by Andy Farman
Johar was asleep, wrapped in a filthy blanket and groundsheet at the bottom of the foxhole when Sgt Topl shook him awake.
“Standing patrols coming in Major…the Russians have arrived…infantry attack forming up to the front. I think they are going to try a sneak night attack, anytime now. I have informed the command post and the men.”
Johar rolled out of his ‘bed’; his feet squelched in the mud that was the floor of their foxhole’s shelter bay and took a swig of water from his canteen. All the equipment he wore came off dead men, from the helmet on his head to the boots on his feet. Sgt Topl was staring at him; Johar could feel the man’s eyes, so he put away the water and rolled up the blanket, putting it inside the fertiliser bag he had acquired. Sgt Topl’s pet hate was equipment left out when not in immediate use.
Once the blanket was strapped to the top of his pack next to his folding shovel and his groundsheet rolled up and likewise stowed away, they left their foxhole to crawl over the muddy ground, from hole to hole, checking everyone was now alert and their equipment packed away. For the past week, Sergeant Topl had, in private, treated his new officer as he would a recruit but without the cuffing and occasional kick that recently ex-civilians were awarded in the name of military education. Topl treated all recruits like un-house broken puppies, if they were bad they were scolded and had their noses rubbed in it, if they continued to offend his professional sensibilities, then it got painful.
Everyone was tired, everyone was hungry and many were carrying injuries from earlier combat, Johar now knew them all by name, even in the dark after the close contact of the last few days, he knew these men better than he did his own squadron mates. He gave encouragement where needed and left the advice to Sgt Topl, but he did tell them what he thought would be happening.
“It’s unusual for the Russians not to charge in with their tanks and APCs, I think they are going to try and rush us on foot so we probably will not see their artillery first, it would have happened already if they were going to do that.”
“Are they short of ammunition sir, is that why?” one had asked him.
“If the enemy are short on shells for their big guns then it is your birthday and Christmas come all at once, Rudik.”
It took less than ten minutes to do the rounds and then they headed back to the safety of their own hole, as they arrived they heard the creaking sound of the T-72’s turret being hand cranked around, and Johar used a field telephone to speak to the tank commander. They were short on night viewing aids; or rather they had run out of the batteries that ran them.
The T-72 did not have thermal sights, but its commander had Johar's own night scope, run directly off the tanks power supply in the absence of batteries. At the moment the tank’s engine silent, having been shut down just after last light, to save fuel and deny the enemy any thermal clue as to its location. Whenever the engine was shut down, the crew would carry buckets of water from the lake, and dump the contents over the tank, starting with the engine deck, in order to cool down the metal quicker. It was backbreaking work going back and forth, but it improved their chances of survival.
The T-72s Commander informed Johar that he was watching movement in a treeline 1200m away, through the night scope. The crew would lay-on by hand for the first shot, and then start up the engine, so as to remain hidden for as long as possible.
After a minute or so the tank reported infantry deploying out of the woods and heading towards them slowly. At night, slow equals quiet.
Once this had been reported, men were sent forward to un-stopper the barrels and remove them once empty. The stink of petrochemicals hung in the damp air as the men returned to their lines.
By the time the approaching Russian infantry were 800m out, the last of their number had just cleared the treeline. Three infantry battalions in total, three thousand men, were heading for the ground between the lakes held by two Belorussian Regiments that together numbered only nine hundred and eighty-two.
Johar handed the field telephone over to Sgt Topl, who already had the radio’s telephone handset to one ear.
The Belorussians in the tiny army quietly waited for the Russians to arrive, listening hard for any noise emitting from the darkness. Johar gripped his AK-74 and felt the fear in his gut. He had been in several fire fights over the past week but only used his weapon during the first, though he seriously doubted he had hit anything. It came as something of a relief when Sgt Topl had taken him to task over it.
“You are supposed to be the leader sir; while you are blasting away you are not watching what’s going on and not controlling the fight.”
Johar had watched Topl after that; he’d shout fire control orders to the men, not letting them all fire at the same target, thereby wasting ammunition. The sergeant did use ammunition though; he would fish out his own fresh magazines from ammunition pouches, tossing them over to anyone who was running short, before giving covering fire whilst they reloaded.
Before was different though, before they had had some place to withdraw to. When they received word that the Polish hierarchy had been annihilated it had been too late to disperse and fight on as guerrillas, Poles under new management and the Ukrainians were closing in. They were already dead men, they all knew it and all chose to go down fighting rather than go quietly into the night, with a bullet in the back of the neck.
They had expected the enemy to beat on them from the air, but the enemy had been oddly absent up there which was just as well, because three ZSU-23-4s constituted their entire dedicated air defence.
After what seemed like an age, the dug-in tanks fired almost in unison, white phosphorus rounds ignited the fuel with a roar. Only a few of the Russian infantry came to any direct harm from the flames, but it silhouetted several hundred against the fire. Para-illum was distinctly short on the inventory but for a relatively short time at least the Belorussians had achieved surprise, shock and a target rich environment. The Russian infantry were not green troops, the ‘rabbit-caught-in-the–headlights’ effect lasted only moments before the targets went to ground, even if they were still in view, they made themselves smaller targets whilst they crawled and rolled to better cover. Several dozen however, were caught by the Belorussians small arms fire before they could react or get down. The hull-down tanks and APCs started up their engines to provide power for the turrets and automatic loaders whilst the infantry did their best to kill as many of the Russians on this side of the flames as they could. They ganged up on the figures of those not yet in cover as they hugged the muddy earth; bullets kicked up the ground around them as they crawled desperately, until the rounds struck home. The figures jerked as they were hit, and then the defenders moved on to another, until that too was hit.
Mortar and artillery fire brought an end to the Belorussian monopoly on the killing, screaming in on the defender’s positions and forcing the Belarus to seek the safe climes at the bottom of their holes. The attacking infantry’s commanders on the ground could see nothing beyond the flames; they were however receiving frantic calls for support from their men on the wrong side of the ditches.
The battle in Belarus was a side-line in the Soviet scheme of things, unfinished business but not one of the highest priorities. The Ukrainian, Polish and Russian forces lacked the air and artillery resources that were available to their forces in Germany, but they kept up their heavy barrage until the flames in the ditches were no longer a barrier, before reducing their rate of fire slightly.
Johar and his sergeant huddled in the mud with the best of them, breathing through their mouths as protection against the ruptured lungs that could accompany near misses by large calibre shells, or fuel air munitions.
Counter-battery fire and direct fire support was at present absent from the Belorussian side, more through limited ammunition than any cunning plan.
Sgt Topl was listening for the sound of the incoming to change slightly, as it shifted to their rear. Right now he knew that the infantry were moving up under the cover of the barrag
e, close enough that they themselves would be starting to take casualties if their discipline were good. As soon as the shellfire moved to the rear areas, isolating the front line from reinforcements the Russian infantry would be hustling forwards as fast as possible to get in amongst the Belorussians before they recovered.
Topl already had an entrenching tool at hand to be used as a weapon, he now tugged his bayonet from its scabbard and kicked the major, who opened his previously clenched eyes and saw what Topl was holding and fixed bayonets himself. The platoon would already have done so, those who had not been killed already by the shelling.
The moment Topl heard the sound of the incoming rounds change, he was on his feet, and bent over so as not to stick his head above ground until the last enemy shell had impacted on their positions. Johar pulled himself up and found he was shaking all over, the terror of the bombardment robbing his limbs of strength. His hands shook as he gripped the assault rifle and he looked guiltily at the sergeant, in shame at showing his fear. Topl was staring at him, his face devoid of expression, and then held his own hand in front of Johar’s face, it shook just as badly as his own and Topl suddenly grinned for the first time since Johar had known him. It was so unexpected that Johar began to laugh and after a moment Topl joined him. The rain fell on them from the heavens, high explosive screamed overhead and they were outnumbered by three to one, but for now they crouched in a muddy hole and laughed.
Inside the treeline of a copse outside the village of Zditovo, in the centre of the Belarus position, a detachment of just four soldiers, all carrying injuries guarded the Belarus command post. Every able bodied man, and many who weren’t, were in the fighting positions. A barn had been taken over to house the command staff of the loyal Belorussian forces; rain drummed off its corrugated tin roof and slicked its rough stone walls.
Within the barn the commander of all loyal Belorussian forces studied the large map on the wall of the barn they had taken over. The Russians had tried to take them by surprise with dismounted infantry and failed, now the question was, what contingency plan did they have for such a failure?
His answer came a few minutes later when a heavy barrage began on the southwest side of the defensive position in addition to that on the northeast.
Either the Russian attack had become a diversion or the Ukrainians were about to launch the real deal, or vice versa. However he was wrong, the Russian commander had tired of the losses inflicted by the Belarus since the start of the war, and was going to end this matter as quickly as possible so they could join the units fighting in Germany. He lacked the artillery to pound on all three sides of the Belarus position at once, so he would shift fire to the northwest defence line once the lead Ukrainian MRR was a minute away from the south western line. Meanwhile he wanted to alternate his fire between the enemy trenches and counter-battery fire.
From out of the woods opposite the Belarus north eastern and south western defence lines, undergrowth and saplings were crushed beneath the wheels and treads of the two MRRs that were moving into the assault.
Small arms fire brought the laughter to a halt and both men brought their AKs up, peering over open sights into the dark but they could see only muzzle flashes by the forward foxholes, not who was firing.
Johar grabbed for the radio handset to call for illumination, but someone beat him to it. A ‘thunk’ to the rear announced a mortar firing a para-illum round and three seconds later a magnesium flare was suspended beneath a small parachute overhead, producing 300,000 candle power of light.
The sight that greeted them was a mass of enemy infantry, stretching back into the night; they were everywhere!
The nearest Russian infantry were almost on top of their foxholes, several were preparing to grenade the men’s holes whilst others put down heavy fire.
The sight angered Johar to the extent that all fear left him, and with a scream of hatred he aimed at the nearest group and began firing long bursts into them. The fire fight between the entrenched Belarus and the more numerous but exposed Russians rapidly grew in crescendo and ferocity. Sgt Topl stopped his own firing long enough to reach across to slap Johar’s helmet hard.
Fire missions major…fire missions!” As soon as Johar dropped down below the parapet to use the radio, Topl resumed firing.
It was the first time Topl had allowed him to call in a fire mission, granted though…it was easy just looking at the range card and quoting the code word for the pre-planned mission, rather than working out grid references from a map.
Mortars fired the closest missions and artillery took those further away, and just before the first rounds landed Johar saw the call-light flashing on the field telephone. Crouching low with free hand covering his ear he listened to the tank commander warn him of enemy T-80s and APCs 1200m away.
It meant that the artillery would in a few seconds abort their present fire missions and shift their fire to the approaching armour.
With friendly fire air-bursting 20’ above the ground, the furthest Russian infantry were taking casualties before they got to within small arms range of the Belorussians. Had this continued then the Belarus infantry could probably have managed to hold their own, but once the artillery shifted a seemingly endless mass closed in on them.
The defenders had cleared the area in front of their positions, dead and wounded Russian infantry lay all about, and then the light faded. There was a delay until the mortars put up another para-illum round after the first one died out, but in the time it took for the next flare to ignite more Russians rushed forward, taking advantage of the darkness.
Three grenades went off in rapid succession, one landing short of the platoon’s left hand trench but two landing inside it. Rudik, an eighteen-year-old from the suburbs of Minsk, the young man who had asked Johar about enemy artillery, lay outside the protection of the trench, blown there by the double grenade blasts. Rudik was screaming in a high pitch, both left limbs blown off and blood fountaining from severed arteries, of the other soldier who had shared the foxhole there was no sign.
Despite the open target, no fire from the Russians came near the maimed soldier but Sgt Topl heard jeers and laughter from the darkness.
The new flare burst to life above them and Topl took careful aim before firing a single shot, the young soldier’s screams immediately ceased and Topl adjusted his aim, going for all those Russians within range to have thrown the grenades.
Johar had been firing in short bursts; his weapon clicked on an empty chamber and he quickly changed mags. The Russians then grenaded another of his men's trenches, reducing opposing fire by another two weapons.
We’re getting ground up here and we need help, thought Johar as he called up the regimental CP on the radio with a sitrep and request for assistance.
The situation seemed about the same in the neighbouring platoons, the Russians had another two waiting in the wings to replace every man the Belarus hit, but for every Belarus killed it was one less weapon with which to stem the tide.
There was a pause in the Russian shellfire landing behind the Belarus front line as the Russians adjusted their fire with co-ordinates now supplied by the counter-battery radar crews who had backtracked the defenders fall of shot, to the artillery gun lines. Bad news for the gunners, but good news for Johar and the rest of the defenders on that side of the triangle as APCs from the reserve approached unhindered over freshly shelled ground and deployed their infantry loads. The fresh infantry added their fire to the line but it was the hellish roar and continuous streams of fire from two of the ZSUs that had accompanied them which was most telling. Employing their quad cannon in an anti-infantry role, the four streams of cannon shells looked like laser beams as they hosed the ground in front of the positions before moving on to targets further out. The effect on the Russian infantry was terrible to behold, men hit by the 23mm cannon shells disintegrated in football sized lumps, pieces of torso and amputated limbs spun off into the night. The Russian infantry tried going to ground, but folds of earth th
at could stop a bullet had no effect on cannon shells designed to punch through armour plate. The enemy infantry broke.
As the second flare dimmed and then went out, officers and NCOs shouted
“Cease fire!” at enthusiastic but inexperienced men who wasted rounds on the disappearing Russians.
The gunfire faded out everywhere, even from the artillery at the rear as it moved location. All that could be heard were the sounds of engines, from the rear and from the front as Johar and Topl scrambled out of their foxhole to check the men. They took ammunition boxes with them, replenishing depleted stocks as they went about it. Topl also sent one man from each foxhole out into the dark to strip the enemy dead of ammunition, grenades and any rations they may have. All along the line the other units did likewise, the occasional scream could be heard as they came across wounded men, who were treated to the same degree of mercy as the enemy had shown them, a bayonet or a rifle butt.
With a freight train sound in their passing, the Russian artillery rounds ended the temporary lull, impacting where just a short time ago the Belarus guns had stood. Johar and Topl looked over their shoulders at the flashes of impacting rounds before hurrying on. They had just finished handing out ammunition and counting heads when they heard automatic fire from the front. It wasn’t aimed at them and ricocheting tracers span into the air after striking the ground, indicating the intended targets were several hundred metres away.
“KGB troops!” Topl informed the officer. “You get shot for running away in the Red Army!” He laughed at the look on the pilot’s face. “We used to do the same in this army, when it too was part of the Red Army…come on, they won’t shoot them all, just enough to make an example. Let’s get back in our hole before the rest learn the error of their ways!”