by Andy Farman
The big Ilyushin transport lurched to the side and Nikoli cursed as the cable dug into his hand. Around him men lost their footing, and or, their hold on the cables and slid across the cargo deck. His first thought was that it was turbulence, but the aircraft kept up its hard left bank for a few seconds and then the nose went up and the course was reversed. Bracing himself with a foot against the side of the hold. The view gave him a good view out of the tiny port, and of the tracer flashing past horizontally, it wasn’t turbulence that was the cause of the bumpy ride, somewhere behind a fighter was trying to put rounds into them.
The transport continued to try for the safety of the clouds, as did the rest of the formation when German Tornados and Alfa jets jumped it. The Tornados mixed it with the transports escorts and the Alfas hunted the escorts charges. The Alfas were ground attack aircraft, their hard-points bare of ordnance having dropped it on targets over the Elbe they had only cannon with which to engage the big four engine transports.
Men screamed as eventually the rounds pierced the airframe, 27mm cannon shells entered through the thin aluminium, tore through men and equipment before passing out the other side. Stinging, acrid fumes from an electrical fire began to fill the hold and the red light came on as the aircraft’s nose dropped well below the horizontal, lifted momentarily and then dropped once more, but at a gentler angle. The dispatchers hauled open the side doors, screaming and gesturing at the men to get out. A flickering orange light illuminated the interior of the hold through the starboard ports, flames from the right inner engine streamed out into the aeroplane’s wake.
Nikoli’s left hand supported his equipment bag, which rested on his left foot and he heaved it forwards with each step, coughing and choking with the smoke, that was now diluted by the gale coming through the open jump doors, but still smarted.
Despite the roar of the air he heard the rapid drumming sound of cannon shells striking the aeroplane once more, flinching as something passed by his head and he was blinded by warm blood, jetting into his face from the man in front. Someone behind was pushing at him frantically, but Nikoli could see nothing until he’d released his grip on the bag to wipe his eyes with his sleeve. There had been three men in front of him, now there were just a torn body parts.
The port side dispatcher came toward him, a knife in his hand as he cut through the dead men’s static lines, without his doing that then none of the heavily burdened paratroopers could have hoped to get past. Nikoli nearly fell, slipping in blood and entrails as he reached the door, the dive had steepened so he deliberately looked up as he stepped through the door, if they were only 50 feet up, he’d prefer not knowing.
The slipstream spun him about but he concentrated on counting,
“One thousand, two thousand, three thousand…” he was hauled roughly into the upright. “…check canopy!” Looking up he could see a nice round shape of canopy, but his lines were wrapped around themselves so he began kicking and twisting until they unravelled. A body fell past him, he caught a glimpse of a horrified face, its mouth open wide in a scream but no sound coming forth, its owner reaching out towards him as he fell past, as if Nikoli could extend his arms the twenty feet that separated them and save him. A moment later the doomed paratroopers canopy fell past, the roar of flames from the burning fabric filled the air momentarily as it trailed behind like a beacon as its owner fell to earth.
All those who made it out of the stricken transports starboard door met similar fates, the static line pulling their parachute canopies out and into the flames from the burning engine.
Nikoli watched the Il-76 hit the ground and explode, the last half dozen paratroopers out of the doors ploughed into the ground before their canopies had deployed, and a line of small fires leading off along the way they had come marked were those who had come out of the starboard jump door had landed.
Unclipping his equipment bag, he let it fall, to be arrested by the webbing strap attached to his harness, to land with it still clipped to him would have meant leg and possibly spinal fractures.
Pulling down on his right riser he spilled some air from the left of the canopy, turning into wind so the breeze was on the right front of his face. There was a mild 10 knot wind blowing so as he drifted backwards he set for his landing, feet together and angled to the left, knees together and bent slightly, head tucked in with his forearms and elbows protecting his head and face.
In the darkness there was no ground-rush, the seemingly rapid acceleration towards terra-firma, Nikoli heard his equipment bag strike the ground and the pressure on his harness lessened, then his feet struck and he rolled, first hips and shoulders, and then his feet came over the top and he was still. Without getting to his feet he immediately struggled from the harness that was dragged away for a short distance by the still partly inflated canopy. No rounds were in-coming, but he was in a field over two hundred yards from cover and he wasn’t inclined to give some farmer with a shotgun a target of opportunity. The snow was settling, snow in April? the world truly had gone crazy, but he crawled over and collected his equipment bag, dragging it with him to cover in a thicket.
Aside from being behind the lines, he had no real idea as to where he was exactly until he took out his GPS and maps. Wuitterlingen, a small hamlet, was to the west of him, so he was nearly seven miles from the planned drop zone. He carried a radio beacon in his bag for the troops to rally on, which he took out and checked before setting it aside. Each trooper could home in on his own platoons beacon, or if there were no signal coming from that they could change the settings and rally on the nearest one. The company commander carried another beacon, but he had been on the starboard side of the aircraft.
Nikoli supposed that it now meant he was the company commander, but as he reckoned that no more than about twenty men had got out through the portside jump door, and all the heavy weapon section had been at the back, he had less than a platoon of riflemen.
Once he had pulled on his pack and radio, Nikoli set the timer on the rally beacon and moved off a hundred metres to a position that gave more than mere cover from view. Should NATO detect the radio beacons emissions, then they would employ anything from a patrol to an airstrike to eliminate it, so he got out his entrenching tool and began deepening a depression he found.
Over the past hour the BTR-80s and TP-76 tanks of the 2nd, 18th, 43rd MRRs and 4th Tank Regiment which formed the Hungarian Rzeszów Motor Rifle Division, had moved up to the edge of the dead ground a little over half a mile from the river. Behind these units the combat engineering and bridging units positioned themselves, unaware that they and two other divisions were merely tying up NATOs best units, the battle tested ones. They were expected to press home their attack but not expected to succeed, in fact artillery and air assets were already being diverted to assist at the two real efforts.
Once all the units were in place, artillery began dropping smoke, the signal for the tanks and APCs to begin rolling forward, it was also the signal for those left on the ‘island’ to bug-out. Bill wasn’t going to waste time finding out if any of the telephone landlines were still intact, he sent a code word on the radio and then switched it off.
Stef had shut down the NIAD and packed it away once its squawking had been proven to be genuine, the sensitive piece of equipment was prone to false alarms. Both soldiers carried ‘Arctic Whites’ in their Bergen’s, a thin over-jacket and trousers made of white parachute material, though neither man expected to be wearing the items quite so soon in the year. These were donned over their ‘Noddy suits’ now, and spare white cotton ‘inner gloves’, a size too large for normal use were pulled over the black rubber Noddy suits outer pair. The bulky ghillie suits had been removed and placed in heavy duty bin bags, along with a couple of pounds of fullers earth to absorb any chemical agents that may have adhered. They were now inside sandbags, strapped to the tops of the Bergens.
Visibility had been degraded by the snowstorm to the point that only the snipers thermal sight was of any use, and thi
s had its protective lens caps placed on as they moved out. No rockets or shells had landed on the ‘island’ for over an hour, and the snow had settled on the churned earth and shell craters. Had they not been wearing their protective clothing they would have heard the snow crunching crisply underfoot, as they made their way towards the canal. Other figures appeared from shelter bays and hides, one pair of snipers was missing, as were four of the radio operators, the absent men were either sealed in by near misses or dead from direct hits. They didn’t have the time to discover which was which, and pressed on towards the Mitterland Kanal.
There were four boats awaiting them, two others were gone, sunk at their moorings by the shellfire, so they left one boat for anyone who managed to dig themselves out. The soviet artillery began dropping HE on the ‘island’ once more, turning their attentions away from the ground beyond the canal for a while.
Royal Artillery Phoenix drones were keeping tabs on the approaching amphibious Hungarian AFVs, and switched half of their tubes from counter battery missions, to hammer the oncoming armour.
Venables Challengers and Chieftains were moving into their forward fighting positions as the radio operators and snipers were slipping into their new positions, back in the relative safety of the battalion lines.
Big Stef paused at the entrance to their new hide, and looked around at the evidence of shelling. Bill trudged up and stopped, glancing about trying to see what had caught the other man’s attention.
“Bad, but not as bad as the last time.” Bill heard the words and shivered, the artillery had been the scariest thing that had ever happened to him.
Across the river, Colonel Leo Lužar listened with satisfaction on his command net as the OPs on the riverbank reported little movement on the island between the Elbe and the Mitterland Kanal. His orders were to secure both banks with his amphibious force in order that the engineers first put ribbon bridges across to carry heavier armour, and then place bridging sections between the autobahn bridge uprights, that were still standing. The lack of substantial air support was troubling him, as was the withdrawal of artillery and the Russian Division from the available follow-on forces. It stood to reason that the autobahn was a vital route to the English Channel, so why wasn’t this effort getting all available resources?
His biggest fear was the NATO multi launch rocket system, but he had been assured that what air assets they had were across the river hunting artillery and the deadly MLRS launchers.
He had two battalions of PT-76 tanks and BTR-80 APCs in company ranks, one either side of the bridge, four waves to first take the ground between the river and the canal. The next phase was in the hands of the gunners in the rear; the concrete sides of the canal were an effective barrier against vehicles getting into and out of the water. Engineers would use demolition charges to complete the creation of ramps down into the canal, working under the cover of his armour and infantry.
His tank was being rocked by near misses from the enemy artillery, and steel splinters scarred its sides as he looked through the side and rear viewing blocks to see how his force was faring. Here and there he could see black oily smoke and flames from knocked out vehicles, whilst other vehicles were stopped having had tracks knocked off. There was something else that struck him though, the lack of smoke covering them from more accurate artillery spotting. The wind had shifted and the smoke rounds were discharging their cover uselessly, the artillery spotters had not adjusted fire to compensate and he barked some harsh words into the radio on the support net.
One of his lead companies commanders called up that they had reached the riverbank and Lužar ordered the artillery to commence pounding the canals sides with the heavy artillery.
Back in the NATO lines, the NCOs from the 82nd and Guards were getting their blokes sorted out, adjusting arcs of fire to compensate for trenches that had been obliterated by the artillery. Casualty reports went from sections to platoon, to company and then to the battalion CP. Over in the platoon that had been infiltrated, two foxholes failed to respond satisfactorily to hails and were grenaded, and then stormed. The battalion lines were again secure, areas of responsibility and personnel were moved around to plug or cover the gaps.
Pat Reed was so far pleased, that in pulling back off the ‘island’ he had been proved correct and saved his unit from destruction, an added bonus was that the enemy had wasted the bulk of its artillery missions on empty real estate. His insistence, along with other commanders, that counter battery fire be employed from the very first had also paid off.
The preliminaries were over, they were about to come to grips with the enemy and the battalion was in good shape this time to stand its ground. He had just finished talking to the company; squadron and battery Commanders on field phone conference call when a sheet of message pad was put in front of him. When at full NBC state, everyone looks the same apart from being tall, short, big or slim. Yellow crayon on strips of tape on the chest and the front of the Noddy suit hood identified the individual in the CP, though less garish colours were used up top. The FAC, forward air controller, brought the news that their air support, including helicopters, had been removed due to enemy airborne drops to the north and south.
London
A telephone call at four forty in the morning had started Janet Probert from her sleep. She had not been instantly alert, no one who has been so rudely awoken ever is. It had taken several moments for understanding to take hold and once it had she’d hesitated, frozen by fear having looked first to the clock. People do not send good tidings at such an hour.
Having steeled herself for the worst she had snatched the receiver from its cradle and found the caller was Annabelle Reed, the COs wife. Annabelle had set up a group to take care of welfare issues amongst the battalions dependants soon after Lt Col Reed’s assuming command. Driving down from their home in the Yorkshire Dales to do the rounds of the married pads with June Stone, the battalion RSMs wife, and call a meeting of the wives.
An elderly, former RSM with 2CG, Captain Deacon, was the married families officer and it fell to him and whichever padre that London District sent over, to break the news.
Mrs Reed had set up a system whereby the wives committee would have someone present too.
The regiment’s losses in the opening battle on the heights above the Wesernitz had staggered the tight knit battalion ‘family’. The previous Commanding Officers wife, Genevieve Hupperd-Lowe, was a gentle and rather frail lady by nature and her husband’s death in the fighting had completely devastated her. June Stone had stepped in to organise the support for the families of the wounded, missing and those confirmed as killed in action. There was a disproportionately high number of MIA from that first battle and some of the crueller tabloids had picked up on the figures, hinting at a panicked rout. The papers had been just as insinuating after the second battle, at Leipzig airport, with regard to the low number of prisoners taken by the battalion as it, along with the rest of 3 (UK) Mechanised Brigade, had hammered through the soviet airborne lines to the objective. It had all added to the distress of the families.
Janet and Sarah Osgood had been at the inaugural meeting and had volunteered for the on-call rota, visiting nearby families and those in married quarters whose husbands had just become casualties. The call that morning had been to warn Janet that the battalion was in action once more and as such she, June and Sarah could be called upon later when casualty notifications began to come through from Germany. Being ‘called on’ really meant comforting some distraught wife who had just been informed she was widowed, or that their husband was wounded. She did not know how Annabelle had come by the information, it was hardly public domain; probably through a friend of Pat’s at the MOD.
Thus Janet’s working day had begun with her tired, pale and again wishing to block out the worst thoughts, but she did that last part everyday anyway.
Breakfast had been served up to a Jimmy who was much quieter these days. His best friend Alistair had been taken out of a lesson the previ
ous week by a usually stern faced head mistress whom at that time had been visibly moist eyed and exuding compassion. Alistair had not rejoined the class and by the time school finished for the day the married quarter his friend had lived at was locked up, awaiting contractors to empty its contents and ship them up north. There were a lot of ‘pad brats’ attending Jimmy’s school and not all from 1CG.
The headmistress had made half a dozen trips from her office to classrooms as result of telephone calls since the war had started.
Karen was also quieter of late but her daughter seemed to be making a conscious effort to make her mother’s life easier, a sure sign of growing up. She was also helping more without first having to be asked, and there was no more sniping at her brother, the catalyst of many squabbles, for which Janet was truly thankful.
With breakfast passed she had steered her car carefully along frozen roads that were not receiving the attention of the gritting lorries as they had in peacetime. The multi storey she always used, and in previous times had trouble finding a space at, was half empty so perhaps the roads out of town were in even worse shape she’d mused. Her carriage on the DLR was less than packed, allowing her to sit in relative comfort and watch the snow squalls beyond the carriage windows as she thought about Karen’s coming birthday. She really needed to apply some thought to that. Pull out all the stops and have a party, or an outing, just something to lift all of their spirits.
At Heron Quays she departed the automatic train with a handful of commuters and dutifully passed through the barrier with a sweep of her oyster card across the yellow face of the reader. Still deep in thought she left the station entrance and grimaced at the bitter cold and myriad flakes assaulting her exposed skin.