar wanted, but his driver had been more forthcoming. They had fuelled First Battalion after its detachment from the rest of the regiment and the battalion was supposed to have RV’d with them again two hours before, but had never shown up.

  The driver confirmed that they had tried and failed to make radio contact and he supplied the frequencies to Colonel Lužar who’d uttered his thanks and left.

  His own driver and his gunner were sat on top of the turret looking grim, and as he climbed up to join them he found out why.

  “You two look like you are about to open a vein each…what is it now?”

  The enlisted men exchanged glances and then his driver spoke

  “Fuel sir…”

  “Ammunition sir.” his gunner interrupted, pausing only to shrug an apology to his crewmate.

  “We haven’t used that much in the way of main gun rounds but others have, and they didn’t get full racks from the replen sir, just four rounds each.”

  Keeping his features neutral Lužar gestured to his driver to speak, although he knew he wouldn’t like what he was about to be told.

  “The fuel trucks aren’t topping anyone’s tanks off sir, they didn’t fill us up they’re just ensuring we have three quarters of a tank each. It’s like the bastards are paying for the stuff out of their own pockets.”

  It was worse than he’d thought if they hadn’t the wherewithal to fully replenish the force they were counting on to put right the wrongs. It had to be the logistics, he reasoned, somehow NATO had compromised the supply lines.

  It took time for the ammunition and fuel trucks to visit every remaining vehicle in the regiment. In daylight it was a time consuming business, but at night under tactical conditions of absolutely no naked light to assist the process it was a drawn out process. Eventually of course the replenishment was completed and they moved out of the woods and into open countryside.

  According to Colonel Lužar’s reckoning they had eighteen miles to cover before reaching the bridgehead, and a tank could drink a lot of fuel covering that distance, so it came as something of a surprise to his battalion and company commanders when he did not choose to rely on a flank guard and forward screen to provide security for the bulk of the regiment so it could use the more fuel economical roads.

  43rd MRR moved off the road and into arrowhead formation behind a screen of reconnaissance vehicles and before long everyone from Lieutenant Colonels to lowly private s
oldiers had caught on to their regimental commanders’ mood. They moved in expectation of making contact with the enemy at any time, be it in the shape of a meeting engagement or a prepared defence.

  The first indication of what they were up against came half an hour later, the recce screen called up with a sitrep and a map reference that Lužar ordered his driver to make for.

  The dark shapes on fire damaged tarmac were all that remained of a convoy of over forty vehicles and Lužar dismounted in order to better investigate. There were no signs of the myriad cratering that would have accompanied an attack using cluster bomb units; a force had ambushed these vehicles on the ground he concluded.

  He returned to his vehicle and they continued onwards until coming upon another convoy to have fallen to direct fire from the ground. The vehicles were all burnt out, carrying the scars of bullet and shell but not of the artillery or aerial variety. Shell craters were few. It was the first of many such scenes. More convoys, artillery gun lines, logistics dumps and AAA sites had also fallen victim and the 43rd MRR passed them all.

  At ten miles back from the bridgehead they found the first signs of enemy casualties, a burnt out Leopard tank stood at the edge of a turnip field whilst extending away from it into the distance were its killers. They were also dead, killed by the Canadians heavier main gun that would have sent projectiles through their light armour with ease.

  Weight of numbers had given the Soviet’s a costly victory; accounting for that Leopard, one other and also a trio of TOW equipped vehicles.

  It was difficult for Colonel Lužar to describe the emotions he was feeling as he regarded the corpses of BTRs, their crews, and the light tanks that were so easily recognisable due to their flat-topped turrets.

  43rd Motor Rifle Regiment had found its missing battalion.

  Regimental reconnaissance elements had crossed through the field several minutes before Colonel Lužar and his command group arrived. The armoured recce vehicles leapfrogged forward, moving quickly and efficiently to the next piece of cover, to await the command to resume the advance.

  In perfect cover, the Canadian’s of the 2nd Mechanised Brigade watched the specialist reconnaissance BTRs cautious movements, and in particular they noted where they disappeared into cover upon crossing the turnip field.

  Several minutes went by without further movement. Five minutes became twenty.

  “Hello Six Nine, this is Nine, radio check, over?”

  2Lt Ferguson was peering down a Swiftscope, a scope previously sited by his platoon sergeant who had ensured the lens was in deep shadow before he had allowed the officer to use it.

  The call was repeated twice before a slightly testy note appeared in the voice.

  “Hello Six Nine, this is Nine, radio check, over?”

  A lance corporal nudged the young officer.

  “That means you, sir!” he hissed.

  “Er, Six Nine okay thanks…over.” 2Lt Ferguson saw the NCO shake his head in disbelief, and he cringed inwardly at having screwed up basic voice procedure, and to the commanding officer, of all people.

  There was a pause at the other end as the CO wished down a plague of boils upon all ‘subbies’.

  “Nine okay, sitrep over?”

  “Six Nine, no movement, no movement at all, over…oh hang on, I can see someone.”

  A single figure had appeared, striding across the field. He was wearing camouflage clothing just as soiled and muddy as the concealed Canadians wore, but his steel helmet and uniform was that of the enemy.

  Young Ferguson could see him in quite sharp detail through the scope. He walked unconcernedly, empty handed, apparently unarmed, and also in need of a shave and a few square meals.

  Six hundred metres distant from Ferguson, the enemy soldier stopped walking but did not take cover; he instead extracted cigarettes from a breast pocket and lit up, staring across at the woodland where the hidden Canadians waited.

  With his attention on the lone soldier, Lt Ferguson all but missed the objects flying outwards from the same cover the BTRs had moved into. Smoke belched out, creating a dense screen that hid the enemy vehicles and the lone soldier. The Canadians heard the sound of the eight wheelers reversing.

  A breeze carried away the smoke to reveal the enemy soldier once more, and behind him could be glimpsed one of the BTRs, still backing away.

  Colonel Lužar finished his cigarette and sent it spinning away with a flick of a finger. He unzipped his smock, pulling out a soft, cloth, uniform cap bearing his regiments badge proudly, at which point he removed his helmet.

  Ferguson watched the hatless soldier regard it for a moment, and then to his surprise toss it casually aside.

  Pulling the old uniform cap into place, Leo Lužar turned his back on an enemy he knew was out there somewhere, and walked back the way he had come.

  Arkansas Valley, Nebraska, USA.

  Henry Shaw had become the sounding board for a fair percentage of those in the situation room, as the battle for Germany developed. He maintained a poker face as events across the Atlantic were depicted on the big screen, yet still there were those who would look from the screen to his face to try and divine from his expression how good or bad things were going. Surely they couldn’t have thought everything was rosy, when air raids got through and dropped two of the main road bridges across the Rhine and the Weser that 4 Corps was reliant upon to get to the front?

  It wasn’t all bad news; the data stream from JSTARS was showing a comprehensively beaten Romanian battalion backing away from the British 2nd Battalion Light Infantry, thanks to damn good liaison and teamwork between all the Arms involved, not just that battalion of infantry.

  Initially the artillery, tanks, and the attached Lynx and Apache helicopters had allowed the Romanians of the 112th Motor Rifle Regiments tank battalion to cross the valley floor unhindered by themselves, whilst the battered but still defiant parachute companies of the French 2REP, who were dug in to the front of the Brits, had held the enemy’s attention. 112th MRR thought they were about to bulldozer the thin line of legionnaires that had been stinging them ever since they had crossed the crest of the east side of the valley. However, at 2000m the British had unleashed a textbook perfect TOT, with every weapon they possessed which had the range. The Romanians ran into a wall of fire from Milan, Hellfire, TOW, 120mm sabot and 155mm improved munitions.

  The Legions parachute companies had successfully withdrawn through the Light Infantry and sixty percent of 112th’s tank company had been destroyed, the remainder were fleeing and had become entangled with the battalion following on, spoiling the momentum of that units attack and providing the defenders with a target rich environment of armoured fighting vehicles milling about in confusion.

  Further east the Canadian and French brigades had done well too, despite some of the critical comments coming from armchair warriors in this very room.

  It was perfectly true that looking at the information currently available they could indeed have ranged further west towards the front and destroyed more artillery lines, fuel and ammunition dumps. However, the commanders of those two units did not have the benefit of digitally enhanced hindsight that their critics enjoyed. The commanders on the ground had to take a decision on how far their raiding parties could stretch their luck, before they ran into an armoured force and not just middle aged reservists doling out rations and rounds.

  Henry’s job today, when he wasn’t answering questions from the President, was not to look concerned.

  “General Shaw?”

  Henry turned from the board and saw that the President was stood away from the main knot of onlookers and had a coffee mug in both hands. There was presently no sign of his physician.

  He apparently wanted a word, and in comparative privacy too.

  “Mr President?”

  “It’s looking better, don’t you think?…I mean those divisions are totally cut off, boxed in on two sides and 4 Corps was been slowed but not stopped?”

  “They can st
ill win, sir.”

  The President was silent and in thought for a long moment, but he made no attempt to offer the spare mug to Henry.

  “By this time tomorrow sir our airborne operation will have begun to degenerate into guerrilla warfare as the paratroops run short of ammunition and anti-tank weapons in particular.”

  The President winced and Henry was unsure whether it was his words as much as the heat of the coffee mugs burning the President’s hand. He relieved the President of one mug and smiled when he saw the printing and logo on the side. However, after taking a sip he continued.

  “The French and Canadians at the river have only a small ammunition and fuel reserve. The Soviet’s won’t have to get creative when they attack them either, there will be no elaborate pincer moves to pin them in place because there is no need, the Elbe is doing that for them anyway. So you see Mr President, it all comes down to Vormundberg and how long they can hold because the centre of that line is creaking under the strain.”

  The President looked at the plasma screen and the unit symbols where Henry had described.

  The President raised his mug in salute; his was a high quality piece of pottery with the crest of the 82nd Airborne upon it.

  Henry raised his own mug and clinked it against his commander-in-chiefs, but not too hard because his own was cracked and chipped, a cheap tourist souvenir that someone had probably bought on holiday in London. Henry drank from it proudly though, and looked again at the cheesy depiction on the side, of a soldier in a red tunic and wearing a bearskin complete with red plume.

  London.

  An energy saving journey, at sometimes painfully slow speeds, had turned a not unpleasant one hour and ten minute train ride from Colchester to London’s Liverpool Street into one of purgatory, at three and a half hours duration.