by Nick Ryan
The three MGS’s had been designated Green Platoon. Edge issued last minute instructions over the net to each of the vehicles and then switched frequencies to contact command. “Checkmate Six Romeo, this is Outlaw White One. We are in position and launching our flank attack in ten seconds. Over.”
“This is Checkmate Six Romeo. Roger.” The operator at the TOC replied. The radio stayed hot for a few seconds longer and then abruptly cut off. Edge let go of the transmission switch and ducked his head down into the hull of the Stryker. He made eye contact with Vince Waddingham. “We’ll cover you with the 50cal as far as the foothills of the ridge. From there you’re on your own.”
Waddingham acknowledged with a thumbs-up.
Edge climbed back up through the hatch just as the Stryker reached the wooden gate. The brittle timber exploded in a spray of splinters. The Stryker jounced over a patch of loose gravel driveway and then up onto the camber of the road with a savage jolt that cracked Edge’s teeth together. The vehicle slewed across the blacktop and, even before it had come to a complete stop, the rear ramp began descending.
“Go! Go! Go!”
The four scouts and Kalina burst from the belly of the Stryker and scrambled across the road into long grass. Over their heads the 50cal thundered to life. The Stryker was stationery, facing back towards the saddle of the ridge and, beyond it, the river.
They were behind the enemy’s lines.
Edge had expected the world to be a thunder of explosions and chattering machine gun fire as the startled Russians reacted to the crashing arrival of the Polish on their flank, yet everything seemed drowned out by the fury of the 50cal. Its flickering tongue of flame lit the night as the gunner sprayed a hedgerow.
The other vehicles in the attack split north and south. The MGS’s surged up the rise towards the saddle of the ridge. The three remaining Platoon scout vehicles raced north to blockade any attempted Russian retreat. It happened so fast that Edge barely had time to draw a breath.
Then, at last, the Russians fought back.
From a trench by the side of the road a Russian soldier leaped to his feet with an RPG on his shoulder. He took aim at the lead MGS and fired broadside at the target from less than fifty yards. The vehicle was protected by a ‘bird cage’ steel skirt around its hull which diffused the impact of the rocket. The slatted armor saved the M1128 from destruction but not damage. It disappeared in a huge rolling cloud of smoke and flames. When the haze cleared, the left side of the Stryker was down on the ground, three of its wheels blown from their axles. The vehicle ground to a juddering halt and seemed to ‘brew up’. Smoke billowed from the ruined carcass and then flickering tongues of orange flame licked along the underside of the hull. The vehicle’s steel hatches swung open and crewmen scrambled to safety. Russian automatic fire cut the troopers down and left them dead on the blacktop.
Edge watched on in helpless horror. He seized the gunner’s arm in the turret beside him and directed fire at the Russian trenches. The 50cal swung onto its new target and the grassy verge dissolved into clods of flung earth and smoke.
Fresh enemy fire erupted from the ridgeline and then a grenade exploded nearby. Russian soldiers darted across the road, hidden behind skeins of smoke and firing from the hip as they moved. Automatic gunfire flashed and thundered. Enemy machine gun bullets clanged like a blacksmith’s hammer off the hull of Edge’s Striker. A Russian soldier went down in the middle of the blacktop, clutching at his stomach. His helmet fell from his head and rolled into the grass.
“Get off the road!” Edge shouted to his driver. The vehicle reversed, turned, then crashed through the hedgerow. Vince Waddingham and the other scouts were lying prone behind cover, pinned down by a Russian machine gun, while further along the slope of the ridge, through a fringe of trees, Edge glimpsed the enemy’s mortars and the silhouette of a transport truck. The mortars appeared to be operating from a tree-encircled clearing at the foot of the hill, raining hell down on the men attacking the bridge and unaware that Edge was hunting them.
“Hit that machine gun with everything you’ve got!” Edge ordered his gunner. The 50cal swung on its mount and sprayed a shuddering hail of gunfire. Edge leaped down from the Stryker with his M4 in his hand. Waddingham looked woefully in his direction.
“What are we doing?”
“We’re going forward. We have to get to the mortars.” Edge ran at a crouch, boots scrabbling for purchase in the long muddy grass. Waddingham and Kalina sprang to their feet and the other scouts followed. The Russian machine gun post was deeply entrenched. It fired back at the Stryker’s gunner, forcing the man to duck behind cover.
“Christ!” Edge realized the sudden danger but knew there was no alternative other than to keep running. They were hopelessly exposed and still the Russian machine gun fired. One of Waddingham’s scouts was struck in the shoulder. The impact of the round spun him sideways and then a second bullet knocked him dead to the ground. Waddingham saw the man fall but could do nothing. He gritted his teeth and forced himself on up the slope until his lungs were bursting and his breath sawed in his throat.
At the moment Edge was certain the machine gunner would traverse his aim and target him, the 50cal mounted atop the Stryker opened fire again. Edge threw himself face-down into the dirt as the bullets roared over his head. He heard a short, sharp scream of pain and when he lifted his eyes the Russian machine gun post had dissolved into a furrow of churned earth.
“Fire in the hole!” Waddingham shouted and hurled a grenade. The trench erupted outwards in an avalanche of loose earth and dust. Before the smoke had settled Edge was on his feet. He dashed up the slope and stood poised on the rim of the crater. Both the Russians were dead.
He dropped into a crouch and Waddingham joined him, his chest heaving like a bellows. Both men were dripping with sweat. “The job’s not done,” Edge insisted savagely. “We have to reach those mortar crews and kill the bastards!”
*
Major Nowakowski stood in the shadows of the forest and stared cautiously through the veil of foliage at the horror unfolding across the battlefield. Under the flare of glowing illumination rounds and fiery explosions the fight for the bridge resembled a luridly-lit glimpse of Hell.
The Russian mortars were in a fury, turning the ground around the crossing into a churned muddy graveyard. The air seemed to quiver and quake with automatic gunfire.
He stayed hidden and watched aghast as three Russian soldiers crept through long grass to the edge of the road and then bounced to their feet to fire on stranded American soldiers. Several Cavalry troopers were hit in the fusillade. One man who had been kneeling behind a twist of metal wreckage cried out in agony and threw his arms in the air. He had been shot in the head. He tumbled from the bridge and splashed dead into the water below.
The Major’s face blanched white with fear. His stomach felt knotted and his breath came in shallow whimpers. A wayward mortar shell landed in the river, throwing up a great fountain of water. Then the American M1128’s launched a salvo of counter fire. A sudden hellish glow lit the skyline and a moment later the air overhead seemed to crack apart with thunder. A muscle in the Major’s cheek twinged and his legs turned to jelly. The American rounds landed on the crest, about halfway up the slope. The ridge had been horribly mauled by shellfire so that no vegetation remained and all that stood were the blackened stumps of shattered trees surrounded by deep muddy shell craters. The ground trembled as each round exploded and the night was lit bright by the flare of their fireballs. The air smelled of cordite and blood and death and smoke. The thunder of the explosions rolled away on the breeze, leaving Major Nowakowski with dulled senses and singing eardrums.
The agonized cry of a Russian dying before his eyes roused the Major back to alertness. The soldier was lying on the road, writhing in agony. He had been shot in the leg and was bleeding profusely. He called out to a comrade, his voice pleading, but no one came to his aid. The Major watched until the man stopped moving and lay dead on t
he blacktop.
A sudden hand on his shoulder made him cry out in whimpering terror. He turned wide-eyed, his mouth hanging slack with fright.
“Forgive me, Major,” the Polish Captain apologized. “It is time. Sergeant Edge’s Stryker column has already begun to engage the enemy. We must launch our attack to support them.”
Nowakowski shrugged the man’s hand from his shoulder. In an instant a mask of bravado replaced his look of fear. He glowered at the Captain and snorted.
“Do not presume to tell me of military strategy,” he growled. “How do you know the Strykers are attacking?”
“We have been monitoring the American radios, Major,” The Captain explained. “They attacked at the agreed time…” he glanced at his watch, “…and have been fighting without us for several minutes.”
“I have changed my mind,” the Major said.
“Sir?” the Captain looked appalled.
“We will not launch an attack. To do so would be folly. A child can see that the Russians are too deeply entrenched and too well prepared to be shifted from their position. The American Colonel is a poor tactician and has been punished for his naivety. I will not be a part of his folly, and nor will I risk Polish military vehicles.”
“But we vowed to support the Americans…” the Captain persisted.
“Let them die,” Nowakowski’s tone was scornful. “It is exactly what Sergeant Edge and his men deserve.”
He looked again out through the veil of trees. “At any moment the Russians are going to push the Americans back off the bridge with RPG and mortar fire. Then they will turn on Edge and crush him,” he clenched his fist to emphasize his claim. “The Americans will be ignominiously defeated. The men on the far side of the bridge will retreat. Edge and his band of fools will be killed or forced to surrender. If we engage the enemy, we will do nothing but expose ourselves to the American failure. No!” he shook his head. “A thousand times no! We will withdraw. We will fall back across the river and select a strong defensive position from where we can stop the Russians from advancing any further.”
“But Major, the Russians are not interested in advancing. They are interested only in preventing an allied flank attack against their Warsaw-bound spearhead.”
Nowakowski regarded the man with contemptuous scorn. “You are an idiot!”
The Captain flinched and dissolved into red-faced silence.
“The Russians will attack across the bridge once the American thrust has been broken on their guns,” Nowakowski prophesized. “Have you learned nothing of warfare? Do they not teach grand strategy in our military academies? The Russians will come pouring across the Sypitki and the Americans will be too demoralized and dispirited to resist them. The only way to defend our homeland is to keep our Army intact.”
He could still salvage something from the American debacle, the Polish Major decided, but he had to act quickly. He must withdraw to the far bank of the river before the Russians discovered his column and turned their fury on him.
“Return to the vehicles,” Nowakowski ordered the Captain. “And get the troops mounted up. We will retire immediately.”
Chapter 9:
Edge drew the rest of the group around him and looked at them. They were all breathing hard, their faces coated with dust and spattered mud, cut through with runnels of sweat. Their eyes were bloodshot and bleary.
“We have to take out the mortars,” Edge explained, pointing further along the slope. From where they were crouched the enemy was out of sight behind a palisade of low trees, but the repetitive cough of their incessant firing carried clearly. “Until we silence those bastards, the men around the bridge are going to keep dying. But there’s only four of us, and there’s at least eighteen of them.” Edge had seen at least half a dozen Russian field mortars, and knew each weapon would be serviced by at least three men. Then there were the support troops to consider. He had seen the bulky outline of at least one troop truck parked on the fringe of the clearing, but there could be more. “So this might be a suicide mission…” he said.
“You forgot about me,” Kalina said stiffly. “I can fight. I’ve proven myself.”
Edge shook his head. “I’m not doubting your bravery or your skill. But we get paid to do this work. You’re part-time militia. You need to head back to the road and find our Strykers barricading the Russian retreat. You’ll be safest there.”
Kalina’s expression darkened and her eyes turned smoldering. She glowered but said nothing.
Edge got to his feet and turned away. Waddingham and his two remaining scouts moved off with him into the flickering darkness. They moved with stealthy caution, climbing higher up the slope of the ridge as they closed on the fringe of trees that sheltered the mortar teams. The sound of the Russian crews working their weapons became louder. Edge could hear their barked commands, the metronomic repetition of orders, and mechanical actions that kept the deadly weapons constantly firing. Tendrils of grey smoke twisted between the trees and through it glowed the flickering bright flash of each round blasting into the night sky.
As they crept closer, Edge found himself praying that the Russians would not detect them, praying that the sounds of fighting and the loose cloak of darkness would conceal their movement.
Fifty yards from the barricade of trees, Edge called a halt and sank down onto his haunches. The scouts formed a knot around him and leaned close. A flicker of dark movement caught his eye. Edge glanced over his shoulder and cursed.
“I told you not to follow us. I told you to join the Strykers.”
“I am not under your orders,” Kalina stepped into a glimmer of light. Her jaw was set in a stubborn line of defiance and her eyes were hard with resolve. “So you either include me in your plan, or I attack the mortars alone.”
Edge muttered an oath under his breath and sighed in resignation. Kalina pushed her way in close to the others.
The Russians still fired, still serviced their weapons with slavish dedication, while from the road behind them the sounds of battle reached a crescendo. Edge could hear the Russian mortar crews clearly, and even distinguish the differences between individual voices. A fresh salvo of mortar rounds flashed into the night sky, followed by a billow of swirling grey smoke. A burst of Russian radio chatter cut through the night.
“Sergeant, you me and Kalina will go forward into the trees and make the attack,” Edge spoke to Waddingham. “You guys,” he singled out the remaining two scouts, “will destroy the trucks. There’s at least one parked in the woods to the north, but there might be more.”
They separated. Edge led Waddingham and Kalina to the stand of trees, creeping cautiously closer. They crawled through the undergrowth until the mortar park was in sight.
The clearing was an oval area, fifty yards across, bordered on every side by woods and bushes. Two troop trucks were parked with their tarpaulin-covered cargo bays facing the clearing from which a steady procession of soldiers frantically unloaded ammunition. The weapons were set in a line, separated by a waist-high redoubt of sandbags, each mortar braced on a steel bipod frame, their tubes elevated into the smoke-filled sky.
Edge crawled forward until he was laying concealed on the fringe of the clearing. Waddingham and Kalina lay in the scrubby undergrowth beside him. Edge did a head-count.
“Twenty three that I can see, including the officer,” he pointed to a man who stood separate from the mortars clutching a hand-held radio. He was a tall bull of a man with a barrel chest and a stern fleshy face.
“They’re not good odds,” Vince Waddingham understated gloomily.
“We’re going to have to take out as many as we can in the first few seconds and then get in close to finish them – ”.
A Russian soldier standing by one of the lorries reached into the tray of the truck for another mortar round and then stopped suddenly. His eyes flashed wide with shock and he shouted a warning.
“Amerikantsy!”
“Shit!” Edge cursed. The two scouts working th
eir way closer to the trucks had been spotted. For a moment nothing happened. Then the tall Russian officer bellowed a string of urgent orders and the Russians scrambled to retrieve weapons.
A sudden violent explosion shook the night. One of the trucks erupted in a ball of flame and smoke, blown apart by two grenades. Then a rattle of automatic fire cut down two Russians near the north side of the clearing.
“Fire!” Edge shouted.
Beside the closest mortar Edge could see the startled three-man crew freeze, and then dive for their weapons. One of the soldiers ducked behind the barrier of sandbags and came up firing wildly. The bullets ripped through the trees well to Edge’s right and disappeared into the night. A pistol shot cracked. Edge sprayed the mortar position with automatic fire from his M4. Waddingham and Kalina opened fire a split-second later and the clearing turned into a charnel house.
Edge knew their attack had to be determined and ferocious. He couldn’t let the battle turn into a firefight; he couldn’t allow the Russians time to find cover and organize resistance. Impulsively he leaped to his feet; Waddingham was at his shoulder, firing from the hip, and the two men screamed a wild challenge as they broke from cover and charged. The night lit up with gouts of chattering flame, Edge saw two Russians fold forward clutching at gaping stomach wounds, and then the hot breath of a bullet flashed past his cheek, missing by mere inches. Edge turned and saw a Russian mortarman behind a sandbag wall aiming an AK-74 at him. He fired and the man disappeared in a spray of blood. Another tall Russian lunged at him from out of the dark, knocking him to the ground, and he rolled away just as the glint of a knife whizzed past his ear. He kicked out at the man who went staggering backwards, his arms cartwheeling in the air for a handhold that wasn’t there. Edge scrambled for his M4 and fired from his knees, hitting the man in the chest. Waddingham fired at the same instant. The Russian jerked like a puppet on a string from the fusillade of hits and was dead before he struck the ground. The Russian officer commanding the post threw down his radio and bellowed at Edge, reaching for the pistol holstered on his hip. Waddingham leaped into the space between them and fired. The Russian officer stumbled backwards under the impact of several bullets and Waddingham followed through with a savage kick that caught the big man under the jaw and broke every tooth in his mouth.