by Larry Bond
Other men were running, dozens of them, as the gun crews settled into position. Phone circuits were hooked up and tested, and Vega saw gun barrels elevate and swivel as the aimers checked their mechanisms.
The two officers reached the command trench, little more than a six-foot-deep rectangular hole. The field phone operator shouted to
Morona as he leapt in, “At least eight aircraft, from the east!” Normally the report would have included altitude and speed, but Vega suspected this warning was based on a visual or sound sighting. The mobile air search radar had also fallen victim to an anti radar missile. Not only did this deny them information about the attacking aircraft, but also warning time. Those aircraft will be here any moment, Vega thought.
Morona picked up his own headset and listened briefly. Speaking into his microphone, he ordered, “Barrage pattern, one hundred meters altitude.
” Picking up a pair of field glasses, he scanned the night sky, looking for any sign of the oncoming raid.
Without taking his eyes from the sky, the battery commander spoke to
Vega.
“With both radars out, General, we cannot aim at individual aircraft, especially at night. All we can do is lay a pattern of fire in the sky at the right altitude and let them fly through it.”
“Why one hundred meters?” Vega asked.
“Because the American pilots Re to come in low, and that is the lowest they fly.”
The captain continued to scan with his binoculars and suddenly pointed to the southeast.
“Tracers! Troops on the ground are firing at the aircraft!” Pressing his mike switch, Morona said,
“Center sector on one three five. Barrage pattern! Commence!”
Half a second after he spoke, the four working guns of the battery opened up, filling the air with a rapid-fire roar. In addition to the guns themselves, Vega could hear the sound of the motor drives whirring and stopping, and the even higher-pitched sounds of the empty shell casings spilling from the guns. Fragments of shouted orders filled the small open spaces between the guns’ firing as men scurried to supply the guns with ammunition.
The S-60 can pump out seventy rounds a minute. The four in combination seemed to pour a stream of shells skyward, each one glowing and increasing in size as it flew. A few hundred meters up and about a kilometer away, the shells converged in a pattern of lines, hopefully intersecting the approaching aircrafts’ flight path. Even with aimed fire, it took thousands of rounds to get a single hit. Vega could only watch the display and hope.
“How many rounds do you have?” Vega shouted at Morona.
“More than two hundred rounds per gun ready,” he replied. Morona seemed to be almost leaning into the guns, as if the continuous muzzle blasts created a strong wind. Vega wished for six guns instead of four, and a functioning radar, then realized he was being foolish. He might as well wish for
Pretoria. His business was facts, and the hard reality of combat.
A high-pitched scream appeared behind the barking of the guns, and Vega saw a group of angular shapes appear to the southeast, crossing his field of view left to right. They were low and appeared only in silhouette against the moonlit sky. It was hard to tell their type, but they were almost certainly Intruders or Hornet attack jets. They seemed to approach slowly, even though he knew their speed must be a thousand kilometers an hour.
Yes! Their path was taking them through the flak barrage. and some of
the tracer streams wavered as the gunners attempted to track the fastmoving aircraft. As they neared, their apparent speed increased until they flashed past, gone before Vega had time to count them or guess their target.
“Down!” Hands grabbed his shoulders and roughly dragged him to the floor of the trench. As he started to protest, a deafening roar filled the air above, spilling over into their shelter. The roar ended in a popping, crackling sound that was even louder. As he fell full length to the dirt floor, fragments zinged around them, and choking dust filled the trench.
Vega felt a burning sensation in his left leg.
Shaking his head to clear it, Vega looked over at Morona, who stared back at him.
“I saw them coming in from the north while we tracked the first group of planes. Two aircraft. They were headed straight for us. ” The captain took a breath and nodded toward the lip of the trench.
“I think they just cluster-bombed the battery.”
The general started to stand up and suddenly sat down as his left leg gave way beneath him. He realized he couldn’t move it.
Morona leaned over him and took one look at the leg. His eyes widened, and he shouted, “The general’s been hit!”
Vega was curious about the damage to the battery and was insisting on trying to stand up as a medic appeared and began tekring at his pants leg. The general tried to help him, but suddenly felt dizzy and weak. As he leaned forward to look at the wound, the night spun around him and he remembered nothing else.
JANUARY 11 -WARM BAD VEGAS HEADQUARTERS
The third and latest headquarters was located in an anonymous-looking row of shops off a side street in town. Since they communicated solely by runners and field telephone, there was none of the exterior bustle and activity that marked it as a headquarters. There were no vehicles to spot, no radio traffic to detect. It was harder to do business, but they were still alive.
Vega had chosen a small bookstore for his own office, one of the prerogatives of command. Propped up in an easy chair from one of the apartments above, his leg elevated so that he was almost lying down, he didn’t feel foolish only because of the throbbing pain.
“The Russians have promised to replace our antiaircraft guns and send more and newer missiles to improve our defenses.” Suarez handed Vega the message slip.
Vega reached for the paper, then weakly waved it away.
“How many SAMs will it take to protect us from two aircraft carriers, Colonel? Who will provide the advisors and training for the new equipment?” The general scowled. “it will help, but in addition to airdefense equipment, ask for smoke generators and more dummy equipment. “
Suarez nodded, smiling.
“That will serve two purposes: provide them with more targets, and fool the South Africans and Americans as to our real strength.”
Vega shook his head and smiled.
“I’d rather they both thought we were weaker, not stronger. It’s clear that South Africa is concentrating their remaining forces against us.
“We can beat them. What are the casualty figures this morning?”
“Roughly ten percent of our armored vehicles are lost, another ten percent damaged but repairable, especially with cannibalization from the destroyed ones. The figures are double that for specialist units: artillery and air defense units have been especially hard hit.”
Vega nodded soberly, remembering B Battery. They were reduced to two guns now and had suffered over twenty dead in last night’s raid. It gave sober reality to Suarez’s cold statistics.
“In return for that, we shot down seven aircraft and damaged another ten,”
Suarez reported.
Vega had learned long ago not to trust completely enemy body counts.
“How many wrecks have we found?”
“Three, sir. The other four were seen to be trailing smoke and in trouble as they left the area.”
The general shook his head.
“However many there were, I think they will lighten up now. We can still expect attacks, but not at the level of the past twenty-four hours. From now
on, we will conduct major movements at night. If we pay more attention to proper dispersal and concealment, we can continue with minimal casualties.”
Suarez tried to sound hopeful.
“As long as they don’t attack the airheads in Mozambique and Zimbabwe, we will still receive supplies.”
“The Americans don’t need to attack the airheads. The supply line is long enough for them to hit it between here and the border. The risk o
f hitting Russians or other foreign citizens is too great, just as the risk of losing a cargo aircraft or its crew is too great for the Russians to land here.” Vega remembered the airfield at Naboomspruit. It could easily handle large transport planes, but the Soviets had insisted on landing at the original airfields, now a hundred kilometers away. He understood their reasoning, but it didn’t keep him from hating them.
Vega had been half-sitting up, but suddenly fell back in the chair as all the strength left him. Lack of sleep and a hole in his thigh that had needed thirty stitches could not be ignored. Suarez was worried. The general had been pushing himself before the wound. Now he was pale, and obviously on the brink of exhaustion. Tired men don’t make good leaders.
“I’ll send in the medics and some lunch, sir. You should rest and heal.”
“So should the rest of the Army,” Vega replied.
A mild painkiller and some food had relaxed and refreshed him, and his chief of staff let him sleep until dinnertime. That gave Suarez time to organize the Army and the disrupted supply lines.
The general woke from his long nap, and while he was still pale and thin, he spoke more energetically and was much less defeatist. As they ate dinner, Vega issued a dozen directives, all designed to help deal with the American air attacks and the problems of night combat. He railed against the loss of half a day, and Suarez smiled. He would gladly spend half a day’s advance to get his general back.
Evidence of the American attacks was everywhere when the command group went forward to their observation position. Suarez was visibly uneasy, but Vega had insisted on observing the first night attack personally. None of them had any experience in large-scale night attacks, and Vega said that he needed to learn faster than anyone else in the Army, and hopefully faster than the South Africans.
Gomez parked the jeep in a gully formed where a dry streambed cut into the side of a hill. Although there were several groups of trees nearby, the Cubans’ first lesson had been to avoid prominent terrain features.
Instead, they sheltered it against the gully’s side, then moved forward slowly to the top of the hill.
The command group, consisting of Vega, Vasquez, Gomez with the radio, and two bodyguards, settled down to wait for the opening moves. Suarez would run the battle from headquarters. In fact, Vega thought, Suarez was shaping up nicely. Certainly, when the next list of generals was announced, Suarez should be on it. The man should have his own division. .
A rippling group of explosions woke Vega with a start.
“How long have I been asleep?”
“About half an hour, sir. There’s been nothing to see. and you needed the rest. The artillery barrage is just beginning. “
“Good.” Initially afraid that he’d missed something, his relief was mixed with irritation. Was everyone in the Army going to nursemaid him now?
Vega was lying on his back and rolled over, grabbing his field glasses.
Only the general outlines of the landscape could be made out. Scattered clouds blocked some of the starlight and a very new moon. A classic example of the veld, or savannah, making up much of northern South
Africa, it appeared flat, covered with scrub brush and tall grass.
Off to the left, he could see a glow and hear the explosions made by artillery shells as they landed. They had probably started a few fires in the grass, hopefully among the South African defenders.
The deceptively flat terrain was laced with dips and rises, some of them large enough to conceal an armored vehicle.
With time to prepare, vehicles could be dug in so that only their turret and gun were exposed, forming an excellent defensive position. Their slow progress had given the Boers more than enough time.
This battle was to regain the initiative. The South Africans had rebuilt their defenses, and Vega was going to have to knock them back on their heels. His wound notwithstanding, the general felt the old drive again.
He knew he could blow these damn Boers out of their holes, and the artillery was just the first step.
The barrage ceased, and Vega knew that kilometers back, the gun crews were hurriedly bringing the guns out of battery and moving them to their second firing position. He would lose the battery for half an hour, but better that than losing them forever.
Vega lay on the rise and watched, waiting. It was quiet again, and in the darkness, the only sound he could hear was a faint rumbling, far to the rear. Some part of his forces was being bombed, and Vega could only hope that Suarez could deal with the extra confusion.
The second phase was late, or seemed to be, and Vega felt himself displaying uncharacteristic nervousness. He was almost ready to reach for the radio when he heard the crack of high-velocity cannon, off to the left. There were no new lights, but as the tank cannon fired, he could see streaks of light fly forward and land all along the South African line. The T-62s probably wouldn’t hit anything, Vega decided, but they would get the Boers’ attention, and certainly their respect.
After a few shots, Vega saw streaks of fire going back the other way.
There was no sign of the source, or its effects, and he could only hope his men were giving the best part.
The general scanned the rest of the battlefield. Good. No lights, no sounds, no other sign of activity. Fifteen minutes had passed since the barrage had stopped, and the general nervously counted each one, hoping that his artillery would be redeployed in time.
They didn’t get the chance. A popping noise heralded a harsh, white, flickering light. Vega noted that the flares were fired over the right side of the battlefield and knew that his plan had been detected.
The magnesium light illuminated row after row of tanks and personnel carriers, advancing on the right toward the Boer lines. Somebody must have heard engines and called for flares. It had to happen eventually, but like all generals, Vega had wanted them to get a little closer before they were discovered.
The firing on his left had been by no more than a handful of tanks, picked for their cranky engines, but functional guns. Combined with a preparatory barrage, Vega’s feint had not only drawn the enemy’s attention but hopefully their reserves as well.
Vega watched his lines of armor advance. They were speeding up now, sacrificing neat formations to close quickly with the enemy. Breaking standard doctrine, they would not fire until they had a target, which would hopefully be at short range. As it was, they were only a kilometer or so from the Afrikaner line.
It only took a few seconds for the enemy to see the advancing battalion and realize their danger. Their positions erupted in tracers, bathing the advancing Cubans in explosives. There were a few hits, but the dark, moving targets held their fire and kept advancing.
Vega started to get up, but almost as soon as he stirred, he felt
Vasquez’s hand on his shoulder, urging him to stay.
“You won’t see anything if you get closer, sir. It would just increase the chance of you getting hit again, and we might not be as lucky.”
The general nodded and returned to his prone position. His urge to get closer was natural, but even at close range, a night battle was no more than a confused mix of sound and images. His best vantage point was up here, getting the “big picture,” even if it was a little dark.
The general shook his head a little. Normally he would have dismissed an impulse such as that without giving it a second thought. Vega could only wonder if his wound had weakened him, made him more emotional. He resolved to consider his actions carefully.
The storm of fire suddenly doubled, and Vega realized that his battalion must be close enough to see the Boer positions clearly. Fire was starting to come in from the left and center as well now. The general smiled as he imagined the confusion behind the enemy line-first sending units over to its left, then frantically trying to shift them as the true danger was revealed. Vega loved the chaos and confusion of battle-as long as it was behind the enemy’s lines.
Gomez spoke up.
“Battery commander reports
ready for second fire mission.
“
Vega felt his spirits lift a little more.
“Tell him to execute as planned,” he ordered the radio man. He listened to Gomez relay his order as he studied the battle.
More of his tanks and APCs were burning now. The progress of the battalion could be followed by a widening wedge of flickering fires, and
Vega knew that for every burning vehicle there were probably two more that had been knocked out.
He hoped the men had escaped from their metal traps. More importantly, he hoped they would have the wit and the will to advance in the right direction in the swirling, lethal confusion.
A whooshing roar was followed by a hollow crump sound. His artillery was shelling the Afrikaner line, but the shells were smoke, not high explosive. Landing at right angles to the Boer positions, and lying across the center, the smoke would make the dark night darker, effectively isolating one third of the battlefield from the rest. It would not block all of the Boer fire, but it would reduce its effectiveness and slow any movement to that area.
The artillery stopped, and Vega knew they were moving again. American air power, even if not directed by the South Africans, was driving his tactics. Like weather or terrain, it had to be considered, but it could be dealt with.
“The assistant battalion commander says that his tanks have penetrated the line and are swinging left!” Gomez’s report was almost a cheer, and
Vega was glad that the darkness hid his grin. Then he stopped worrying about it.
With the tanks behind them and on their flank, the South
Africans would have to quickly retreat or face utter destruction. Vega almost hoped they didn’t. He imaged the panicked Boer infantry, turning their heads to see shadowed steel monsters emerging from the smoke almost on top of them.
Still, it had not been without cost. Obviously the battalion commander was unable to report. His tank was in the front rank, and Vega could only hope that his vehicle’s problems were limited to a broken radio,
