by Andy Farman
That had led to Stephanski’s first trip to Collie but his boys had got a full ten hours’ sleep before starting patrols anew.
North of Lohmen and three hundred yards from the safety of their own lines, Guardsman Stephanski and Lance Sergeant Laker had chosen a culvert beneath the railway line and camouflaged it by partially blocking the side facing the enemy. To even a skilful eye, the cambered bed of grey stones that the tracks rested on looked unthreatening, and only a close examination would discover the tin cans, with both ends removed, that permitted the soldiers to see, and shoot out of. Snipers are a hated breed but there are no cowards in their ranks. They do their job with cold-blooded professionalism, eliminating chains of command, shooting to wound rather than kill, to hinder and demoralise. Unlike their conventional brethren, they had no facility to call in support if they got it wrong and no one to blame but themselves.
When would-be snipers arrive at the School of Infantry, Warminster, it was assumed that they could already outshoot Annie Oakley, even if they had never used a sniper rifle before. The bulk of the course is devoted to fieldcraft and navigation, getting from A to B unseen, making the kill and bugging out. The first time the student got to fire the sniper rifles was a painful learning experience for some. They could be seen sporting sticky plasters or even a stitch or two on an eyebrow. ‘Snipers eye’ was the cause, getting their eye too close to the telescopic sight when they fired and the bare brass edge of the telescope would smack into their brow with the recoil. The final exam was in two practical parts, a stalk along a set route with observers watching for you and just to make it really interesting the observers knew exactly what route you had to use. The other part was a shoot, where the student was given his arc of responsibility, and it would be a big one! He would only get one chance, a three-second exposure of a target, sometime during a one-hour period. An exposure of that short a period meant he would have to stay in the aim, bearing the 15.93lb weight of the heavy weapon in order to be able to snap-shoot…and hit the target when it appeared, hence the name, ‘The Agony Snap’. Assuming the student passed both tests and had not upset an instructor along the way, thereby failing the attitude test, he got to wear a badge depicting a Lee-Enfield .303 rifle with a letter ‘S’ and the good chance of being tortured and shot out of hand by an enemy if caught. Skills pay does not apply in the infantry.
Today the snipers had the task of watching and reporting on enemy movement, the decision to ‘go noisy’ was left to them as it compromised their position.
One man remained on watch at all times whilst the other rested in the pitch darkness of the hide, waiting for the enemy to appear.
North Pacific: Same time
With all serviceable aircraft having been rearmed and refuelled, the USS John F Kennedy was keeping half of its remaining interceptors aloft and the carrier group running fast to the south. The PRC Xianfeng-7 satellite had passed over ninety-three minutes before and the Jianbing-3 was due past in another hour.
The repositioning of the satellites had been done hurriedly, without allowing a more measured interval of several hours’ between passes.
Both sides now had satellite surveillance benefits, but armed with the space commands information on the PRC over-flight times, Admiral C. Dalton believed he had the greater advantage.
Twenty feet below the carriers’ bridge lay Flag Ops and it was here that the Admiral laid out his idea for the operations staff.
“The way I see it,” he began.
“Is that we will have a twenty-one hour and twenty-seven minute window of opportunity, once that next Prick flies by.”
He would no longer bother to pronounce the letters P.R.C, to his mind P.R.I.C.K far better described that country.
The CAG and TAO had known the man a long time, getting beat and running away did not sit easily with them either.
“I assume that we are going to turn and attack once the satellite is past, sir?”
The Admiral was nodding.
“Damn straight!” he declared.
“I want to keep the remains of Quinn’s F-14s and the two Sea Harriers aloft as CAP, the rest launch a strike on the reds…what do you think?”
The CAG was silent, doing sums in his head.
“I need to get together with Intel, see what we know about their defences on land?” he said after a few moments.
“I can give an assessment then, sir.”
“Hawkeye’s state that the A-50s egressed after the nuke hit us…we splashed a recon bird half hour after the strike, probably a damage assessment sortie…so as far as I know, there are no other eyes upon us right now,” the TAO put in.
“How long until the group has replenished at sea?” the Admiral enquired.
“Another three hours’, maybe less…provided we don’t get visitors or a sea gets up,” replied TAO.
“Okay, let’s resume in one hour people, get to it.”
Sea Harriers, Papa Zero Two and Zero Seven had been relieved from their three hour CAP and crossed the fantail of the John F Kennedy in trail at a mere 80 knots before settling to the flight deck and following the decks instructions to a parking area. Lt Cmdr. Sandy Cummings and Lt ‘Donny’ Osmond made their way to the towering superstructure, pausing to watch an E2-Sentry trap and the crewmen at work high overhead.
The superstructure was a hive of industry as running repairs were made to the masts. This appeared rather hazardous as buckled lengths of steel were cut away and replaced with straight lengths that were welded into place.
“It rather looks like someone trying to build a skyscraper, starting with the penthouse and leaving the foundations until last,” observed Donny.
Lt Nikki Pelham had been posing beside her Tomcat with its brand new addition of four red stars below the fuselage whilst she and Chubby Checkernovski took turns behind the camera. Nikki had still not heard anything from home as to her family but she was not going to dwell on it. Nikki and Chubby joined the two RN, Fleet Air Arm pilots as they watched the Hawkeye catch the three wire.
“So how do you like being on a real carrier boys?”
“Bloody noisy…they stuck us in the janitors broom cupboard, right below the flight deck. Our little carriers and aircraft are far quieter, if you did this stuff on the ‘POW’ you’d get complaints from the look-outs that it was keeping them awake…I really can’t see it catching on!” Sandy said with a smile, using the abbreviation for HMS Prince of Wales.
“RN aviation is more civilised too, its far more dignified to stop and land, than it is to land and stop…much easier on the hang-over.”
Nikki laughed.
“Sorry boys, the US Navy is dry.”
Donny leant forward conspiratorially.
“Well don’t spread it around, but we have a limited supply of single malt in Mrs Miggins Pie Shoppe…otherwise known as the janitors broom cupboard.”
“How the hell did you get that on board?” asked Chubby.
“He had it stowed aboard the aircraft, just in case he had to land on a tropical island populated by bikini models, bereft of male company.” Sandy explained with a Scottish accent that Nikki found quite appealing.
The conversation was curtailed by the tannoy system called all pilots to a briefing.
“Looks like the opening night may be delayed, ladies and gents. Someone called Baldrick may have thought of a cunning plan!”
“Who?” intoned Nikki and Chubby?
“The faithful manservant of Sir Edmund Blackadder!” Sandy informed them
“Who?”
“As soon as I can get back to the POW and collect my DVD collection, we will have to have a Blackadder night, to start your education in the finer things in life…does your galley have any fresh turnips?”
Germany, west of the Wesernitz: 2214hrs, same day
The pleasant Pine, Sycamore, Oak and Beech forest on the high ground above Muhlsdorf was being reduced to the consistency of matchwood. Almost four hours’ of unrestrained artillery bombardment had pounded the e
arth or stripped trees of their branches and foliage with airbursts.
In his Challenger II, Major Darcy listened to the cacophony of noise outside the tank and wondered how many of his squadron still remained or if they were safe in their dug in revetments. The tank rocked back on its sprockets and red-hot steel rang on its armoured sides from a near miss. The terminal in front of him went blank. The lack of the Ptarmigan data would hamper his command and control even further.
“It’s at this point that one of you is supposed to say For God’s sake…play something they know!” said the major, in an effort to ease the tension.
“If it is all the same to you sir,” said his gunner. “I’ll just sit here quietly and carry on shitting myself.”
All his tanks had a good stock of spare radio antennas to replace any stripped off by the barrage; so far they had been lucky. Half an hour before he had checked his tanks own masts and all had been in order but the view from his vision blocks had been scary, their own piece of ground was no longer as wooded as it had been. The flashes of detonating munitions allowed him to glimpse the battlefield in a way the tanks lo-lite TV did not.
The Coldstream Guards CP was obviously still in business as his headset came to life.
“Hello all stations address group Kilo Hotel, this is Zero… ‘Wicker Man’, over!” The enemy armoured assault was on the way and the CP had dispensed with the preliminaries of radio checks to the ‘Sunrays’, commanders of the sub-units which now had to leave their present locations and move forward to their fighting positions.
The Kings Royal Hussars were shown first on the CNRMIS, Combat Net Radio Management Information Systems net diagram for that address group and Darcy answered immediately.
“Tango One Nine, roger…’Wicker Man’…out.” He switched to the squadron net and passed on the instruction to his troop commanders but one failed to answer and there was a pause before that troops sergeant answered in the missing tanks stead. Darcy switched to interphone,
“Driver, take us to our first fighting position, now please,” before calling up C Troops sergeant.
“Hello Tango One Three Bravo this is Tango One Nine. Say condition of Tango One Three Alpha if known, over?”
“Tango One Three Bravo, their turret is only about ten feet from us, over.”
The tank revetments were all at least forty feet apart. An internal explosion triggered by a direct hit, had flung the 24,000kg turret from the tank as it was destroyed. They were at least one down that he knew of and had yet to fire a single shot.
Major Darcy’s driver, Trooper Paul Stott, reversed the vehicle out of the revetment before heading toward their first firing position. Fallen branches and tree trunks at wild angles created an obstacle course for them. The Challenger II had only 0.5m of ground clearance on a solid level surface, and the Russian barrage had created a potential tank trap every few metres.
After 100m Paul judged they should have been approaching the trenches of the Guards in-depth positions but he was having trouble recognising familiar landmarks. The forward slopes were the main targets of the artillery, the area beyond that had been of secondary importance, targeted only to prevent reinforcement. The reverse slope had come off easiest, rocket and tube artillery could not touch it due to the relatively low arc the shells and rockets flew, but mortars toss their bombs high up, 10-25000 feet upwards, to fall almost vertically once they reach the apex of their flight. These munitions, fired from 120mm portable, 240mm towed M240 and 120mm self-propelled 2S9 Anonas had the task of making life awkward on the reverse slopes. The huge M240 bomb earned itself a fearsome reputation in Afghanistan and Chechnya with its alternative charges. Its conventional charges could loft the bomb to 10,000’ and engage targets 9,700m away but with its rocket-assisted munitions more than doubled its range to 20,000m, which meant that the massive 240mm bombs screamed down from 25,000’ to bury themselves 10 feet in the ground before detonating. The good thing, as far as the Guardsmen were concerned, was that they could only fire one round per minute, needed an eleven man crew and the enemy only had twenty deployed against them.
The troops had been briefed that there would be no counter-battery fire from their side until the enemy committed his tanks and APCs, so they huddled down and took it with varying degrees of success.
If Major Darcy was grumbling about losing a single tank, he should have been a rifleman in the in-depth positions where men had been buried alive by near misses or obliterated by direct hits on their holes. The forward platoons had 10% casualties whereas the rear platoons and the depth company, No.4, had 25%. These were just the physical casualties, the number of young men reduced to screaming wrecks was almost equal that although some would snap out of it once the shelling stopped.
Colonel Pol Eskiva, commanding the 22nd (Czech) Motor Rifle Regiment ordered his driver to edge forward toward the treeline where he could better see the ground before them through his night scope. He sat with his legs dangling into the turret of his T-90 main battle tank as he studied the map on his lap in the faint glow of a palm light. The locations of enemy positions and field defences were marked, courtesy of the divisional recce companies.
So far, all was going well, with the exception of the heliborne assault on the enemy headquarters that was thought to be somewhere in the area of the clearing, according to their intelligence. Six troop-carrying Mi-8s and three Ka-50 Hokum attack helicopter had mounted the assault and none had returned. 192 crack airborne troops provided by their Russian brothers, not to mention the air assets, had just gone. It called into doubt the intelligence they had as regards the quality of troops facing them. They were supposed to be part-time soldiers, failed applicants to the regular army and bored bank clerks. What was the term the intelligence officer had used, thought the colonel? Ah yes, ‘Weekend Cowboys’. He had observed two of their soft skin ‘jeeps’ destroy three tanks and two APCs before they were destroyed themselves and he had stopped for long enough to observe the field police interrogate a wounded young soldier. It had not been an interrogation as far as he could judge; rather the tormenting of a wounded animal, but the man had been defiant to the last, although his wounds were clearly not survivable. A field police Captain had seen him watching and ordered him to drive his tank over the prisoner, unaware of the colonel’s rank. Eskiva had waved back in apparent compliance, if he did not do it they would only order someone else. Once his tank had lined up on the wounded man, with the Captain a scant two feet from soldier, Eskiva had swung around the pintle mounted 7.62mm machine-gun. Directing a burst across the soldiers chest, from left to right and releasing the trigger just short of the Captains feet, causing the arrogant bastard to back-peddle, stumble and land on his arse in the dust.
Speaking an order into the interphone, he had kept the machine-gun pointing casually in the direction of the field policemen as the tank drew alongside them. “Congratulations Captain!” he had said to the furious man. “You have the honour of having been the first field policeman in the history of the Czech Army to have been close enough to hear the gunfire during a battle.” The colonel’s two escorting tanks and command post APCs had also moved forward, boxing in the men on the ground but none seemed to notice, all attention was on the colonel. There had been six field policemen, all armed with sub-machine pistols facing the colonel in the tank turret when the Captain screamed at them to arrest him. The cocking of the two other tanks machine guns caused them to freeze. Climbing from the turret, the colonel pulled a shovel from a tool bin on the side of the vehicle and thrown it to the Captain.
“Bury him,” he had instructed before addressing one of the other tank commanders.
“Remain here to see it is done. The battle has passed us by and there are no witnesses to see you kill them if they disobey, understood?”
His subordinate had nodded and the other tanks and APCs left.
That had been two hours’ before and as the colonel watched the British positions receive the bombardment, he put the finishing touches to his pl
an.
When his third tank had returned its commander had brought him the dead British soldiers effects. They did indeed confirm that the men had civilian occupations and yet had been well trained and courageous. The fact that they had eliminated the Russian Paratroopers and destroyed all the helicopters showed that they were well equipped also, contrary to the intelligence briefings. He discussed this with the lieutenant who had brought them to him but did not ask what had become of the police captain and his men, the fact that the loader was stripping and cleaning the machine-gun said it all. Despite his seniority, they would all have been arrested and shot, after the battle was won of course.
According to his watch he had twenty minutes to the start of the attack, the plough tanks would not lead the way though, he had to trust the recce troops information because the divisional commander was breathing down his neck. In their last conversation he had laid it on thick to the colonel, honour, duty and obedience before slapping him on the back in false bon homme,
“I will let you get back to your men now Colonel, you must be eager for the fight?” He had forced something close to a wolfish grin to his lips whilst thinking to himself what a total and utter arsehole his boss was.
“Nadrz^eny' sir!” eager for it, he said and saluted before leaving but muttering “Zmrd,” beneath his breath.
His first wave would be T-72 MBTs, BTR-80 and BMP APCs with his company of PT-76 amphibious tanks following three hundred metres behind to force the river. The barrage was heavy and continuous, which bothered him, it was as if the lack of counter-battery fire had persuaded the artillery batteries to forgo the standard operating practices, he was willing to bet money that they were not changing location regularly, more pressure from divisional HQ no doubt. The air force was meant to attack periodically during these relocations and although they moved fast they could at least see the enemy position and report back. The continuous shelling meant that would not happen of course, no one would send aircraft into the path of shells.