by Andy Farman
The QRF were dug in under the trees, making use of their natural cover. To the left was a wide clearing on a gentle slope and to the right, the woods ran down hill to the Muhlsdorf/Liebethal road beside the river.
Colin had finished his report when they came under rather more attention by tube as well as rocket bombardment for a full twenty minutes, which is not long considering a two hour bombardment is considered a light working over according to the Red Army manuals.
As suddenly as it started it finished, and Colin stuck his head over the parapet, giving Oz the thumbs up and they left the trench, separating to check on their boys. In the first two trenches the Guardsmen were okay but shaken, the third trench revealed a lance corporal trying to rouse his mate who was blocking the way out of the shelter bay. Colin helped him pull the still form clear and a quick examination showed a very slightly bloody rent in the man’s NBC suit where a piece of shrapnel from an airburst had found the limb nearest the shelter bay entrance. The wound hadn’t been enough to kill him, it would have been fixed with half a dozen stitches and antibiotics, it was however enough for a chemical blood agent to enter the suit. The blood in the wound was already congealed hard, as it would also be through the arteries to the man’s heart.
Together they pulled him to the far end of the firing bay where Oz joined them, running awkwardly in the rubberised, protective over boot’s. Whatever Oz was about to say was lost in the roar of helicopters. Large, dark shape’s that skimmed the trees, their downdrafts whipped through the branches, causing mini cyclones of whirling leaves, pine needles and the like. Colin craned his neck to identify them.
“Oh, shit…” He broke radio silence, reporting the presence of enemy troop carrying helicopters landing in the clearing to his left.
Two Ka-50 Hokum’s rode shotgun whilst four Mi-8 Hips began to land, troops poured forth, thirty-two from each ran outwards to form a perimeter. Unlike the British troops NBC equipment, these troops wore black and brown protective suits, the fabric of the Russian suits had been rubberised, for a tougher garment, but it retained heat even more than NATO suits.
Some of the Guardsmen were slow to react but soon caught on, fire was put down on the deploying Russian paratroops and a Rarden cannon from a dug-in Warrior APC scored on the furthest helicopter. It was ten feet off the ground, the last to land and still to disgorge its load, black smoke poured from the cargo bay and rents in the engine section. Its fixed undercarriage collapsed as it dropped the remaining distance to terra firma. The next three rounds from the warrior sheared away the tail section and with no negative torque to counter the still spinning main blades, it canted over, digging rotors into the earth that shattered and spun away in lethal shards. The lead helicopter was a mere 150m away but the SA-80s, LSW and even the gimpy’s were failing to penetrate the cockpit. Both pilots sat in plain view of the Guards position, safe behind armoured glass and plate.
The defensive fire had drawn the attention of the paratroops and the Hokums, which hammered 23mm cannon fire into the trees. The Royal Artillery came to the rescue in the form of a Stormer air-defence vehicle; its sensors scanning the 8-14 micron infra-red waveband had tracked the inbounds and had already knocked two troop carriers and an attack helicopter down. It had lost the signatures of the troop carriers as they landed, but the previously fast moving Hokum’s were now locked up and two Starstreak high velocity missiles were fired. The relatively slow moving targets, concentrating on the treeline, exploded in mid-air, one scattered wreckage and burning fuel on paratroopers on the ground, whilst the furthest machine set alight to trees at the north edge of the wood, 600m from Colin.
The forms of enemy soldiers were everywhere in the clearing and Colin dragged the dead Guardsman’s gimpy from the shelter bay, set the bipod legs on the trench parapet and got to work. Oz was lying behind the trench firing and the L/Cpl in the firing bay pulled a box of belted from beneath his dead mate, linking its end to the one already on the weapon. Colin worked rapidly, firing two and three round bursts into anything that moved or looked threatening. Return fire cracked past and overhead as high velocity rounds broke the sound barrier, finding one target as they did so, blood fountained, and a boot kicked Colin hard in the calf, as his young NCO spasmed in the bottom of the trench. He was aware of Oz dropping down next to him, taking over the No.2s role from the now dead L/Cpl. The noise was incredible, but Colin was happier when it increased. The section commanders had gathered the soldiers from trenches too far from the clearing to engage, and led them to where they could.
Despite the protection afforded by the armour plate and armoured glass, the Russian pilots of the lead Mi-8 were shouting at their paratrooper load to get the hell out of the aircraft with a tinge of hysteria in their tones. Ball and tracer rounds were still pebble-dashing the cockpit exterior as they pulled back on the collective and lifted out of the clearing.
The departure of the surviving Mi-8s signalled a hasty attack by the Russians in the clearing. The term ‘hasty’ does not mean ill prepared or even ill advised, it merely indicates the dispensing with, of prepared briefing’s and a formal plan due to the circumstances. The troops in the clearing had found themselves in a distinctly ‘hot’ LZ. The defenders had the initiative and the attackers now sought to take it from them. The paratroops skirmished forward, with half giving covering fire whilst the other half moved. A smoke grenade was thrown toward the trenches in an attempt to deprive the defenders of targets, but the wind blew it back in the paratroopers faces, more of a hindrance than a help.
Oz attached his bayonet to his own rifle before pulling the CSMs bayonet from its scabbard and doing likewise to his rifle, once that was done he resumed spotting for the gimpy.
The paratroopers had guts, braced with a little desperation and did not falter in their skirmishing advance. Despite their casualties and at a whistle blast they rose up and rushed the tree line that the Coldstreamers defended. A good half dozen made for the trench with bayonets fixed.
Colin was aware of an object flying toward them; it hit the piled earth of the bullet catchment area in front of the parapet and bounced over the trench, landing behind them. He released the GPMG and pulled Oz down with him below the level of the parapet. The detonation of the grenade shook the walls of the trench, black smoke and earth swirled as the bayonet and the muzzle of an assault rifle appeared over the lip of the parapet. Colin jumped high, pushing the barrel up as he did so and pulled. He could feel the heat of the barrel through the rubber of the gloves, it was hot but he ignored the pain and pulled hard, causing the owner to stumble forward. Oz raised his rifle for an over the shoulder thrust with the attached bayonet but the paratrooper was quick and kicked out hard, catching the Brit on the side of his helmet and knocking him backwards. It left the Russian off balance and Colin braced a knee against the trenches lip and leant back, pulling the man down in a cloud of dust where Colin ripped off the Russian’s protective respirator. The Russian took a lung full of poisoned air and Colin wrestled the weapon from the now dying paratrooper and thrust it upwards into the groin of another para, who dropped his own weapon to grasp at the sharp blade. Colin tried wrenching it free but the blades wire cutting notch had caught on the pubic bone and Colin squeezed the trigger, blowing the Russian off the weapon and freeing the bayonet once more. Colin could feel the blood pounding in his ears and smell his own fear as he saw another three closing in. Running hard as they fired wildly, two stocky Russian’s vaulted the body as it toppled back. Both thrust down at the Guards CSM.
Oz had recovered enough to get to his knees, aiming from the hip he fired upwards into the nearest soldiers rubber clad face, the man’s head snapped backwards and he toppled into the firing bay on top of him. Colin parried the lunge, batted aside the others bayonet. A large chunk of the trench wall gave way and the Russian landed in the bay next to Colin. Neither man had room to use his weapon and Colin jerked his right knee up toward the others groin but the Russian reacted fast, twisting slightly and taking the blow on
the thigh. Colin could hear his own breath magnified within the protective hood that covered his head and ears. Fear and adrenaline coursed through him as he now wrestled with his opponent. He could see nothing of the man except his eyes through the eyepieces of the respirator he wore and he wondered if his own eyes looked as terrified as the others did. The Russian tried to head-butt, seeking to smash the eyepieces of Colin’s respirator with the edge of his helmet. Colin bent slightly, nodded forwards and caught the blow on his own helmet whilst snatching his K-Bar from its inverted sheath on the webbings yoke and stabbed forwards. The blades tip hit the Russians sternum, halting its penetration and both of the Russians rubber-clad hands locked on his wrist, trying to force it away. The dead Coldstreamers body at the bottom end of the firing bay prevented the Russian stepping backwards and Colin threw his own body weight forwards. The Paratrooper was off balance; his feet were wedged against the dead Guardsman and both his knees bent, bending him backwards. Colin now had gravity and momentum on his side and he used his free left hand as a hammer, punching the heel of his palm against the hilt. After a further moment of resistance, the sternum fractured and the blade severed the Russians aorta. Colin watched the eyes widen in horror and he felt bile rise in his own throat. You should never look at the eyes he reminded himself and closed his own as he worked the handle of the knife like a lever, two hands winding it in a circle, maximising the damage.
He was gasping for breath as he straightened, grabbing the last Russians AK-74M and looking about for the next threat. The blow hit him at kidney level, knocking him to his knees as pain shot through his left side. A pair of boots between the shoulder blades knocked him face down. Jumping into the trench on the British soldiers back, the Russian swore, putting his whole weight on the rifle, but the bayonet could not penetrate the steel mug on Colin’s webbing above his left kidney. Oz disentangled himself from the dead Russian who had toppled on top of him and lunged at Colin’s attacker, bayoneting him three times through the back. Oz wondered who was screaming in a mixture of anger and terror, with a start he realised that it was himself. The barrel of the SA-80 rifle he’d wielded was bent, so he tossed it aside, as disgusted with his own emotions as he was with the weapons inadequacy to do its job.
The Guardsmen from the far end of the position had cut down the last of the charging Russians, but there were no wounded amongst the fallen, the concentration of chemical warfare agents still present, had made sure of that.
The treeline on two sides of the clearing now contained British troops. The battalion Quick Reaction Force was dug in on the north side and the battalions defence platoon was starting to appear on the east, despatched from their positions around the battalion CP.
With the helicopters gone, the Russian paratroops furthest from the southern and western edges of the clearing were on a hiding to nowhere. They had been assured the landing zone was undefended. Their mates, about forty in all, had got into the trees where the two surviving officers sought to rally them. Just fifty-four Russian paratroopers remained from the one hundred and twenty eight strong company after only eight minutes of combat.
One of Colin’s Lance Sergeants landed next to the trench in a cloud of dust.
“Air strike sir, get the fuck out!”
They grabbed weapons and scrambled out, leaving the dead and ran to trenches further from the clearing. Seeing them go, the Russians in the clearing saw their chance to escape into cover and join up with the remainder of their force.
Although the infantry do have some regard for their brothers in blue, they were after all, ‘only the RAF’ and therefore lesser beings. It stood to reason that all other services were inferior to the infantry, because if they were any good then they would be there on the ground with rifles in their hands, not mincing about in aeroplanes or boats. Lesser beings have an appalling sense of aim of course, and so the troops on the ground sought to put distance between the intended targets and themselves.
None of the Guardsmen had reached cover when the RAF Tornados screamed overhead. The regimental sergeant major of 1CG was with the defence platoon and had called in the airstrike, describing the target area to the approaching aircraft. Colin and his men dived to the ground as the aircraft passed over them, feeling the thump of exploding munitions transferred through the earth.
Somewhere along the way, Colin’s PRC-351 radio had taken a knock and was now ‘U.S’, unserviceable. The same L/Sgt, who was now lying next to him, shook his shoulder; his radio was still functioning.
“The Razman say’s the RAF dropped CBUs…none of the bombs are on a delay and he wants any survivors mopped up!”
A CBU can have its bomblets armed to go off all at once or delayed, hindering an enemy further with intermittent explosions throwing shrapnel about the area over a period of time. The RSM, who is sometimes called ‘The Razman’, providing he is not within earshot at the time, had received this assurance from the RAF. The enemy had to be cleared out from behind the FLOT and from its proximity to battalion headquarters.
Colin left one man in each trench and designated the Warrior nearest the clearing, plus the trench he had left as points of fire for the gimpy’s and took the remainder west through the forest. Oz was not with them, he had been left to command the remainder and when Colin turned his half to face north, the senior of the section commanders was automatically the 2 i/c of this coming little action. Keeping command and control is a skill an infantry commander has to master, the noise and confusion of battle can lead to the unit failing to be just that, a unit, it can become ‘X’ number of individuals and groups fighting toward separate aims. In open country, on a sunny day, it can become difficult to keep control when only blank ammunition is in use. In a forest, where everyone’s senses are degraded by NBC clothing, live ammunition is in use rather than blank and some of the soldiers had seen their first ever dead bodies, it got harder. The British Army had asked until it was blue in the face, for individual radios for every man. They did not need to be long range; in fact short range was preferable, more secure. The US Army had the IC-F3S; it would have been ideal. Unfortunately, new ‘toys’ for the soldiers, didn’t rate very highly next to schemes designed to make the government more popular with cash rich, potential donors.
Command and control this day was achieved in the old fashioned way, by NCOs leading from the rear instead of the front where they should have been. The L/Cpl’s and L/Sgt’s could see the riflemen and Colin as they advanced toward the enemy paratroops, keeping everyone in line of sight.
Infantry battle drills consist of battle preparation, advance to contact with the enemy, reaction to effective enemy fire, locating the enemy, winning the fire-fight, the fight-through and reorganisation. However, they received no effective enemy fire on their advance, the RAF had done a proper job and Colin felt sympathy for the Russian soldiers, they had been brave men but the paratroops they did find were largely in no position to resist. Contrary to the opinion of the infantry on the ground, the airmen were in no way inferior. The nearest bomblet had landed a full 50m from the British positions and their CBUs had decimated the reorganising Russian airborne troops. Only eight had survived the battle at the LZ and subsequent airstrike, and of those eight only one was too brave or too stunned to drop his weapon when challenged. The seven survivors were handed over to the RSM and the defence platoon to deal with while Colin’s men returned to their positions via the clearing, checking the bodies, stripping the equipment and weapons before they could carry out a reorganisation and issue of an ammunition replen of their own.
Part of the battalion’s security was provided by its snipers, nominally a part of the recce platoon in peacetime, two joined each rifle company on operations and the remainder was the COs reserve. Most company’s had at least one sniper in their number and he got to choose his oppo, because snipers always work in pairs, always needed a spotter with more substantial firepower than they carried, riding shotgun.
L/Sgt ‘Freddie’ Laker and Guardsman Stephanski, who w
as known as either ‘Big Stef’ to his mates, or ‘Yoyo’ on account of the number of times he had been up and down the rank ladder. Stephanski would have done far better in an infantry regiment other than the Brigade of Guards. He had a low tolerance threshold for bullshit. There is a well-known saying in the Guards, ‘Join the army and see the world…join the Guards and swab the bastard!’ swabbing being soldier speak for cleaning. Stephanski had been a full sergeant once upon a time, until one day in Ulster when he and his platoon had returned to their company location in Strabane, Co. Tyrone, after an eighty hour operation. His men where dead on their feet, but on arrival the CSM of that company, CSM Brown, had been waiting for them. The brigade commander was visiting in several hours’ and the location had to be swabbed out…on the off chance he should inspect, which he never did.
“Excuse me sir,” Big Stef had said, once the platoon commander had disappeared.
“We start patrolling again in twelve hours’, these men need sleep and I find it difficult to believe the company commander ordered it?”
“He didn’t, I did Sarn’t Stephanski…because I don’t like flash cunts like you, so get cracking!” Stephanski had looked the CSM straight in the eyes.
“You know something Brown…I haven’t seen you shift yer fat arse outside on patrol even once in the last year, so as you are both well rested and no fucking use to man nor beast on account of the yellow stripe down your back…you swab it out!” The platoon members had paused in their journey to the dilapidated caravans that served as barracks. They saw the CSM turn purple with rage and open his mouth to reply, they also saw their platoon sergeant drop him with an upper-cut that broke the CSM’s jaw and follow up with a pile driver to the side of the head.
Stephanski had left the warrant officer out cold on the helipad. “Weapons inspection in thirty minutes, clean ‘em proper first time, and you get your heads down that much sooner.”