by Andy Farman
The shock effect brought a pause in the defenders fire, and Colin shouted for its resumption. The Guardsman on the gimpy to his right didn’t respond, Colin could see a leg unmoving on the other side of the tree he was lying beside, and he reached over to give it an angry yank. He found himself holding a severed limb which he gaped at for a second before getting a grip on himself, and none too soon either because the soviet troops were rising up from behind cover, still firing but with bayonets fixed.
He scrambled to his feet to meet the rush of the nearest soldier, steel rang on steel as he parried aside the others bayonet with the barrel of his own and following the movement through, driving the toe of the SLRs butt into the soldier’s throat before stepping back quickly into the on-guard stance. A large man with greying hair visible beneath the rim of his helmet rushed at him from the side and Colin pivoted but had to jump back a step when his parry was expertly avoided and the others sharp point narrowly missed impaling him. Colin dummied a jab with the intention of turning the blade in whichever direction his opponent dodged, but the illumination from the parachute flare died suddenly. Colin, unsighted, thrust to the left but the wind left his lungs with an audible “Oof” and he was driven backwards until he came up against the trunk of a tree.
He tried to move but something was holding him there, and of a sudden he felt light headed, dropping his own weapon and reaching down to find the cause he burned his hands on the hot barrel of his opponents.
He couldn’t feel any pain, and he was aware of a dark figure in front of him tugging at the weapon to free the blade that stuck through him and into the trunk behind.
Groping inside his smock, his hand finding what he sought and withdrawing it. His arm felt so very heavy, and the sky seemed to be getting darker rather than lighter. The dark form was working the blade from side to side now, and as it came free Colin fired twice before the 9mm Yarygin fell from fingers suddenly turned nerveless.
An hour before dawn an Argyll’s listening post had the men of that unit standing to, having reported movement toward the forests edge, 300m from the Scottish positions. Seven minutes later a trip flare went off at a track junction DF’d by the Jocks and it was engaged by a GPMG in the SF, sustained fire role. Mounted on a heavy tripod, all the DFs and FPFs, the Defensive Fires and Final Protective Fires, had been live registered, in other words they had previously put rounds onto the target when it had been identified as a possible approach route or forming up point. It was all part of the defensive preparation of a position.On that occasion the compass bearing and the angle of elevation of the barrel had been recorded for later use if called for. No further fire for effect was required once this was done; the gunner and his number two unlocked the mount allowing the gun to be pivoted about its axis onto the required settings. They then ensured the elevation bubble incorporated in the detachable C2 sight was level, and locked the tripod mount.
The gun that engaged the track junction wasn’t from the company that had it on its frontage, but its neighbour on the left. The GPMG produces an oval shaped beaten zone, the area where its rounds land, and by firing at an oblique angle to the target the beaten zone more effectively covered the area of the target.
Here in the Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders lines the Warriors laager was only about a mile from 1 Platoon, and Oz paid only passing attention to the streams of tracer arcing over to land a short way beyond the edge of the forest. He was about the only man left outside of a vehicle as the thunder storm drew closer and the electrical activity in the clouds had picked up the gauntlet thrown down by the Red Army artillery, giving a demonstration of how many decibels it was really possible to produce in two thousandths of a second.
There had been little in the way of small arms fire from the direction of his platoon since they had arrived here, only mortar fire at intervals and then finally the sound of a helicopter with rapid firing cannon out in the darkness.
He had his own radio on the platoon net and listened in silence to the sitrep’s that reported the growing list of casualties, impatient for the dawn to arrive and their departure from this place.
Major Popham had briefed the commanders of the three platoons plus Arnie, Oz and Ray on how he had decided they were going to do this. Rather than go in dismounted with the APCs following on, he was going to employ two parallel firebreaks that led almost directly to 1 Platoons position, and use the fighting vehicles speed and 30mm cannons to punch their way through any opposition. He would take the left hand firebreak, leading five of their own Warriors, plus two from 1 Platoon whilst the senior of the platoon commanders and the remaining six went down the right. On reaching an intersecting firebreak leading to the area occupied by the older trees and gorse they would across the logging track from 1 Platoon. From there they would have to play it by ear according to whatever CSM Probert could tell them about the situation at that time. It wasn’t a particularly intricate plan but they had to get straight who would do what should one of the mini flying columns, or both, get into difficulties. Conversing over the net with the battalion CP he had set up a fire plan with the mortars to provide support if and when it was needed, and these details of course were given out should he himself become a casualty.
After informing them that they had just thirty minutes to brief the men the platoon commanders went off to do their own O Groups which left Jim with little to do but wait, and he too was also getting tired of the inaction. A few desultory fire fights had broken out between the Argyll’s and the enemy in the tree line but he had a feeling the soviet airborne unit was finished as a serious fighting force. The same couldn’t be said of their comrades to the east though, and Pat Reed had confided that if the new US Corps didn’t arrive in the next day then SACEUR believed the reds would achieve their breakout across the rivers. Jim exited the Warrior and looked at the flashes reflected off the clouds to the east and shivered as rainwater found its way down his neck. Looking first at his watch and then toward the eastern horizon, he climbed back into his Warriors and took up the radio mike. “All stations Steel Falcon…prepare to move”
Oz climbed up the side of his Warrior and lowered himself down into the commanders spot. Putting on the vehicle headset he checked the mike was on ‘intercom’ before keying the pressel switch.
“Driver, start up.”
Pat Reed accepted a mug of tea from a signaller, blowing on the surface before taking a sip. The radio he was listening to was tuned to the 1 Pl net but he did not do anything other than listen in, monitoring the fight. When another signaller told him that Major Popham’s callsign was now on the move he glanced at his watch and dearly hoped that the intervals of mortar fire 1 Platoon were receiving were nothing more serious than harassing fire whilst their attackers withdrew from the vicinity. The warrant officers periodic sitrep’s took a change for the worse with the report of a mortar round killing five of the wounded and adding to the injuries of three others, but Pat still had his fingers crossed for his men until twenty minutes later.
“Hello One this is One One, contact at our six…wait out.”
Seconds later he heard Colin come on again.
“Hello One this is One One, several machine guns in forestry block to our left…shoot dee eff One One India and suppress, over!”
1 Company acknowledged and passed on the message to the mortar line by landline before confirming the rounds were on the way.
“One, roger dee eff One One India, wait…shot one three four, over.”
No acknowledgement was forthcoming from 1 Platoon though, and the signaller in the CP waited several seconds before trying again.
“Hello One One this is One, acknowledge my last, over?”
Pat knew now that the soviet airborne troops had merely been putting together a proper plan of attack. When next Colin came on the air he was shouting in order to be heard over the sound of gunfire.
“One One, roger shot…One One Charlie has been overrun…wait out to you… all stations One One send even numbered foxhounds to t
he centre…send even numbers to the centre!”
When next they heard from 1 Platoon it was not Colin’s voice but that of a young Guardsman fighting to keep the panic out of his voice.
“One One Foxtrot this is One One Bravo…Delta and Echo are gone…we need help here!” The fierce fighting was abundantly apparent in the background with the screams of hate and pain underscored by automatic weapons fire, the distinctive SLR and the explosions of grenades. The other callsign failed to respond though.
“Foxtrot this is Bravo…Foxtrot this is………”
Pat heard a burst of fire; loud in its proximity to the radio that was transmitting, and it was neither an SLR nor a gimpy that was doing the shooting. The send switch was still depressed at the other end but there was no more firing to be heard, just the sound of Russian voices in the background.
Roaring out of the Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders lines in single file the Warriors then split into two columns, each heading for its fire break. It caused not a little consternation amongst the soviet troops who had made it as far as the forests edge. They had no anti-armour weapons left and no option but to get out of the way and hope the AFVs kept on going.
There were no officers left above the rank of captain amongst the soviet paratroopers and no formation larger than a platoon remaining, but the four hundred or so fought on anyway because they still had ammunition. The attack on the Scots was not a group decision, but rather one of instinct by some of the remnants of the three battalions to attack the nearest enemy position. Other groups had chosen to wait on the NATO forces to come to them, and were making hurried preparations inside the forest.
Major Popham’s Warriors had travelled no more than a quarter of a mile before encountering any resistance besides small arms fire and hand grenades.
Combat Engineers had been placing explosive in a hole dug into a wheel rut on the fire break when they heard the sound of vehicles coming their way, and had hurriedly finished up before scrambled into the trees, uncoiling cable as they went. They let the first two vehicles pass and detonated the charge under the third.
Ray Tessler’s Warrior was flipped over onto its side where it partially blocked the passage of any other vehicles. The gunner suffered a fractured pelvis, whilst Ray dislocated his left arm, broke three fingers and four ribs aside from his being knocked unconscious. Only the driver escaped the crash without injury, but caught shrapnel from a grenade as he was freeing himself from the wreck.
Grenades and small arms fire caused the vehicle commanders to drop back inside the Warriors and button up but had little effect otherwise, however, in order to proceed the wrecked APC would have to be moved, and that could not be done until the ambushers had been sorted out.
Colin faded in and out of consciousness, aware only of the pain and cold that gripped him. He was sat with his back to the tree surrounded by the dead, one of whom still grasped the AKM with its bayonet, washed almost clean of his blood by the rain. The same could not be said of Colin himself; blood had soaked him from the waist down. His field dressing, taped to his left webbing strap was so placed for ease of access, but his feeble attempts to free it had failed. His only method of preventing more from leaking out was a tampon carried in his own first aid kit, in a map pocket. The female sanitary product was ideally shaped for plugging bullet holes; hence its presence in his kit, but the bayonet wound was not circular and could not be completely filled. He was unable to reach the exit wound but in the entry wound it swelled up and helped go some way into sealing the hole.
The simple task left him exhausted, and as he leant against the trunk he found himself looking at the man who had inflicted the injury.
There was something familiar about the Russian he had fought but he lay on his side with his face turned away, and Colin wasn’t up to doing much of anything, let alone turning him over for a better look. There were no badges of rank displayed, and for a man of that age it was odd he would be a private soldier still.
Something was digging into Colin’s right buttock, and he moved forward slightly. The effort brought flashing lights before his eyes and then his vision dimmed as he slumped back against the tree, back into unconsciousness.
When he came to again he found an unrolled sleeping bag draped across him and a field dressing in place over the wound.
“I have to say that you are looking a little partied out, Sergeant Major.”
Nikoli was lying a short distance away; his uniform caked in mud and with a bloody dressing tied to a thigh. He had lost weight since Colin had been captured at Leipzig airport and sunken cheeks were highlighted by dirt and camouflage cream.
“You aren’t the fanny magnet you once were either sir, but with some decent sleep, a few squares, and of course if you tried putting a blade in your razor next time you shaved, it couldn’t hurt.”
The young Russian chuckled.
“I quite missed your parade ground sarcasm Colin.” He looked concerned as pain wracked the features of the British warrant officer.
“Do you have any morphine, only there are a dozen wounded…both yours and ours scattered about and I used all of mine putting them out. There isn’t much more I can do for them right now?”
The spasm passed and Colin shook his head.
“I used mine up a few hours ago, but one of the section commanders might have some.”
Nikoli unbuckled his fighting order; shrugging out of it he used a splintered branch as a crutch and pulled himself to his feet.
“I’ll be back in a little while.”
“I’ll still be here, sir.”
What had once been a forestry service managed blocks of cultivated pine trees in neatly ordered rows had become a hazardous jungle gym with shell craters, fallen trunks, shattered stumps and amputated limbs of trees amid those that still stood. It took Nikoli time to search this obstacle course before he found what he sought. It wasn’t a Guardsman but one of the generals Spetznaz troops, lying broken and discarded, and who clearly had no further need of the medication.
The soldier who had owned the pack was probably a combat medic aside his other duties, and he did not have single dose self-injectors, but a syringe and small bottles of morphine. Nikoli had picked up enough ‘Jack-of-all-trades’ lore to know how, and what dose to give.
On his return he injected enough to take the edge off the pain and wrote on Colin’s forehead the letter ‘M’, time and dosage with a marker carried in the dead soldiers medical pack. Colin felt a pleasant glow roll away the pain and muttered his thanks.
“It’s not enough to delay surgery, so tell me when it gets bad again, ok?”
Colin made a face to show he understood.
“I will lay you down to make you more comfortable, let me just move this poor fellow out of the way first.” Nikoli rolled the ageing soldier onto his back and froze momentarily, darting a glance at Colin before rolling him clear.
Colin had got a good look at the face in that moment and despite the barbiturate in his system it set him to thinking back, to when he had seen that face before.
Kneeling with his back to Colin, Nikoli went through the pockets of the corpse but they held only ammunition and the bits and pieces any ordinary soldier would have about them. Undoing the smock he found the wearer had on an aircrew shoulder holster worn over a thick woollen jumper, which was now soaked in blood from chest wounds. Ignoring the blood, which had soaked the lining of the smock he rummaged through the inner pockets. They were empty, but something was sown into the lining and taking his pocketknife he slit it open, extracting a waterproof plastic envelope. Twenty pages of handwritten foolscap paper and a CD Rom were contained within, and Nikoli ruffled through the pages.
Only Serge himself could possibly explain why he had not left these behind to burn in Peridenko’s dacha, or instead left them locked in a safe rather than hidden about his person. Most of the sheets contained code names, and contact details for named individuals inside Russia and in about twenty foreign countries, the remainder, abou
t four sheets worth, were covered in Chinese characters, a language Nikoli knew nothing of.
Distant artillery fire and not so distant small arms fire had been continuous since Nikoli had regained consciousness, but a loud explosion much closer to was followed by the crack of 30mm cannon fire, grenades and automatic weapons, announcing that NATO was not far off. Whatever these papers and this disc were they must be destroyed before they arrived. Removing his Zippo lighter Nikoli tried to spin the striker wheel with a thumb to light it, but the wheel would not move the signal that only a tiny nub of flint remained.
“What are you doing Nikki?”
Nikoli looked at Colin over his shoulder, and gave a little smile. “I’m cold…loan me your lighter, I want to light a fire.”
Colin nodded and reached behind himself, his hand feeling around. Nikoli held out a hand but Colin’s came back into view holding the Yarygin, which had been causing his buttock such discomfort earlier.
“That’s your General, the one who was with you at the airport, isn’t it?”
“No Sarn’t major.” Nikoli shook his head. “Just some poor dumb bastard like you and me.”
The pistol was pointing at Nicola’s middle, and Colin had to use both hands to hold it in his weakened state.
“Put whatever you have there down, and move away sir.”
He almost reached for his own pistol, but it was attached to his webbing a good twelve feet away. Nikoli studied the wounded warrant officer, gauging the others resolve, and how fast he could react, he then had to weigh his own resolve and remind himself that his country was at war with Colin’s.
“You aren’t going to shoot me Colin, any more than you could back at the airport, so put the gun down, ok?”
The muzzle stayed pointing at him though, albeit less than rock steady. Nikoli still had his back to him, and slowly he raised his right hand, showing Colin the papers.
“They are just letters his girl wrote him Colin…here, see for yourself.” Tossing the papers at Colin, Nikoli saw Colin’s eyes follow the sheets of paper, and he dragged the pistol from Serge’s shoulder harness, rolling to the left as he brought the handgun to bear.