ARMAGEDDON'S SONG (Volume 3) 'Fight Through'

by FARMAN, ANDY

  Lužar had deployed his regiment from road march five miles back, and it was now had the tactical spacing between his vehicles to minimise damage from all but an MLRS strike. He had been given assurances, once again, that NATO’s multi launch rocket systems had been neutralised. Half a mile from the river he gave the signal to the infantry who began their assault river crossing covered by a renewed artillery barrage.

  It was too far away for him to see the men dragging the aluminium boats down the steeply sloping bank and seating the outboard motors. Feeling extremely exposed the infantrymen attempted to offer the smallest possible targets as they laboured, before entering the fragile craft and pushing off towards the opposite bank.

  At the halfway point each and every man was wondering at point the defenders would unleash a withering storm of artillery followed by small arms.

  Colonel Lužar briefly changed frequencies to the Poles command net. His Polish was limited, but good enough to note that there were no contact reports or calls for help being put out. Always assuming that they had jumped off on schedule, at the same time as the 43rd Motor Rifle Regiment then the opposition they were encountering was apparently light.

  He turned back to his own net and as the river came into sight he heard the infantry battalion’s commander reporting that they had reached the far bank without loss. The man sounded anxious, as if he feared they had stepped into a trap that was going to close at any moment.

  “Where the hell has NATO gone?”

  “Colonel?”

  Lužar had spoken aloud without realising, and he looked down at his sergeant.

  “Nothing, let us just keep alert, okay?”

  Germany: Same time.

  Two fierce air battles broke out over the skies of Europe, one over NATO’s rear areas and the other over the Red Army’s.

  The Red Air Force’s build up in the skies over the Czech/German border was watched by Lt Col Ann-Marie Chan and her controllers orbiting above the German countryside west of Bielefeld. Lt Col Chan and her squadron had arrived at Geilenkirchen AFB whilst the wreckage was still being cleared. The bodies had all been removed but there had still been blood stains on the concrete of the dispersal they had been allotted and the dispersal’s former occupant had lain where the bulldozers had left it, tens of millions of dollars’ worth of scrap with its tail number still visible despite the fire scarring.

  Tonight she counted the regiments of strike aircraft and their escorts and advised the AC to begin extending their orbit to the northwest in preparation for repositioning.

  The Soviet’s knew that 4th Corps was on the move and their sorties today would be at the road network and not at the docks. There were more of them in the air this morning than had been over the past few days but she wasn’t fretting. Popping a mint into her mouth she then sat watching her screens and let her fingers softly drum on the surface of the workstation and murmured to herself.

  “Come on boys, momma’s got a surprise for you.”

  The moment that her screens indicated that the Soviet strikes were inbound she scrambled German Tornado’s, Dutch, American and Belgian F-16s to intercept, whilst at the same time starting several other balls rolling.

  The Charles De Gaulle’s air wing had made a low level run from the North Cape several hours previously. Keeping the coast of Norway over the horizon and avoiding radar contact it had eventually turned to enter the Kattegat and passed the small island of Anholt before landing at the Swedish Air Force base of Angelholm-Barkakra, set beside the stormy waters of the bay known as the Skalderviken.

  Refuelled and carrying a heavier weapons load than would have been possible to lift of the short deck of a carrier, they had sat on the runway waiting for the signal to launch.

  At Satenas to the north of them and at Malmo to the south, the taxiways were lined with Swedish, Danish and Norwegian aircraft configured for Wild Weasel and air-to-air interception.

  Satenas launched first and the aircraft skimmed above rooftops on the journey south, being joined enroute by the French at Angelholm-Barkakra and finally the wings from Malmo. The multi-national force, one hundred and seven airframes strong, crossed the coast and lost even more height as it headed for the shoreline across the Baltic. Along the way the massed formation slimmed down as groups broke off and headed for their own primary targets.

  In the south of England an even more diverse force took to the air and set course. Greek paratroopers rode in Danish C-130s, the Turkish airborne brigade in its entirety were carried in French C-130s plus their own Turkish built CN-235s and their ex-Luftwaffe C-160D Transall’s. Spanish and Italian paratroopers were carried aloft in USAF C-141s whilst their own C-130s carried pallets packed with their heavier gear. For the British this was to be the first time since Suez that they would jump into action, although both 1 and 2 Para had been fighting in the line as infantry until a week before. The Territorial battalion, ‘4 Para’, had provided the replacements to bring both battalions up to strength; much to the disgust of 3 Para’s CO who had argued unsuccessfully for his own unit to be relieved in the line by the Territorials and so be able to take part also. The two British battalions were aboard RAF, USN and USAF C-130s which made the three battalions from the 82nd and the Belgians the only countries who shared a common language with all their aircrafts crews. The British and Americans are united in their beliefs that other is speaking Martian.

  RAF Tornado GR4s and Jaguar’s loaded for flak suppression preceded the transport stream with USAF F-15s providing cover. USN F/A-18s and F-14 Tomcats of the USS Gerald Ford’s air wing rode shotgun for the transport aircraft while their E-2C Hawkeyes provided the force with all seeing eyes and the ability to provide ECM when the time came.

  Ann-Marie blessed SACEUR for whatever strategy he had used to pry loose the next group of assets. The attrition rate over the past weeks had been frightening, and today she would have been left with only helicopters and a newly arrived A-10 wing, operating with minimal fighter cover to try and stem the tide of enemy armour pouring through the breach in the NATO line.

  The Indians were on the rampage and NATO ground forces were circling the wagons.

  In southern Europe at the foot of the Italian Alps, the bulk of the cavalry were lifting off from Trento and Bergamo. The three F-16 wings from Italy, Greece and Turkey took to the air, followed by four squadrons of Turkish F-5As and venerable F-4E Phantoms. To the west of them Spain’s F/A-18 wing formed up and headed north also for the first of two rendezvous with tankers. None of the aircraft carried external fuel tanks; their hard points carried ordnance that would be expended before they touched down on the tarmac of designated airfields in France, Germany and the Low Countries.

  Thick fog had settled upon the hill along with a fine drizzle, which soaked the hessian strips of the ghillie suits the snipers wore. Big Stef and Bill halted at a challenge from the battalion CP’s sentries, holding their arms and weapons well clear of their bodies as they complied with the requests made of them. Having answered the challenge correctly they squeezed through the sandbags and soggy blankets to enter a dug-out that smelt of damp earth, in the side of a steep sided gully that served as a shelter bay and briefing room. Removing their Bergens they sat upon them as they awaited Major Popham to brief them on their task of the day; however the next person to enter was not the 2 i/c but the battalion padre. He wore the same combat clothing as they did but no webbing and no camm cream on his skin either.

  “Good morning boys, the 2 i/c sends his apologies and he will be a few minutes yet.”

  Stef knew the man fairly well, muttering a

  “G’mornin’ Padre,” as he lowered himself onto a bench made of empty ammunition boxes on the opposite side of the dugout to themselves, Bill on the other hand gave a half nod and stared unseeing at the earth wall opposite, lost in his own thoughts.

  The padre had once been a colour sergeant in the Scots Guards before something had happened to change his outlook on life. He had come to the battalion as a captain in
the Royal Army Chaplains department, and usually he was a fairly normal kind of guy, but now and again a kind of overbearing zeal seemed to come over him and he would seek out his spiritual charges whether they wanted his counsel or not. In barracks it was not unusual to see soldiers climbing out of windows to avoid him if he was seen entering their accommodation block.

  Their current situation as a unit had not been kept a secret; the CO had not made light of it. They were within a whisker of losing the war in Europe, but the remnants of the Guards regiment that had held Hougoumont Farm, and the paratroopers who boasted Saint Mere l’Eglise amongst their units past achievements were not used to running. All the same, the recent loss of an entire platoon had hit both the Brits and Americans hard. Colin Probert and his men had been acknowledged as pretty damn good soldiers and although no one could have been expected to prevail against such odds as they had faced, there was a feeling that if Probert’s platoon could be overrun then what chance did the rest have. Since the over running of 1 Platoon the padre had been getting around the positions, doing his job as he saw it, offering the services of his office to bolster those that may need it.

  Bill was vaguely aware of Stef and the padre conversing in low tones but it wasn’t until his partner gave him a dig in the ribs that he realised the priest had addressed him.

  “I was saying that I haven’t seen you at my services, since you were attached to the battalion?”

  Bill shook his head.

  “I tend to catch up on sleep whenever we are back in the battalion lines Padre…it’s nothing personal.”

  The padre studied him for a moment before replying.

  “Are you an agnostic young man, surely you have heard the word of the Lord?”

  Stef had got to know Bill quite well, and knowing him as he did he gave another nudge by way of a warning, but groaned inwardly when it was ignored.

  “No Padre, not personally.”

  The gauntlet, as far as the padre was concerned, had been flung down. Using what he considered to be reasoned examples, he sought to put doubt into the snipers mind but found instead that Bill had long ago formed his own views on the subject of the established churches of all faiths on the planet.

  “Don’t get me wrong padre, I believe in a Supreme Being creating the universe and I believe in good and evil, I just don’t happen to believe, or trust, the interpretation that humankind gives it. In case you had not noticed, we seem to be a bit shy of miracles around here”

  “God is all around us, Staff Sergeant. Haven’t you ever witnessed the miracle of birth?”

  Bill smiled wryly. “I’ve had occasion to actually deliver a baby padre, so yes I have witnessed that. I often give to charities for famine relief…but I have never witnessed a starving bishop, or even a malnourished mullah for that matter, though.”

  After another five minutes the padre accepted that Bill was not about to join the ranks of the born again, and having made his excuses he started to leave, but Bill sent him a parting shot.

  “Let me know when they find the missing page to the original bible, padre.”

  Pausing before the blackout the padre looked back at the sniper.

  “Missing page?”

  “Yes Padre, the page at the beginning where it says ‘Names, places, characters and incidents are a product of the authors imagination and any resemblance to any living person or real events is purely coincidental’.”

  Bill had gone too far and he realised that fact as soon as he had spoken, so he muttered an apology.

  The padre looked at him for a moment, ignoring the attempt to make amends.

  “You may not believe but I’ll thank you not to mock those of us that do, Staff Sergeant.”

  Stef saved his comments until the padre had disappeared.

  “For a copper, your people skills suck at times.”

  Bill and Stef had been inside the battalion lines since it had begun to dig in on the hill, but they were now to relieve a sniping pair forward of the battalion perimeter.

  The American paratrooper from the 82nd, Major Popham, came to give them their orders and although both Stef and Bill knew the location of the hide, Major Popham opened a map to show them where the 40 Commando positions were in relation to it.

  “To your ten o’clock, about six hundred metres off, is a small copse with dead ground behind it. This is the marines gun line for a battery from 29 Commando Regiment’s 105mm guns, and fourteen hundred metres to your front you will see a small farm with a sunken lane just visible at its left hand edge. The farm is the most visible mark for the rear perimeter of 40 Commando’s real estate, and that sunken lane runs diagonally across your front.” He paused to point out the features on the map.

  “Your marines will withdraw along that lane and I need you to report that movement, because if communications between us and them go to rat shit then we isn’t going to get much warning, is we?”

  “If Ivan plays it smart, he’ll use that lane too.” Bill used the edge of his thumb to measure the distance on his own map from the foot of the hill to the point where the lane came closest; it was only eight hundred metres.

  “When you get on the ground you will see the lane is lined with trees. The marines have prepared most to be dropped behind them as they go, so it will prevent vehicles using it and allow them some breathing space to pass through 1 Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders and set up shop again in pre-prepared positions a mile back. They have a troop of your Hussars with them which will break off and rejoin us once the pass through is complete.” The map showed the Royal Marines fall-back positions backed onto the autobahn that was the Soviet’s goal. There were no such positions beyond that for the men and women of 3 (UK) Mechanised Brigade, beyond the autobahn lay the gun lines, headquarters and support units.

  “What’s the timescale sir, when are they expected to make contact?”

  Jim knew the answer to that one.

  “If they haven’t hit the anti-tank mine field in front by 10am, then they stopped for breakfast somewhere or the…what the hell is a Wimik?”

  “It’s the Royal Marines trying to prove they can use words consisting of two syllables.” Stef told him, but seeing the American major was looking blank he quickly added.

  “A Wimik is what the marines call a Landrover with ‘fifty cals’ and a Milan post bolted on.”

  Jim shrugged and went on.

  “Well, they have a screen of Wimik’s out forward a couple of miles beyond the mines to shoot and scoot

  “Is there any chance that your 4th Corps will beat them here, sir?”

  Shaking his head Jim folded the map and put it away.

  “I doubt it, we are in for a hard fight but if we can hold them long enough, well…”

  He left the sentence unfinished and reached across to shake both soldiers by the hand.

  “Good luck to you both.”

  They pulled their bergens back on and checked for anything rattling before pushing their way back outside and heading for the 3 Company sentry position where they would take the winding route through the field defences to exit the location.

  The sound of aircraft passing to the south of them came as they were at the trench that guarded the safe route. It was still foggy and far too dark for them to see the air armada, but the drone of the transports and the fighter escorts were apparently heading east, so it was a toss-up whether they were friendlies on the way to make mischief, or enemy aircraft returning from dropping yet more airborne troops behind them, this time to block 4th Corps.

  They arrived at the hide in plenty of time for the relieved pair to be back in the battalion location before first light, where they would get perhaps a couple of hours of sleep before the Soviet armies arrived.

  The hamlet of Struhn, 25 miles east of Magdeburg, had never been much more than a cluster of buildings that other people passed through, even before the autobahn between Berlin and Magdeburg had bypassed it.

  With the autobahn a kilometre south and a railway to the north the
world passed Struhn by even faster than before. That had changed to an extent when NATO had avoided being outflanked by withdrawing from this part of Germany and a company of Czech mechanised infantry, assisted by an anti-aircraft unit, had arrived to guard the major rail junction three quarters of a kilometre to the north.

  The only inhabitants who still remained were an elderly couple, the remainder of the hamlet’s residents having joined the tide of refugees following in NATO’s wake. Their tiny cottage had been looted as they huddled, terrified in one corner. They had little to start with, but the invaders had first emptied their larder and then returned later to steal the furniture to use as firewood when the snow came and the temperatures plummeted.

  The couple had survived, sharing body warmth beneath piled blankets and on vegetables ignored by the thieves. The old man augmented this fare by defying the curfew to set snares in nearby woods and hedgerows, and again before the dawn to check them for catches. He dared not leave the snares in place during the day in case some enemy patrol happened across one and stole his catch.

  A solitary, skinny, rabbit was the nights total haul and after bashing the creature on the head and dismantling the snare he was carefully making his way to the edge of wood, stopping often to listen for patrols, when something came crashing down through the branches behind him, striking the ground with a dull thud.

  The old man turned in panic, clutching the scrawny animal to his chest, and then took a pace backwards as something else; something larger followed it even more noisily.

  A dark shape came to an abrupt halt two feet above the ground, bounced and swayed and began to mutter expletives. It fumbled for a moment inside its smock before finding and switching on a pair of passive night goggles, which it held to its face for a look down at the ground. Satisfied that it wasn’t suspended above an abyss by its snagged parachute it used them to slowly pan around its surroundings, and froze when it reached the old man.