by Harvey Black
The battalion was expected to cross near Rehren. Although the bridge would be blown shortly to prevent the Soviet forces finding an easy crossing, Chieftain AVLBs (Armoured Vehicle-Launched Bridge) had been made available to dash forward, and in less than five minutes, two twenty-three-metre bridges would be laid across the Aue. Once 3 Queen’s crossed, they had orders to race west as fast as possible; their responsibilities for defending that sector would cease. 2nd Infantry Division would take over full responsibility for the defence line from then on. The 2nd Division’s stop-line was the River Weser, but while they prepared those defences, Territorial Army units allocated to them, along with the 24th Brigade, would be used to slow the enemy down. 1st and 3rd Armoured Divisions required a reprieve if they were to extract themselves from the battle and rest, resupply and rearm.
During periods of total war, the Territorial Army is incorporated by the Royal Prerogative into the Regular Service. They now came under the code of Military Law for the full duration of hostilities or until the situation was such that deactivation could be permitted.
“Mathew.”
“Sir,” responded Lieutenant Mathew Reynolds, running over to the Land Rover FFR where his company OC was standing talking into the radio.
“Roger that. Out.” The Officer Commanding, Delta Company, 1st Battalion, YV, one of four rifle companies in this BAOR-assigned battalion, passed the handset back to his signaller. “Mathew, I’ve got a special task for you.”
“Sounds ominous, sir.”
“It is.” The sandy-haired officer laughed. His freckled face stood out even through the streaked cam-cream that plastered his face. “See that concrete structure,” he said, indicating the concrete mouth of the tunnel where the Rodenberger Aue passed under the Mittellandkanal, an amazing piece of German ingenuity. “I want your platoon to defend that. There are Soviet airborne all over the area, and they’ll want to ensure the Soviet tank divisions have free passage.”
Reynolds turned to his runner. “Get Sergeant Mason to move Three-Section up the top there. I’ll join him shortly.”
“Sir,” responded the soldier, and ran off to carry out his orders.
“Have a Gympy facing down the canal itself, and I’ll get a Milan FP over to you. I might send you a second FP, but the other three will be needed to support One and Two-Platoon.”
“You think they might use the canal, sir?”
“Wouldn’t you? Why try and cross it when you can send your troops along it. If they cross the Rodenberger that way, they’ll get right behind us.”
“I’ll see to it, sir.”
“Be quick, Mathew. That last radio message was telling us that the bridge at Rehren is about to be blown. 3rd Queen’s are on their way with Soviet airborne harassing them every step of the way.”
“They can’t be that far away from us then.”
“No, so make it quick. Two-Platoon will be on your left and Golf-Company will be on their left. I’ll use One-Platoon to cover when we have to withdraw. Make sure your Saxons are close. Once they get across, or as soon as we get the order to move, we’re out of here.”
“Consider it done, sir.”
“Good luck, Mathew.” With that, the OC jumped into the Land Rover and was driven off. He would need to organise the disposition of the rest of his company.
Reynolds ran along the edge of the canal to his right, a tree-lined embankment above him, reaching the Saxon belonging to Three-Section, parked next to the concrete structure that was the start of the ten-metre wide tunnel.
Sergeant Mason was waiting for him. “There’s a bloody great gap here, sir.”
Reynolds looked at where his platoon sergeant was pointing. There was indeed a gap. Next to the canal, a hard-packed track ran parallel to it, straight across the top of the Rodenberger. In between the mouth of the tunnel and the canal, a twenty-metre stretch would allow the enemy easy access across the Aue. There was only him and his men that could stop them.
“Have you checked the tunnel?”
“It’s blocked. They’ll not get through it.”
“What about the section?”
“Deployed, sir. I’ll show you.”
The sergeant moved off, his platoon commander, signaller and runner close behind. The first position they came across was the rifle-group. Four men, led by the section commander, were digging in on the left and right of the hard-packed track that crossed the gap between the tunnel head and the canal.
“Corporal.”
“Sir,” responded Corporal Brian Fletcher, the section commander. “I’ve got Roberts and Fraser digging in here. They can use this to protect their left flank,” he said pointing to the concrete wall that stood two-metres high to the side of them, the mouth of the tunnel on the other side. “George and Jenkins are on the right. Above them is the gun-group.”
Reynolds surveyed the positions, noting that the GPMG team of three men were at the top of the embankment, a spindly tree either side of their position. They were far enough back that they wouldn’t receive incoming fire from the side; the wall of the tunnel mouth protected them as well.
“My worry is an attack from the canal.” Reynolds frowned. “If the Soviets come at us from the direction canal and from the gap at the same time, the gun-group could find themselves in trouble.”
Just then, a second Saxon pulled up in the tree line, next to the open mouth of the tunnel.
“I’m going to put Two-Section, less two men, next to the entrance of the tunnel mouth, along the western embankment of the Aue.” Informed Sergeant Mason. “They’ll have a view right across the other side, out to a couple of hundred metres with an arc of at least 180. The other two men, I suggest, sir, could set up on the edge of the canal itself. They can warn us of any movement on the water, and with One-Section in reserve, we can counter any assault from there, or along any of our area of responsibility for that matter.”
“I like it, Sergeant Mason. When the Milan FP turns up, put it with Three-Section. If they send any armour to try and rout us out of our position, they’ll probably use the track running along the canal.”
“If they attempt a direct attack along that track, we’ll be hard-pushed to stop them, sir. Half a dozen BMPs or airborne APCs charging down there would take some stopping. One Milan isn’t going to make much difference.”
The officer reflected on what his platoon sergeant was saying. He trusted the man’s judgement. He was a good senior NCO and an excellent soldier. “I’ll get onto the OC immediately. This has got to be their first point of call.”
“Can we have the mortar platoon give our fire-missions priority, sir?”
“Good idea. I’ll try and get another Milan from the anti-tank platoon.”
“What about some mines?”
“Anything else on your wish list, Sergeant?” Reynolds laughed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Sir, sir, its Company HQ.”
Reynolds grabbed the handset off his signaller. “Zero-Delta, this is Delta-Three-Zero. Over.”
“Zero-Delta. Friendlies starting to feed through numerous points, south of your water feature. They need figures two to four hours to withdraw through. We hold for as long as we can. Enemy spotted by heli-reconnaissance. They’ll be on your doorstep in less than ten minutes. Over.”
“Roger that, sir. We have a big gap here to cover. A likely focal point. Need immediate planned fire-missions and additional Milan FP. Over.”
The Sergeant, having overheard the conversation, signalled that he would warn the rest of the platoon.
“On it already, Oliver. Send grids soonest.”
“Roger that, sir. They’ll be with you in one. Over.”
“I’ll join you shortly. Out.”
Reynolds ran towards the concrete wall of the tunnel entrance, looked over at the two soldiers dug-in in front of him, and slumped with his back to the wall, pulling his map from his combat jacket pocket. Placing his SLR on the ground, his signaller crouching next to him, he called in the coordinate
s. Three fire-missions should do it, he thought.
A Land Rover raced up the bank towards the gap and pulled alongside the lieutenant.
“Sir, where do you want the Milan?” asked the lance corporal who was sitting in the passenger seat.
“Set up on the track, then dump your transport back the way you came up. You have Three-Section’s gun-group on the high ground to your right, and you’ll be in between them and the rifle-group. Understand?”
“Sir.”
“Make it quick then. The enemy will be with us very shortly.”
The driver reversed the vehicle, changed gear, turned right and pulled up next to the embankment. The two men manhandled the Milan anti-tank missile launcher out of the vehicle in order to take it to their allocated firing position.
Once Lieutenant Reynolds had finished transmitting the coordinates, he headed up the embankment.
Crump, crump, crump…crump, crump, crump.
Reynolds threw himself down alongside the gun-group as three mortar rounds erupted just north of the tunnel entrance, on the eastern bank of the Rodenberger Aue. Three more mortar bombs exploded, this time bracketing the tunnel entrance itself, one landing in the water, a fountain of spray plastering the structure with water.
“All call signs. Mask up, mask up,” Reynolds ordered.
He knew there would be no chemical contaminants from the mortar shells, but he didn’t know what else was lined up to hit them. He pulled on his own suffocating mask, checking that his runner, signaller and the gun-group were doing the same. Lance Corporal Marsh, second-in-command of the section and commander of the gun-group, nodded as if to say he was ready. Although nerves were eating at his gut, that simple contact with his platoon commander steadied his uneasiness.
Three more explosions. This time, more accurate, punching small craters in the hard-packed track, showering the Milan and rifle team in debris.
Crump, crump, crump…crump, crump, crump.
This time, the bombs landed on the west bank of the Aue, along the line where the soldiers of Two-Section were partially dug in. Reynolds doubted they had had time to prepare more than just shell-scrapes. More bombs hit the track below him. There were two mortar sections targeting his men, he surmised.
“Delta-Three-Two, Delta-Three-Zero. Report. Over.”
After a delay of five or ten seconds, a muffled response came back. “This is Delta-Three-Two…Hit hard…one killed…two…injured…”
“Are you functional? Over.”
“…Gympy intact. Over.”
“Roger that. Hang in there. Will get you medical assistance soonest. Out to you. Hello, Zero-Delta, Delta-Three-Zero. Contact. Mortar fire. Two firing points. Need medical assistance to my location ASAP. Over.”
“Zero-Delta. Acknowledged. Help on way. Pull your reserve section forward when needed, One-Platoon will plug the gap. Over.”
Reynolds peeled his respirator off. “Can’t communicate with this damn thing on. Roger that, sir. Standby for fire mission. Out.”
“There, sir,” called the GPMG gunner excitedly as he pulled the butt into his shoulder, straining to pick out the target through the round eyepieces of his S-6 respirator, and opened fire.
Sergeant Mason, on seeing his platoon commander mask less, pulled his own off and was quickly followed by the rest of the platoon who were in sight of him.
“Remember your training,” responded Lance Corporal Marsh quite calmly as he stuffed his mask back in its haversack. A welder in Civvy Street, a section second-in-command in wartime. “Enemy contact, 500 metres, left of prominent tree.” He then placed his cheek on the butt of his SLR, sighted an enemy soldier just as he dropped into position, and fired two rounds.
Brrrrrp…brrrrp…brrrrp. The Gympy gunner fired controlled bursts, dust kicking up in and around the enemy, one soldier thrown sideways like a rag doll as two bullets smashed into him. The enemy returned fire. Flashes from AKs could be seen all along the line of trees opposite. The airborne troops were good, firing short, well-aimed bursts, unlike some of the TA soldiers who were firing wildly, an element of panic as they experienced their first action.
“All Delta-Three call signs. Place your shots, place your shots. Delta-Three-One, standby to come forward. Over.”
“Delta-Three-One, roger. Ready to move.”
Zero-Delta, this is Delta-Three-Zero. Fire Mission. Over.”
“Send. Over.”
“X-Ray-One, X-Ray-One. Enemy in treeline. Over.”
“Roger that. Standby for ranging shot. Out.”
“Standby for outgoing,” Reynolds shouted to his platoon.
Zip…zip. Two rounds passed his face, so close he felt the draught on his skin.
“Get your bloody head down, sir, or you’ll lose it,” yelled Sergeant Mason.
Reynolds placed his helmet back on and called back. “I’m going to check on Three-Two. Keep me posted.”
“Run low, sir, run low.”
Reynolds nodded then shuffled back before getting up and sprinting north, his runner and radio operator close behind, dropping down the bank and passing behind the rifle-group and Milan FP, checking in on them as he passed. One soldier had a minor shrapnel wound, but all five soldiers were returning fire at the enemy. The Milan team waited patiently.
He ran round to the front of the concrete tunnel mouth and dropped down next to Two-Section. A medic was patching up the two wounded soldiers. Private Bailey lay still; a combat jacket had been thrown over his face. The cause of his death was obvious: the mangled lower part of his body, one leg missing, a bloody stump for the other, death would have come very quickly. The blood loss had been quick, his punctured abdomen adding to the steady loss of his life-giving fluids.
Corporal Walker, his wide eyes staring through his mask, looked at his platoon commander, almost pleading with him to help. But Reynolds was pleased with what he saw. The NCO had placed his men well, and they were returning fire, following his orders whenever he spotted a target. Once this was over, if they get through it, thought Oliver, the NCO would be the better for it.
Brrrrrp…brrrrp…brrrrp. The Gympy put rounds down on the enemy, and there was no sign of an assault yet. Two-Section was hurt, but OK. Three-One wasn’t needed, just yet.
“You’re doing a good job, Corporal Walker. Your section can remove their masks. If you see the Sovs putting their NBC kit on then get them back on quick.”
The NCO peeled the mask off, and a deep breath of fresh air filled his lungs. “That feels better, sir.”
“Good. I’m going back to Three-Three. Let me know the minute there’s any change here. You’re doing well. Just keep some steady fire going, but watch your ammunition. OK?”
“OK, sir.”
“Sir, outgoing,” informed his radio operator Simmons.
The mortar bomb travelled overhead, and they watched the trees part and splinter as the detonation tore a small section of the treeline apart.
The handset was quickly passed to Reynolds. “Zero-Delta, Delta-Three-Zero. Fire for effect, fire for effect. Over.”
“On way. Out.”
They only had to wait a mere five seconds before six more explosions erupted along the treeline as all three of the mortar sections opened fire. Then another six bombs battered the Soviet airborne troops who were on the verge of putting in an assault on the defenders. The Soviet mortar teams weren’t left out either. A mortar-locating battery, using a Mark-1 mortar-locating radar, Cymbeline, had identified their location and long-range artillery was already pounding them into submission.
Corporal Walker smiled for the first time since the attack had started. “We’re not on our own then, sir.”
“No, we’re not, Corporal, we’re not.”
More explosions burst deeper into the trees, pounding the airborne troops mercilessly.
“Zero-Delta, Delta-Three-Zero. On target. Adjust fifty metres right. Acknowledge. Over.”
“Zero-Delta. Understood. Out.”
“That should keep the
m quiet for a while. Keep me posted.”
“Sir.”
Reynolds and his small entourage returned by the same route, rejoining Three-Section.
“Just in time, sir,” informed Sergeant Mason. “We have some definite movement out there. Once we stop the bombing, I reckon they’ll come for us.”
Reynolds turned to his signaller. “Warn the platoon and let Company HQ know.”
He lifted the binoculars that were slung around his neck and surveyed the ground in front of him. It was suddenly quiet as the friendly mortar fire ceased. “What did you see?”
“It was Corporal Marsh; swears he saw a vehicle. He just had a glimpse, so it could be nothing.”
Before they could debate the ifs and buts any further, the entire line of the Rodenberger Aue was engulfed in a hail of fiery, searing blasts and burning shrapnel. 122mm shells, fired by an artillery battery of the advance elements of a Regiment from 12th GTD or from the Soviet Airborne’s D-30s, ripped up the meagre defences of Three-Platoon. 120mm mortar bombs were also lobbed onto the British troops from one of the surviving Soviet units. Even with decent foxholes or trenches, survival of the bombardment would have been difficult but, with shell-scrapes, they were at the mercy of the shelling.
“Gas, gas, gas,” Reynolds yelled, hoping his men would follow suit all along the line as he refitted his respirator just in case.
“Delta-Three-Zero, Zero-Delta. Major push to our north. Bundeswehr report major assault coming in. Expect strong push your sector. Over.”
“Roger that, sir. Under heavy shelling.”
Crump…crump…crump. Clouds of smoke enveloped the already battered, thin British line.
“Smoke, smoke.” Yelled a soldier.
“Wait, Delta-Three-Zero.” There was a pause on the airwaves. “It’s a big push. The line north of you has been penetrated. You have friendlies coming to you. They will cover your withdrawal. We’ve been ordered back. Soon as they arrive, pull back to Purple-One. Acknowledge. Over.”
Reynolds shouted into the handset, his voice drowned out by three explosions that bracketed the tunnel mouth, killing the Milan team and wounding two of the rifle-group below him. “Make it soon, sir, there won’t be any of us left otherwise.”
