In an engagement that lasted only around five minutes White and Budden fired sixteen Brimstone missiles at the tank battalion, destroying ten tanks outright and disabling two more. They finished off their attack by subjecting the surviving tanks to several salvos of rockets, a mix of Semi-Armoured-Piercing High-Explosive Incendiary and Flechette Anti-Tank, from their CRV-7 pods.
As the two Apaches departed, they left a scene of total chaos. The tank battalion had been reduced to eighteen operational tanks and found that its route of advance was blocked by burning vehicles. As a parting gift, White requested a fire mission from a Royal Artillery battery equipped with GMLRs, which would drop AT-2 anti-tank mines ahead of the battalion, which would further slow it down.
* * *
18th May. East of Schellerten.
Captain Currie lowered her binoculars and lowered herself down into the commander’s seat, shutting the hatch above her head. Despite the best efforts of the Army Air Corps, the Royal Artillery, and the RAF, just under two-thirds of the 243rd Motor Rifle Regiment had made it through. While the enemy might now be short of tanks, they still had approximately sixty to seventy BMP-2s and a dozen 2S1 Gvozdika 122mm howitzers in support. It was still going to be a close-run thing.
“Who are those poor bastards riding in what look like trucks ahead of the main Sov force?” Currie’s gunner, Corporal David ‘Gearbox’ Brown, wondered.
Currie too had noticed the rather odd-looking formation, following close behind the Soviet Advanced Guard. There were a few BTRs mixed in, but that group was otherwise made up of URAL trucks.
“Could be they want to use light infantry to take and hold the village.” Currie replied. “Or…” She left the thought hanging for a moment.
“It’s one of those Penal battalions we’ve heard about?” Brown wondered. “Poor sods will get shot to pieces when the ‘Dropshorts’ open up.”
“Well, I guess that’s their problem and not ours, David.” Currie replied. Part of her recoiled in horror at how casually she dismissed the suffering that was about to be inflicted on men being forced to advance against their will.
When did I start to lose my humanity?
* * *
Private Wilson peeped out of the downstairs window of the West German home his section had occupied. While the majority of the battle group had been positioned to the east of Schellerten, a single infantry platoon had been sent to contest control of the village. It was not expected to hold, but to simply delay the enemy. The platoon had been joined by a party of four Royal Engineers, who had been busy preparing demolitions and other ‘surprises’ for the approaching Soviets. The unit’s Warriors and engineers’ single Spartan APC were hidden a short distance away, engines running in preparation of evacuation.
Well there the poor sods are, he thought, spotting the approaching URALs and BTRs.
“Here they come!” he called out as the approaching enemy column halted, and its troops start to debus.
“Hold your fire until the boss gives the word,” Corporal Lonnie told his section. “I’ll shoot yous myself if someone opens up too early!”
Being a well-trained and experienced infantryman, Wilson was not impressed with their attackers’ tactics.
Like drunks coming home on a Friday night, he thought as the Soviets milled in his general direction.
“Who are these stupid pricks, Robbie?” he asked his ‘Oppo.’ “Dae they aw hiv a death wish, or something?”
“Fuck knows, Deeky,” Private Robertson replied with a shrug. “Makes the pricks easier to shoot if they dinnae take cover.”
The scream of incoming artillery made the men of the section flinch. It was only when the first 155 mm shells exploded amongst the Soviet troops that they realised it was ‘friendly.’
“Well makes a change from shelling us, I suppose. So nice one, ‘Dropshorts,’” Private Stein remarked with a wide grin.
“Now! Now! Now! Open fire!” Corporal Lonnie ordered. “Shoot the stupid fuckers!”
Wilson pulled the trigger on his L85A2 rifle in quick succession, aiming at shadowy targets, not really seeing how many of them he hit, if any. To his left, Private Robertson alternated between firing his rifle and launching grenades from the UGL fitted to it. To his right, Private Stein fired short bursts from his LMG
The artillery fire lifted as the AS90 howitzers relocated to avoid any counter-battery fire. Barely had the barrage ceased when the air was again rent by the sound of shell fire. This time it was not friendly.
“Incoming!” Stein yelled, dropping to the floor of the house.
122 mm shells from the Soviet regiment’s Gvozdika howitzers began to methodically smash up the village. The house that Lonnie’s section was sheltering in shook as the shells crept ever closer.
This is it, Wilson had a moment to think.
* * *
Unbeknownst to any of the artillerymen, the Soviet artillery battalion had thrown the proverbial ‘one shell too many.’ British counterbattery radars, their lobes queued to provide coverage over the village’s position, quickly determined the Gvozdikas’ locations. Mid-salvo, the counterfire from the GMLRs of 39th Heavy Regiment, Royal Artillery, arrived with their typical precision and savagery. Two of the dozen Gvozdika survived the steel rain unleashed on them, their crews shaken by the cluster munitions and secondary explosions signifying their comrades’ deaths.
* * *
“Well that was short,” Stein said picking himself back up. “Looks like we were pretty lucky…aww naw, shite. Paul’s deid.”
While the house had not been hit directly, a near miss had caused a roof beam to collapse. Unfortunately for him, Lance-Corporal Paul MacConachie had been directly underneath it.
“Aww, shite!” Lonnie exclaimed. “Get his ammo, gat, grenades and tags.”
“Robby, you’re acting assistant section commander until I hear different.”
“Well here’s to bloody wars and…” Wilson began to say, quoting a well-known saying.
“Shut the fuck up, Private Wilson!” Lonnie snapped. “Paul’s not even cold, and you’re making jokes. Show some fucking respect!”
“Sorry, Corporal,” a contrite Wilson said as he searched through the late MacConachie’s ammunition pouches, taking the spare magazines he found, along with some ration bars.
“It’s no’ me you should be apologising to, ya bam!” Lonnie growled.
“I hate to interrupt, lads,” Stein remarked from the window. “But we’ve got infantry at the edge of the village.”
“Well, shoot the silly bastards then!” Lonnie replied, crossing to one of the other windows.
* * *
Acting Major Krylov had watched with horror as the British artillery barrage cut the leading two companies of his battalion to pieces. Thankfully, as far as he was concerned at least, they had been Penal companies and not his old unit. He cursed the British gunners for not managing to hit the Guard Company; he would have settled for the KGB platoon.
I cannot depend on anyone these days, he thought angrily. Not even the enemy.
The survivors of II and III Companies, piteously few though they were, had simply dropped into cover, until IV and V Companies had reached them. The survivors had been incorporated into these units and the advance continued. No. I Company was now close enough to the village to begin to use its BMP-2s as direct fire support. Annoyingly, the British were not using tracer fire, making it difficult to locate them.
The snarl of machine gun fire from the Guard Company caused him to look to his right. A few small groups from the Penal Companies had started to drift back from the murderous British defensive fire, and the Guards had provided a sharp remainder which way they should be moving.
Well, at least they put that first burst over their head, Krylov thought. It would have been a double waste if they’d actually shot some of them. His battalion wasn’t short of machine gun ammunition yet, but he knew how quickly that could change in the offense.
“Comrade Major, the IV and V companies have rea
ched the village,” his new orderly stated. Krylov smiled as he heard the sounds of the initial assault.
The British might be better trained, but we certainly have many, many more troops, he thought.
* * *
“Hello all call-signs, this is Sunray, time to go, repeat, time to go. Off,” Lieutenant Gary Beaumont, the platoon leader, said over every member of the platoon’s Personal Role Radio.
The platoon’s four Warriors and engineers’ Spartan roared into the village, taking cover and then opening their rear hatches. The survivors of the platoon broke out of their buildings and sprinted towards the vehicles as the Warriors laid down suppressive fire. As he ran, Wilson saw one ‘Jock’ from another section get hit and go down, wounded.
That poor bastard, Wilson thought, ducking behind some rubble in preparation of laying down covering fire. To his shock, a RAMC medic dashed out of one of the Warriors and grabbed the man.
Bloody hell, Private Norris is stronger than I thought she was, he thought, watching the slight woman drag the man towards safety.
“Come on Wilson, shift your arse!” someone shouted. Wilson shook himself and started dashing for his own Warrior just as BMP-2s rounded the far intersection corner. There was a short, intense exchange of 30 mm fire between the platoon’s Warriors and the oncoming Soviet vehicles. Wilson’s Warrior was untouched, while another Warrior in the platoon was damaged but not penetrated due to its heavy armour. Unfortunately for the engineer section and their Soviet counterparts, neither the Spartan nor the three BMP-2s were nearly as lucky, their burning wrecks contributing to the general pall starting to surround the area.
* * *
Battle Group H.Q. (Main).
The Sultan ACV from which Lt. Colonel Stevenson was controlling the battle shook as an artillery shell exploded nearby. Waiting to see if it was the start of a barrage, Stevenson was pleasantly surprised to see it was just a stray. Turning, he regarded his staff as they all came back to their feet.
“D Squadron is getting hit pretty hard,” he noted. “They’re down to seven operational tanks and three Warriors; it looks like my counterpart has concentrated all of his tanks and now his reserve on our left flank. How bad are things there now?”
“Pretty bad, Colonel,” Captain Young reported, his face pale as he listened to a radio report. “Their squadron H.Q. just got hit by artillery.”
The man paused.
“Sir, Major Mollison and Captain Baxter are out of action,” Young said quickly. “Major Mollison is dead, I’m afraid.”
Stevenson swallowed.
I’ve known Brian since Sandhurst, he thought. My god, will there be any of us left when this is over? Getting a mental grip on his emotions, Stevenson put those thoughts aside.
Not if you don’t save that for later, you idiot.
“Who is in charge down there now?” Stevenson asked, his voice harsher than he wished.
“Lieutenant Patel; he commands the attached Black Watch platoon.”
With the pressure D Squadron was under, he needed an experienced officer in charge, not an infantry subaltern.
“Right, I’m going to head down there myself.” Stevenson declared, deciding that he needed to resolve the crisis himself. “Captain Young, get onto Major Anderson at Forward H.Q. and tell him he’s in charge for the moment. You take command here.”
* * *
As Lieutenant Colonel Stevenson’s Challenger 2 crested a small rise, he could see why D Squadron had been badly mauled. At least a company of Soviet T-72s were only a few hundred meters away from the British positions, and at that range even the Challenger’s heavy armour was vulnerable to penetration from their 125mm guns.
“Right, time to make ourselves look like a whole tank squadron,” Stevenson told his crew. “Heyman, find your targets while I get a hold of this situation.”
As his gunner, Sergeant Charlie Heyman, followed orders, Stevenson got onto the D Squadron command net, informed the unit he was taking command, and what his instructions were. Heyman, like all good command tank gunners, was able to control the Challenger 2 effectively from his position. By the time Stevenson was done, his tank had fired four times, all from separate positions. As the second T-72’s turret flew into the air, the Soviets quickly became convinced that another armoured squadron was falling upon their left flank.
“Uh, oh, Boss,” Heyman remarked. “Looks like we’ve pissed them off!”
“And we’re a wee bit short of ammo now,” the loader, Lance-Corporal Nick White commented.
So, this is how it ends, Stevenson thought, the first volley of 125mm shells going over his head. Anderson tried to think of something inspiring to say, a text message on his Bowman radio terminal saved him.
“The Queen’s Dancing Girls are hitting the enemy’s right flank!” he said exultantly, referring to the 1st The Queen’s Dragoon Guards Battle Group. “I’d say we’ve done it!”
Stevenson was right, starting with the attack on D Squadron, the enemy found themselves caught between the hammer of the QDG battle group advancing from the south, and the anvil of the SCOTS DG.
The 243rd Motor Rifle Regiment’s attack broke down and shortly after that, the regiment itself began to fall apart. Both British battle groups now pursued a beaten enemy, which was also subjected to near constant attack by attack helicopters and fast-jets, now that its air defence vehicles had either been destroyed or were out of ammunition.
Flying a rare daytime mission, Captain White and her wingman, Staff Sergeant Jones, joined the chase in their Apaches, picking off fleeing enemy vehicles with relative ease. She was only brought up short when she realised that she had started to target individual soldiers on foot.
* * *
19th May. SCOTS DG battle group.
“That was a great bit of work, Colonel,” Brigadier Harris told Stevenson. “Well done to you and your men. But I don’t want to see you playing at squadron commander next time.”
“Thank you, sir, and I certainly don’t want to have to do that again,” Stevenson replied. He was happy that Harris had taken the time to come down and see the battle group personally.
Shows he’s not just a mad sacker, Stevenson thought.
“The divisional commander and General O’Connor also pass along their own congratulations,” Harris continued happily. “If that Soviet regiment had gotten past you, there’s no end of trouble it could have caused. As things are, the Black Watch reached Helmstedt in the early hours of this morning. Other battle groups from our division and the other divisions, from what I hear, have reached the border in several places.”
The man paused for a moment, and a shadow of doubt crossed his face.
“The only fly in the ointment is Braunschweig—there are still Soviets troops in the city,” Harris said grimly. “They’re mainly rear area types, but they’ll need dealing with. I’m told that one of the infantry brigades from 2 Division is being brought up to handle that particular problem.”
Glad I’m not the poor bastard who gets to go with them, Stevenson thought, then looked worriedly at Harris.
“And the rest of 3rd Shock…I mean the 3rd Combined thingy, well you know who I mean, Sir.”
“We’ve started to have surrenders from the units pocketed to the west of Hildesheim,” Harris said. “They have run out of fuel, are low on ammo, and are now running out of food.”
Captain Young stuck his head into the Sultan. He was holding a copy of the previous day’s Guardian newspaper.
Enterprising lad to get a hold of a daily that quickly, Stevenson thought. No end to the surprises with that one, as usually they’re days late.
“Got some news that I thought you would be interested in seeing, gentlemen,” the officer said.
“Holy hell, they’ve passed the National Service Bill,” Harris stated, reading the banner headline.
“Looks like we’re planning on the long-term, Sir,” Stevenson remarked.
“Not that story, Sir, the one below,” Young remarked, jabbing
his finger at the paper.
‘Revolts break out in Poland and Czechoslovakia.’
Stevenson and the Brigadier smiled.
“To paraphrase Churchill, I think this could be the end of the beginning,” Harris remarked.
* * *
20th May. Near Schellerten.
Acting Major Krylov was tired, dirty, and hungry. He had been on the run for nearly two days now. He had been very lucky to escape the destruction of his BMP-2K command vehicle when British tanks had overrun his headquarters. It had been sheer luck that he’d stepped out to relieve himself shortly before a 120mm HESH round had knocked on the vehicle’s flank with explosive results. Krylov had been able to escape into the night, but without rations and armed with nothing more than a pistol. He had decided to start to head east, hoping to run into friendly forces.
For the last two hours, he had been hidden in a ditch beside a road as convoy after convoy of British vehicles rumbled past. On seeing a gap, he got up and began to sprint across.
“Halt!” a female voice yelled. “Halt, or I shoot!”
Krylov started running as fast as he could, his legs burning and his chest feeling like it was going to burst.
I will never surrender, he thought. How could I—
Krylov was suddenly surprised to find himself face down on the ground, with two sharp cracks seeming to come an eternity later.
I’ve been shot, he thought stupidly. Strangely, he could not get any of his limbs to move, and breathing seemed to be a struggle. There was the crunch of gravel behind him, but he just couldn’t make himself roll over.
“Stupid sod just wouldn’t stop,” the same female voice observed.
“Well, he won’t make that mistake again,” a second woman observed just before it all went black.
* * *
21st May. The Inner German Border, East of Helmstedt.
Trouble in the Wind Page 45