by Harvey Black
“It’s Powell, Corp, he’s a mess,” shouted Miller through his mask.
Barker saw the infantryman slumped on the firing step, mask off, his face white even through his cam cream, rivulets of sweat leaving streaks down his blackened face. Another green-smocked soldier tore at Powell’s NBC suit, cutting it away as best he could.
Barker knelt down. “Easy, easy. Slow down, Dan. Cut it straight down the front, and we can peel it apart.”
The soldier calmed down and complied, and after making a jagged cut down the centre of the front of the chemical smock, they could get to his combat jacket.
Corporal Barker could see quite clearly that the dark pattern on the combat jacket beneath was not only the disruptive pattern of his camouflage jacket but also a large black patch that covered the entire front of the casualty’s chest.
Powell’s body started to jerk violently, blood ejecting from his mouth, spraying them all in a frothy pink cloud. He screamed as they lay him down. Someone was yelling for a medic for a second and third time. The call went unheard above the din of rockets and bombs that continued to rain down around them.
“Get on the radio, Woody, but keep your bloody head down. It’s not over yet.”
Lance Corporal Woods, the section second-in-command, keyed the radio and called for assistance. It would be some time before they got help. The medical resources of the Company, and Battalion for that matter were sorely stretched as the casualty rate mounted. Whiskey Company, 6th Battalion Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, 6RRF, was receiving their first taste of battle. It was unpleasant and bitter. The soldiers would have to do the best they could in the meantime.
Once they had cleared Powell’s jacket and cut away his shirt, the extent of his injury became apparent. A large fragment from a 30mm shell, from the cannon of a Soviet Frogfoot, a ground-attack aircraft, had plunged straight through his upper left chest, leaving a five-centimetre hole at the front and a mangled mess at the rear. One lung had more than likely been severely lacerated; the second, punctured in places, was far from adequate to do its job. Powell’s gasps got louder and more violent as Dan placed a first-aid dressing on the wound covering the ragged bloody hole. Corporal Barker pushed a bandage beneath the casualty’s upper back, Powell spitting blood as he panted trying to get the oxygen his body demanded. He cried out as Corporal Barker lifted the bandage at the front, placing a piece of plastic carrier bag, he had used to wrap some food in to keep it dry, over the wound. It was far from perfect, but it might at least seal the sucking wound until they could get him some more professional help. The bandage was placed back on the wound, and ties were passed under the soldier’s body until they were in a position so it could be secured tightly.
Powell’s cry of pain was suddenly very loud, the silence around them ominous now that the Soviet ground-attack aircraft had fled, one shot down by a Rapier missile, a second and third destroyed by German and British Phantoms. The rest had bolted for home, back to their base, where they could refuel, rearm and come back to hammer the British again.
Corporal Barker peeled his S-6 respirator off his head and face and called out for his radio operator. “Get onto platoon again. We need a bloody medic here now!”
He took one last look at Powell, before he left to check on the rest of his section. Powell’s breathing was becoming more laboured. He didn’t hold out much hope.
“Corp, platoon for you.”
He grabbed the handset. “Whiskey-Two, this is Whiskey-Two-Two. Over.”
“Whiskey-Two. Sitrep. Over.”
“One man badly injured. Powell. The rest shaken, but OK. Over.”
“Roger Whiskey-Two-Two. Stretcher party on way to you. We have reports of slow-moving aircraft heading our direction. Over.”
“Do we know what they are, sir? Over.”
“Negative. Keep your heads down and I’ll keep you posted. Oh, and, Corporal Barker, check all your firing positions. I’ll be with you as soon as I can. Out.”
Barker handed the handset back. “Ripper, pass the word: slow-moving aircraft heading our way. Make sure the lads keep their heads down and get their NBC kit sorted in case we need it. We had a lucky break last time.”
“Apart from Powell.”
“I know. But we ain’t finished yet, so get on with it.”
“Will do, Corp.”
It suddenly dawned on him that he was no longer just a part-time NCO; someone who went away for the occasional weekend to practise soldierly skills and have a laugh and a joke with his mates. He was in charge. In charge of these men, and they were looking to him to lead the way. The responsibility thrust upon him suddenly felt heavy on his shoulders. He shook himself metaphorically and moved back down the trench just as the stretcher party turned up to take Powell away. Eight of them now left.
“Corp, Corp, its HQ again.”
“Whiskey-Two, this is Whiskey-Two-Two. Over.”
Before his platoon commander could respond, he saw the reason for the call. White fluttering packages were falling from either side of a large aircraft. He could now hear the drone of their engines. Three of the large transport planes were coming directly for him, a trail of parachutes leaving the three troop carriers as they lumbered closer and closer.
“Stand to! Stand to! Soviet airborne. Stand to!” Barker yelled.
“Whiskey-Two. You’ve got company, over.”
“I see them, sir.”
“Hold your fire until your men have a clear target, understood?”
“Roger, sir.”
“Good luck. Whiskey-Two out.”
“Stand to, stand to!” Barker yelled again, more out of a need to do something than giving any clear orders.
He darted along the firing points, checking on his men. As he stuffed his respirator back into its bag, he doubted it would be needed now with Soviet paratroopers about to descend.
“Get ready. Check your arcs. Hold your fire.”
He, along with the rest of his men, watched as the three aircraft passed overhead, paratroopers still leaving. Further back, Soviet airborne soldiers were swaying from their parachute harnesses, the canopies above billowing, catching the flow of air, slowing them down, lowering them to the earth and into battle.
Barker laid his SLR on top of the sandbags that lined the front of the trench. There hadn’t been time to sort out top cover. The priority had been to provide one for the gun-group and the attached Milan FP.
He zeroed in on the nearest paratrooper, probably 500 metres away, and seconds away from hitting the deck. But the closer the planes travelled towards them, the closer the enemy, tumbling out of their transports, would land near to the British positions. “Standby, standby. Gun-group, only when I give the order.”
The first of the enemy hit the deck. Some of them fired a few rounds, but knew they were too far away to have much of an impact. But, as more of the Soviet airborne troops, those that had jumped later in the stick, started to land, the closer they were to the soldiers waiting for them.
“Corp.”
Barker grabbed the handset from Ripper.
“Go ahead.”
“Whiskey-Two. Outgoing. Out.”
“Mortar fire on its way,” he hollered to his men.
Crump…crump…crump.
Crump…crump…crump.
Small mushroom clouds erupted amongst the Soviet soldiers, killing several as they tried to shake off their harnesses. Others threw themselves to the ground with their parachutes still attached to their bodies, but too late for some as bomb after bomb tore into the assembling paratroopers. Parachutes fluttered 300 metres away as more of the enemy airborne touched down.
“Gun-group, controlled bursts, 300 metres, open fire.”
The Lance Corporal in command of the gun-group didn’t need telling twice. He had been holding back Jenkins, the gunner, who was gripping the GPMG so hard his knuckles were white. But now, released, he pulled the trigger, the belt of 7.62mm rounds flying through the assistant gunner’s fingers as he guided the b
elt into the breech mechanism. Firing controlled bursts of roughly five to ten rounds, every fifth round a tracer, bullets thudded into the ground close to the nearest Soviet paratroopers, particles of dirt propelled up in front of them. A slight adjustment of his aim and Jenkins was on target: the enemy started to fall as round after round tore into their ranks. More and more parachutes fluttered to the ground: 200 metres, 150 metres, and 100 metres.
“Rifle-group, 100 metres, ten rounds, rapid fire!”
The SLR rifles cracked as 7.62mm bullets were launched at the enemy. The thuds as they penetrated flesh and bone of those nearest could almost be heard as they hit the soldiers, piercing their fragile bodies. One airborne soldier literally had his arm ripped from his shoulder, only sinews and his uniform keeping it attached. Another was hit in the hip; the bullet deflected vertically, travelling almost the full length of his body, exiting at his shoulder blade. Both men went down and didn’t get up again.
Some returned fire with their AKS-74 assault rifles, and bullets zipped past Corporal Barker and his men. Barker snapped off two rounds himself before checking on his men.
“Fire at will, fire at will,” ordered Barker.
A billowing white cloud of a parachute suddenly impeded his view as a paratrooper landed less than fifty metres away. He fired off a shot into the mass, hoping to hit the hidden enemy. Luck was with his adversary that day: the round winging overhead as the soldier dropped to the ground. The airborne warrior recovered quickly, pushing the parachute silk aside, releasing the harness, and firing off a burst that flew over the heads of the dug in soldiers.
Crack. A shot from Ripper hit the soldier full on in the chest as he raised his body to return fire again, knocking him back, his AKS dropping from his grip. He was still alive when he slumped to the floor. But, without treatment, he would be dead within the hour.
“They’re fucking behind us!” screamed a soldier off to the right. Coming from Three-Section.
Corporal Barker called out, “Ripper, Miller, watch our backs, watch our backs!”
Bullet strikes flicked up bits of debris and some of the sandbags shook as more and more rounds came their way. The Soviets were starting to regroup, a light machine gun, a PKM, was putting down fire. Bullets stitched a line along the top of the sandbags making it more difficult for the TA soldiers to respond.
Lieutenant Cox crashed down into the trench. “Corporal Barker, One-Section is about to be overrun. You and two men, with me. Let’s go.”
Without waiting for a response, the young lieutenant clambered out of the hole and ran towards One-Section’s position.
“Ripper, Miller, with me! Let’s go. Now!” yelled Barker as he too clambered out of the trench, his SLR held out in front of him. “Woody, enemy to our rear. We have it. Watch your front,” the section commander yelled to his second-in-command. He heard pounding boots behind him: Ripper and Miller were following.
He reached around behind him and pulled out his bayonet, fumbling slightly as he fixed it to his rifle. “Fix bayonets!”
Within another twenty strides, he was at the nearest edge of One-Section’s trench, partially obscured by smoke drifting across it from the bombs exploding to the rear, grenades thrown by the Soviets, and small arms fire.
A soldier, wearing a Soviet airborne smock, the blue and white striped T-shirt barely visible beneath, fired a burst of automatic fire into the trench, two rounds killing the lance corporal who was already wounded from grenade shrapnel.
Barker swung his SLR left and fired a round into the enemy. Struck in his right shoulder, the soldier was spun round, his AK flying from his hand. Before the paratrooper could recover, Barker had leapt across the width of the trench and thrust the steel bayonet into his guts with such force that the NCO almost lost his balance. Driven half mad by fear, anger and frustration, Barker was nearly pulled down on top of the Soviet as the man collapsed, but the Corporal quickly recovered. With a boot on the body, he withdrew the bayonet just as Ripper ran past firing round after round into three more airborne soldiers who had just appeared. To his left, he saw the Browning pistol jump in the lieutenant’s hand as he emptied a magazine into the advancing enemy soldiers. Suddenly, half a dozen soldiers came from the left: more reinforcements, led by Sergeant Fox, screaming, firing wildly into the paratroopers who fell back, many of them wounded or dying.
“Get the Gympy on line,” ordered Sergeant Fox.
He had brought the gun-group from One-Section, who was on the right flank of the platoon’s line, just in time. Within a matter of seconds, the Gympy was firing and, along with fire from SLRs, heavy fire was sent down range, decimating the dozen airborne soldiers that had been about to join their comrades in attacking the rear of One-Section, who were in turn responsible for protecting the platoon’s rear.
“Corporal Barker.”
“Sir.”
“Get your men back. We’ll hold here now.”
“Sir. Ripper, Miller. On me.”
The two men rejoined their section commander and sprinted back to their own trenches, and not a moment too soon. Fear crawled up Corporal Barker’s spine as the ominous silence of the Gympy boded ill. Kennedy lay dead in the bottom of the slit trench as Barnes, standing over him, threw a grenade into the midst of the Soviet airborne troops who were skirmishing towards them.
“Thank God, Corp, I thought we were fucked.”
“Go right,” Barker ordered Miller and Barnes as he made his way, with Ripper, along to the location of the gun-group.
“What the fuck, Woody?”
“Stoppage…” The working parts of Lance Corporal Wood’s SLR clattered in between each word as he maintained a steady rate of fire towards the enemy who seemed to be growing in strength as more and more paratroopers descended. “Jenks…” clunk “…is….” clunk “…sorting it…” clunk.
Corporal Barker also opened fire, as did the two soldiers manning the Milan firing post.
Brrrrrp…Brrrrrp…Br. “Shit!” Jenkins cursed as the Gympy jammed for a second time.
“For fuck’s sake, get it sorted, Jenks. We’re dead men walking here.”
“Take it easy, Woody. Don’t panic him. He’ll sort it.”
Ripper, his lungs heaving, came alongside the two NCOs. “Look,” he said, pointing at another flight of aircraft flying low towards them. About 700 metres away, six large aircraft flew in formation, large packages being pulled out of the rear of the planes by a drogue chute. Once clear of the aircraft, the armoured vehicles, mounted on large wooden platforms, started to drop towards the ground, half a dozen smaller parachutes forming above them, in turn drawing out much larger parachutes, controlling the descent of the BMD MICVs as they were delivered to the troops waiting on the ground below.
“Oh Christ,” Barker groaned. “Your radio.”
Woody passed the handset across. “Hello, Whiskey-Two. This is Whiskey-Two-Two. Over.”
“Whiskey-Two…go ahead.”
“Whiskey-Two-Two. We have armour dropping to our front. Seven hundred metres approx. Over.”
There was a pause as Lieutenant Cox took in the information passed to him. “Understood. We are secure here. Sitrep. Over.”
“Whiskey-Two-Two. One dead and one wounded.” Brrrrrp…. Brrrrrp. “Problem with the Gympy, but up and running now.”
“Ammo?”
“Will get back to you on that, sir. Over.”
“Milan FP?”
“Secure, sir. Over.”
“Roger that. You and One-Section are secure. Three-Section down to four men, but holding. Soviets regrouping. Will likely attack from rear and front. Over.”
“Understood, sir. We getting help? Over.”
“Yes, Whiskey-Two-Two. Help on way. Just hold firm. Out.”
Crump…crump…crump.
Crump…crump…crump.
Barker saw the explosions 200 metres out to the front, then moving out to 800 metres, where it was hoped the salvos of mortar bombs would disrupt the enemy. The Soviet paratroop
ers would no doubt be preparing for a second assault.
He completed a quick check of his men and did an ammo count. They were low and would need a resupply pretty soon. Powell was out of the fight now. He must ask after him on his next comms call. His second-in-command, Lance Corporal ‘Woody’ Woods, and Jenkins were still in the fight, as was Barnes. Kennedy was dead, but Miller and ‘Ripper’ Reid were still fit and well. His radio operator, Blackie, a blacksmith in Civvy Street, a Geordie from the outskirts of Newcastle, was standing next to him. So, including himself, he had a section of seven men.
“Corp, look.” Blackie was pointing east in the direction of Hartum.
Barker swapped his SLR for binoculars and scanned the area out to his front. A shaky image flickered in his lens. Lodging his elbows on the edge of the sandbags, he focussed in on the moving target again. This time, an armoured vehicle shimmered into view.
“Stand to, stand to,” he warned his men. “Blackie, radio.”
He clicked the handset and transmitted. “Hello, Whiskey-Two, this is Whiskey-Two-Two. Movement 800 metres east of my location, enemy armour. Two, I repeat two Bravo Mike Deltas. Over.”
He turned to Reid. “Ripper, make sure the Milan team are ready.”
“Corporal.” With that, the soldier clambered out of the slit trench, bypassing the next two until he arrived at the Milan FP, passing on his section commander’s warning.
“Hello Whiskey-Two-Two, this is Whiskey-Two. Acknowledge your last. Keep me informed. With you in figures ten. Out.”
Barker checked the horizon again. Out to their front was nothing but a patchwork of fields. Flat, open ground. If only we had some bloody Chieftain tanks, he thought. He checked the activity out there again, but they had not made any progress. However, he could now see at least four BMDs lining up for an attack. Where will they strike? He wondered. Would they go for another part of the line? Barker’s company, Whiskey Company, recruited from the area of Alnwick and Berwick-upon-Tweed, was defending Sudhemmern, blocking the L766 that ran through the village, running parallel with the Mittellandkanal to the south. 2nd Platoon of Whiskey Company was dug in north of the Village of Sudhemmern. X-Ray Company, made up of mainly Geordies from Newcastle and recruits from Hexham, had the defence of Nordhemmern, a kilometre north. They blocked the K-14. Yankee-Company held the crossroads at Holzhauser Damm, with Zulu Company, HQ and Support-Company positioned around Hille to the west as the Battalion’s reserve. The bulk of 15th Infantry Brigade was defending the River Weser. 2nd Battalion, the Yorkshire Volunteers, had been given a three-kilometre stretch north of Minden. German home defence units would defend the town itself. The 4th Battalion (Volunteers), the Parachute Regiment, would defend up as far as Petershagen. The 1st Battalion, the Yorkshire Volunteers and the 7th Battalion, the Light Infantry were now the divisional reserve, resting in Lubecke and Rahden. The two battalions had taken a beating whilst defending the earlier stop-lines, quickly pushed back by a far more powerful force. They were functional, but badly mauled.
