by Andy Farman
Where the hell was the idiot? Then of course he heard Dougal shouting “Stand-to!” and saw the cause. Blackmore made a frantic grab for the Claymore clickers.
Exhausted men, rudely awoken, and only a few of whom were quick enough to put rounds down, and then not entirely accurately as tired eyes take some moments to focus.
The desultory muzzle flashes were encouraging rather than inhibiting, and the relative lack of accuracy emboldened the Russian infantry officers.
Two infantry companies had quietly made their way into the dead ground between the turnip field and the woods, waiting in the rain as the four specialist reconnaissance troopers had attempted to enter the Canadian’s lines by subterfuge.
Plan A was for the sentries to be despatched with some dexterous knife work thereby allowing the waiting infantry to follow on with bloody effect.
Plan B was to rush the positions on a narrow front, one company behind the other should the first course of action fail.
The company commander of the second company was a cautious man and ordered his company forward by half sections. It was a slow business and a tiring one, but it kept half of his men in cover and able to put down supporting fire for the remainder at any one time. It was in contrast to the leading company’s advance.
Instead of employing fire and manoeuvre the lead attacking company now broke into a slow jog as folding bayonets were swung into position and locked into place, whereupon the men opened their legs, picking up speed. This became an energetic dash to close with the enemy before they could rouse themselves. There was no shouting, no war cries, just the pounding of two hundred and twenty boots against the sodden ground. The panting breath of a hundred and ten men exerting themselves into as close to a sprint as the equipment they bore would allow.
Adrenaline surged, hearts pounded…
A hundred metres…
…..fifty...
……..thirty…
Those at the forefront were pounding ahead of the pack and could make out the outline of individual tree trunks on the edge of the wood.
Heads lowered and arms began to straighten, extending bayonet tipped assault rifles toward an enemy they would be amongst in just a few more strides.
Before the wood line there blossomed black clouds of smoke with the flash of detonating claymore mines at ground level. The Russian infantry charge met a wall of ball bearings that turned men into shredded, bloody rags.
The echo of the blasts reverberated in rapid succession cross fields, hills and dales, giving way to screams from the injured, the mortally wounded, the disfigured and blinded.
Over a hundred bodies lay in the open between the dead ground and the wood line. Most lay unmoving but some writhed in agony, screaming for aid, or in the case of the mortally wounded, calling out for their mothers as men who know they are dying will often do.
For a few moments the firing paused, both sides seemingly shocked by the mines effects and Sgt Blackmore was startled by a figure landing with a splash beside him.
Blackmore released the mines firing clickers and grasped his folding shovel. He was in the process of raising it up high for a killing stroke when the figure jammed one of the earpieces of the R/T set against his right ear and spoke in a raised, but controlled voice into the microphone, a contact report followed by a mortar fire control order.
“Hello Zero this is Six Nine, contact, contact, contact… one hundred, one hundred plus enemy infantry advancing to my front, out to you…..hello Five Zero Charlie, this is Six Nine, infantry in the open, shoot Foxtrot Papa Foxtrot Six Zero Alpha, over.....roger that…wait, over!”
Dougal squatted and peered at his wristwatch for several seconds before turning his head and speaking calmly to his platoon sergeant.
“You may want to put that down and take cover, Sergeant Blackmore, this could be close…” cupping his hands to his mouth he called out the warning. “..INCOMING!”
His sergeant blinked as if not recognising the confident young officer before him. Gone was the hapless and bumbling subaltern, dismissed forever with the first hostile shot.
The first belt of 81mm mortar rounds landed to the right rear of the second infantry company.
“Hello Five Zero Charlie, this is Six Nine, adjust fire, shift Left one zero zero, Down zero five zero, over!”
“Five Zero Charlie, wait…shot One Two Four, over!”
Again Dougal looked intently at the illuminated hands of his wristwatch as the second hand counted off twenty four and again shouted “Incoming!” with four seconds to spare.
With no warning whistle such as would accompany artillery rounds, the next belt was ‘on’ and devastating.
It did not land dead centre, it straddled the left flank platoon, blasting apart all of those on their feet at the time.
“Six Nine…adjust fire, shift Left zero five zero, Down zero five zero…”
Kneeling beside the body of the partially stripped Canadian corporal, the commander of the Russian 32nd MRD’s reconnaissance battalion listened to the sound of his gamble failing. So be it, he thought, it had been worth trying as they had found the four-man listening post asleep, so there had been the chance that the same weariness was affecting their main body. Taking a position by stealth was far more economic than the alternative.
Raising his glasses he watched the companies of infantry who had accompanied his men. They were caught out in the open by mortar fire that was being walked through them in a well-controlled manner.
“Well comrade, we try the old fashioned way instead, yes?” he said resignedly, addressing the infantry’s battalion commander.
To their rear, 120mm mortars fired their bedding-in rounds towards the woods as the officers returned to their respective command vehicles.
Dougal was peering cautiously over the lip of their trench, called in adjustments as if this were a table-top exercise on the Puff Range at RMCC Kingston with, as the name implies, puffs of talcum powder representing the fall-of-shot on a chicken wire and painted hessian mock-up of a landscape, instead of a real battlefield.
The enemy infantry had gone to ground; the only sensible option and the platoon’s sniping pair left the trench in the rear. Running forwards, on their feet due to the absence of incoming fire, and the bursting HE providing cover from view almost as effective as that of smoke. Even the PKs that had been suppressing the platoon’s ‘Gimpy’ SF were now silent.
Both snipers sprinted past Dougal and Sergeant Blackmore, intending to crawl the last few yards into cover.
Dougal was thrown backwards, the front wall of the trench he had been leaning against having physically jolted him off his feet.
The ground heaved; trees exploded sending wicked splinters a foot in length flying outwards, and the sound ruptured eardrums.
A small portion of the division’s mortars pounded the woods but the artillery merely laid on their guns and waited.
The Canadian’s mortar lines were unable to counter-battery fire the larger Russian 120mm tubes which were beyond their range.
ARTHUR, the brigade artillery’s back tracking radar followed the azimuth of the incoming rounds and provided a location for the enemy mortar line that was accurate to within ten feet. The operators were sceptical though as these mortarmen were top class, not some green or third rate unit so why hadn’t they scooted and a second mortar line taken over already? That was how the Russians worked, three, four and sometimes five mortar lines sharing the same fire mission, in turn they would drop three or four rounds per tube and be gone before the counter battery fire arrive. In that way the target received constant attention.
Whatever the reason for the Russian’s actions the Royal Canadian Horse Artillery’s M109s received the fire mission. The 155mm guns fired on it, but only a single round per gun.
The Russian counter battery was fast but it still hit an empty sack, whereas the air bursting 155mm rounds destroyed two tubes and killed or injured a dozen mortarmen.
The artillery’s game of dodge-bal
l had begun.
The Russian mortars fire stuttered and failed but fallen trees and amputated boughs lay tangled on the floor of the wood. In amongst that wreckage was Dougal Ferguson’s platoon.
Each man knows his number in his own section and the section commanders used this to call the roll.
Dougal had feared that the platoon had been wiped out. It was not as bad as that, but it was not good either.
Initially they had one dead, three wounded and four were missing. Two of the missing men were the snipers and a crater sat at the spot where Dougal had last seen them running forwards. The remaining pair had been inside their trench’s shelter bay, protected from airbursts and the shrapnel from tree bursts, but a near miss had collapsed the trench on top of them. Frantic digging had uncovered the soldiers but they were as dead as if it had been a direct hit, asphyxiated by the weight of earth as much as by the lack of oxygen.
When counting the listening patrol, which had to be presumed dead, the platoon had lost just over half its strength. The three wounded were passed back to the company sergeant major for transport to the brigades medical aid centre, but the dead were left where they had been found because the artillery and mortar fire began again, prepping for the next attack.
CHAPTER 4
Ariete Task Force
Autobahn 2, 16 miles east of Brunswick, Germany.
The Recce Troop, 5th Cavalry Regiment of the Ariete Armoured Brigade led the way in their four-wheel Lince multi-role vehicles, speeding ahead of the task force.
Lt Col Lorenzo Rapagnetta had been given the task of finding and destroying the missing Romanians, the T-72 and T-90 MBTs along with their accompanying BTR-70 and BMP-2 IFVs. Pierre Allain had been clear and precise in the orders he had given, as he had also been with his explanation as to why the Ariete had been selected for the task. The ground they had been defending was more suited to an infantry heavy unit with howitzers for artillery support such as their northern neighbours, Britain’s ‘3 Para’ in the leg infantry role, and the 105mm light guns of 7 Parachute Regiment, Royal Horse Artillery on dedicated call. He was to leave the 11th Bersaglieri Regiment, two companies of the 5th Cavalry Regiment’s infantry and all but a battery of the 132nd Artillery Regiment. The remainder of the brigade, its thirteen surviving Ariete main battle tanks, an infantry company mounted in Puma AFVs, three PzH 2000 155mm SP howitzers and a recce element were to reinforce the Mississippi National Guardsmen of C Company, 2/198th Armored.
SACEUR, General Allain, was positive that the enemy force, possibly a tank battalion, was driving towards the nearest of the critical autobahns. By seizing Autobahns’ 2 and 39 where they met east of Brunswick, the Red Army would have fast transit routes to all of the Dutch and Belgian ports.
Lorenzo knew that SACEUR was aware of his brigade’s current state, and Lorenzo was also aware of the condition of the 2/198th. Both units had been in the thick of NATOs fight with the Soviet 10th Tank Army, fighting that numerically superior monster to a standstill only to have then been struck by the fresh Third Shock Army, which then forced the Elbe.
Lt Col Lorenzo Rapagnetta’s Ariete MBTs from the 32nd and 132nd Tank Regiments together numbered only slightly more than a soviet tank company mustered.
God help them all if the Romanian strength was an underestimation.
The order of march was the 5th Cavalry’s Recce Troop followed by the Puma equipped infantry company, the six tanks of the 32nd, the 132nd’s seven tanks. The big German built 155mm SP Howitzers and finally the ammunition train, armoured ambulance and combat engineers armoured recovery track, with his second-in-command in a Dardo infantry fighting vehicle bringing up the rear.
Lorenzo had considered commandeering the M-113 but quickly disregarded that idea. The older APCs, the boxy battle taxis, had been pensioned off gradually as their Dardo and Puma replacements were rolled off Iveco’s production lines at a pitifully slow rate. The specialist mortar, anti-tank, air defence and command versions had yet to appear owing to budgetary constraints. It frequently left the army with geriatric command and heavy weapons vehicles sat on their lonesome awaiting recovery or repair as the rest of the army disappeared into the distance. Lt Colonel Rapagnetta had elected to hop aboard the infantry company commander’s Puma instead.
Lorenzo was originally an infantryman before being posted to an armoured squadron on receiving his majority, and as such held to the wisdom of the footsore, ‘Never walk when you can ride.’ He had however declined to spend the journey in the commander’s position, his perforated Gortex defied his best efforts at repair and besides, it was nice to be out of the rain. All in all it was an invigorating experience after the snow and ice of the Elbe’s defence, and the rain and mud of the Flechtinger Höhenzug of course, to now be speeding along smooth tarmac and enjoying a heater’s warmth without worrying about thermal signatures.
Lorenzo’s plan was simply to drive hell for leather along the auto routes to Autobahn 2 which he would follow at speed to most quickly reinforce the US troops at the autobahn junction. Once there they would go-firm and his recce troop would sweep back towards the scene of the breakthrough and locate the enemy armour.
The Romanians had a head start on him even though they were moving across country, so he had little choice but make this non-tactical dash.
With luck though the enemy had simply run out of fuel, as that was being reported of other Soviet units.
“Colonnello?”
The infantry’s OC was bending down in the commander’s hatch.
“Si?”
“Active jamming on the 2/198th’s frequency, sir.”
There are several methods of interfering with radio communication, and obviously the so called ‘silent’ jamming is preferred as there is no immediate warning that it is taking place. Active jamming is cruder and also instantly recognized for what it is.
Lt Col Rapagnetta removed his helmet and slid the vehicles radio headset into place, listened for a moment and chuckled.
Someone with a sense of humour had tied down a microphones transmit switch and placed it before a speaker blaring out a Rap song.
“Rap is to music, what firing a handgun sideways is to marksmanship.” He opined. “But it serves as a declaration of intent here.”
“How so?”
“In Mississippi good music is considered to be a mournful song about how their dog died and their car broke down, not an out of key chant about how their ‘Ho’ was unfaithful. I can’t think how they could more greatly offend a country and western fan.” Lorenzo grinned, but then it faded. The time for joking was past, and it seemed SACEUR may have been correct.
“Order the recce troop to stop, switch off and report back with anything they hear. They are only about 10k from the junction, yes?”
Five kilometres ahead of the task force the recce vehicles pulled off the autobahn and onto one of the many purely functional truck stops that serve the German road system. The Lince drivers switched off and they listened.
The rain fell unrelentingly, drumming on the thin skins of the vehicles so the troop commander left his to walk a short distance away.
The rumble of battle to the north was all there was and he cursed the rain before turning back to the shelter of his Lince but he froze in mid stride. Whatever had caught his attention was not repeated for several moments but when it recurred he broke into a run, cursing again but not at the rain this time.
Pulling open his vehicle door he barked at his radio operator.
“Tell ‘Six’ I can hear main tank guns firing to the west!”
TP 33, MSR ‘NUT’ (Up), Autobahn’s 2 & 39, east of Brunswick, Germany: 19 miles south-west of the Vormundberg.
For only half an hour Lieutenant Franklin Stiles, acting CO of C Company, Second Battalion, 198th Armoured Regiment, had been asleep on the folded down seats along one side of the first sergeant’s M113 APC. His rest was disturbed by the tinny sound issuing from a radio headset and whatever it was it was not a message, and that fact crept i
nto his subconscious and brought him to a state of reluctant wakefulness.
“What IS that godforsaken row?” he growled.
“It’s Rap, sir.” his sergeant’s APC driver responded.
“It’s two rabid cats, high on acid, perched on a transmit switch and screwing, is what it is.”
“Weren’t you ever young sir?”
“Another remark like that one and I promise you that you’ll never get any older, soldier.”
Lt Stiles swung his feet down and as he did so Sergeant Jeffries, the first sergeant, arrived, clunking up the rear ramp and squeezing through a blackout of groundsheets.
“I think we’re being jammed sir.” He stated. “I checked everyone and no one’s fat ass is sat on a handset, or fooling around on one either.”
“Drop down to the alternative.” Stiles instructed.
“I tried that already, and battalion too, but it’s the same story.”
Franklin reached for the company’s other means, a telephone handset connected to DEL, the German emergency military phone network.
Since the construction of the Inner German Border, the ‘Iron Curtain’ of Winston Churchill’s famous speech in 1945, the nations of Western Europe had wisely undertaken the creation of an alternative telephone system for military use in time of war. It is sort of hard to keep that kind of thing from the general populace though. In the frequent exercises held during the Cold War when the various units needed to tie in on the DEL, finding the hidden access points could cause headaches for newbies. The solution was always to ask a local.
“Wo ist die geheimnis telefon, where is the secret telephone?” would be the question to a passing Fräulein, farmer or Postbote.
“Where it always is, at the left side of the oak tree and dig down a half metre.”
