by Andy Farman
As with any night operation, solid command and control was essential, and Colin had reorganised the platoon into six groups, killer, left cut off, right cut off, left flank, right flank and rear protection. He only had four junior NCOs so his left flank was commanded by a buckshee Guardsman with a good head on his shoulders.
Each of these sub unit commanders had a PRC 349 on the platoon net, but all signals would be via communications cord, and Colin would decide when radio silence was to be broken.
The centre of the triangle was empty of men, holding only their bergens in a long line awaiting retrieval by the owners; an event which would not take place should the patrol need to make a fighting withdrawal. That eventuality would occur if they found they had bitten off far more than they could chew, such as bumping the point section of a larger element, rather than another fighting patrol of inferior size.
Such was the state of stores within the NATO forces that batteries for the night viewing aids were in chronically short supply, and there were only a half dozen with the patrol, all of which were switched off to conserve their power supply until needed. It was back to basics time, where the human ear and the Mk 1 eyeball were the only senses the soldiers had.
The rain had begun to fall as a fine drizzle during the placing of Claymore mines and manually operated flares outside the perimeter of the position, and with it a strong breeze brought the chill from the still icy north back to the hills and woods of this part of Germany.
Without having to employ a second flare stake and its tripwire, it took a fraction of the time to set up the flare pots to provide illumination on demand, by the simple means of a length of communications cord clamped to the pots base and running back to the ambushers position where a simple tug on the cord would set off the pot.
The Claymores were a different matter and had to be sited with care in order to maximise the effects, and Colin strayed from recommended methods described in the manuals in order to achieve that aim in one or two instances.
Ignoring the idiots guide printed on the inside of the bandoleer, which he knew by heart anyway, Colin and the commanders of each group had gone forward to site the weapons.
He sited his mines starting with the furthest and working in, so he picked his way cautiously along the track he hoped the enemy would appear from, alert for movement until he found what he was seeking.
Colin had personally tested each clicker and coil of cable after drawing the weapons from the Q Bloke, but he wasn’t minded to tempt the laws of Murphy.
Leaving the mine for the moment he removed the cable and M40 test set from the bandoleer and a clicker from a smock pocket. The dust cover from the clicker’s connector was placed between his lips for safe keeping along with the test set’s female connector cover. Plugging the test set into the clicker he moved the safety bail to the Fire position and unzipped his smock, placing them inside the folds and squeezed the clicker, receiving a flash of light from the test set that only he could see. His next act was to remove to cables protective shorting plug and insert the ends into the test set, the other loose ends went into the clicker and the test set went back into his smock where he sent another electrical pulse from the clicker to ensure the cable was still viable.
Disconnecting the clicker and test set he took the small covers back from between his lips and replaced them along with the shorting plug.
Replacing the safety on the clicker he tucked it back into his smock pocket and removed the Claymore and placed it against the base of a tree and adjusted the angle slightly before pressing down firmly, sinking its legs into the soft ground.
A protruding tree root served as anchor for the cable and a figure of eight knot ensure the cable ends couldn’t be accidentally pulled from the mines detonator well.
The shipping plug primer adapter secured the blasting caps in their wells after he had removed them from the bandoleer and carefully inserted them, which left him the quick task of camming the mine up before unreeling the cable back through the trees at an angle to the track.
Six more mines later and Colin had been reasonably happy with their ability to both kill however came along the track, and get themselves out of trouble if his plans went to total rat shit.
Brecon does not teach optimism, it enforces the maxim that no plan survives first contact with the enemy, and that if you prepare for the worst then anything less will be a piece of piss, in short, pessimism counts.
Sixteen of the 3.5 lb weapons were placed about the location but the CQMS had only been able to provide three ‘Clickers’, M57 firing devices, the hand generator that sends a double three volt pulse along the command wire to the mines. Colin had three clickers of his own that he had ‘acquired’ over the years, and a further four he had borrowed from other individuals in the unit. The commanders on either flank and the gun group Commander on rear protection each had three Claymores to control and Colin was confident that they could manage that number with one clicker each, he on the other hand had seven mines and had a firing device attached to each command wire. Part of Colin’s earlier preparation back in the company location had been to ensure that he knew which clicker was which in the dark, and this he accomplished by waterproofing grains of rice from unused boil in the bag rations. Having dripped candle wax over the grains he held them in place on the sides of the clickers with masking tape, so he could tell by the number of lumps under the tape which clicker was which in the pitched dark by touch alone. If all went well then the patrol would retrieve the unused mines just prior to withdrawal.
At 0023hrs, with the Claymores in place and the firing circuits tested, Colin had reported back to Company HQ with a brief transmission, a codeword informing them his callsign had gone firm and were ready for business.
Over the following two hours the breeze became a wild thing and the drizzle a downpour that the men had to ignore and endure, as the cold earth sapped the heat from their un-insulated bodies.
Colin had strained to see or hear movement on the track in case the enemy had passed the cut-off groups unnoticed in the poor visibility and with the wind and rain drowning out the sound. He could just about make out the sand and shingle bank on the far side of the track, and he never took his eyes off it.
There was little chance of the tired soldiers falling asleep in that environment, but having made their lives thoroughly miserable the weather then relented, tailing off gradually but leaving the patrol cold and soaked.
With the passing of the storm Colin could hear individual drops of rain water falling from the branches of the trees, such is that clarity which follows mother nature’s little tantrums, but he had a nagging worry that gunfire would announce that the enemy fighting patrol had got past them during the storm.
Acutely aware of how sound carries in a wet environment he countered the involuntary trembling of his cold limbs by slowly clenching and unclenching his toes and buttocks, which encouraged some blood to flow to his extremities. Turning his head with deliberate slowness he listened for any out of place sounds coming from the track, and resisted the urge to switch on his night scope with its much-depleted battery.
Colin didn’t hear them but the right hand cut-off group did, and he felt the steady tugs on their communications cord signalling the enemy’s arrival.
Extending the fingers of his left hand he traced the tape he had stuck to the side of the clicker closest to hand, feeling the single protrusion in the otherwise flat surface that confirmed it controlled the claymore he would use to spring the ambush. His right hand grasped the length of communications cord that when pulled would set off a flare pot beyond the track
Alerting the rest of the killer group was a simple matter, as they all lay with legs interlocked the warning signal passed down the line smoothly. The gunners either side of him slowly raised their weapons, pulling the butts into their shoulders and each man locking his wrists together, ensuring a firm grip on the weapons.
Colin could not see a damn thing on the track until a dark shape appeared
in front of the sandy bank, silhouetted against its lighter hues.
A column of men was on the track, moving slowly and quietly toward the east and Colin counted them as they appeared.
Eleven had entered the killing zone and that worried Colin because the numbers were a little on the light side for a fighting patrol, but he dared not wait too long on the off chance that there may be stragglers still to come.
He could feel the tension amongst his men and removed the safety from the clicker, closing both eyes tightly to preserve his night vision before closing his left hand firmly and ducking his head to the wet earth.
The concussion from the mines back-blast brought down debris from the branches of the trees above them, and a wave of heat swept over Colin.
The directional mines detonation was nothing like those depicted in Hollywood movies, there was no petrochemical booster to add to the visual effects, and no sound lab created throaty roar. A momentary flash of light of the same duration as that of a flash bulb was accompanied by a thunderclap of sound as the Claymore sent an expanding wall of seven hundred ball bearings outwards at an angle of sixty degrees from the point of detonation. Colin’s right arm jerked back, pulling the communications cord hard and there was a loud crack as the detonator in the flare pot blew off the top of the pot, exposing to the air the white phosphorous it contained.
A heartbeat after the Claymore went off the killer group opened fire almost as one, firing into anything that looked like a man, be it lying down, standing, kneeling or crawling away. They fired into the shadows where the trip flares light couldn’t reach and they fired into the bushes and trees that they could see, and they carried on firing until they heard Colin’s shouted
“Cease fire, cease fire, cease fire!” But as taught they remained in the aim because the cease fire order is merely a dummy, a lure for any enemy still able to make a break for it. Only one did, rising from a shallow piece of dead ground with the intention of getting beyond the illuminated area as fast as possible, he only got two paces from his hiding place before being cut down by a dozen weapons.
In the trip flares light Colin counted eight recognisable bodies, but there were other torn things lying out there, which could be three men nearest the Claymore when it went off. Nothing moved, and he reached inside his tunic, extracting a whistle that hung about his neck from a length of para cord and blew three loud blasts, the real signal to cease firing and also for two pairs to go forward and search the dead for anything of intelligence value.
Speed was now of the essence, and although Colin was fairly confident they had killed all the enemy before them, there was no one within five miles of this spot who was not now aware that they were here.
In the trip flares failing light the searchers moved quickly, but Colin was getting anxious and wanted to be gone from this spot. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end, and he was acutely aware that they were out on a limb, over a mile from the safety of friendly lines.
The tug of the communications cord attached to his left boot initially made him think one of his callsign had jumped the gun, snagging it as they moved about in preparation to bug out, but then the night was torn by the detonation of a Claymore behind the position, and with it the rear protection party began firing.
Despite Colin’s instructions to get in his bag and get a full nights kip, Oz found himself lying in the darkness of the shelter bay listening for the sounds of distant conflict. Oz had been in, and heard enough ambushes to know what they sounded like and his mind would not let him relax until he heard the distant boom and two brief instances of gunfire, and then his brain went to neutral and he started to slip into a half sleep in the knowledge that his friend would soon be returning.
It was with a start that Oz came to full wakefulness and it took him a moment to work out what had disturbed him. With an oath he groped for the maggots zipper and dragged it down, kicking his legs clear and dragging his SLR out of the bags folds before crawling quickly into the firebay.
In the darkness he could make out the shape of the 2 Pl Guardsman who was trench-sitting for the night. The soldier was looking toward the southwest when Oz emerged but turned his head toward the Sergeant.
“Summat’s up, sarge.”
Away from the warmth of the sleeping bag the chill night air made its presence felt but he ignored it as he listened to a smattering of small arms fire that tailed off into silence, before crouching to retrieve his woolly pully and smock from the bay and pulling them on hurriedly.
There was a distant flash of light, followed a moment later by two more in rapid succession but it took several seconds for the sound of the explosions to reach his ears as rolling booms, by which time red and green tracer rounds appeared, the stray ricochets from opposing forces.
The gunfire re-started in an almost halfhearted way but grew into a steady sustained roar dulled by distance, punctuated by the bangs of exploding hand grenades and the deeper thumps of detonating Claymore mines. Someone out there decided to put some light on the subject and a shermouli rose above the trees like a rocket on bonfire night, where its parachute flare gave the combatants a harsh and short lived chemical light to fight by.
Oz knew that there were no other friendly patrols in that area, which could only mean his mate and the platoon, were in deep dido.
Shrugging into his fighting order he put on his helmet and gathered up his SLR, before climbing from the trench.
The sounds of the firefight continued as he made his way behind the mainly empty trenches to find out what the score was with the men who had dug them.
L/Cpl Bethers had been surprised at the earlier O Group to find himself assigned the responsible slot of commanding the rear protection party, a task that CSM Probert almost always gave to the capable Sergeant Osgood when he led a patrol. It had dispelled the nagging feeling that he had screwed up during the grenade incident.
As important as it was, guarding everyone’s back, it was also one that entailed an aspect of divorce from the main proceedings in not knowing what was happening elsewhere. In some, this could be the cause of restlessness, and in others lethargy, so the young NCO was alert for signs that members of his small party had mentally switched off, or might compromise them all by fidgeting.
They had endured the wind and rain in much the same way as the rest had, by gritting their teeth and enduring it, but Bethers had found himself wishing the enemy would get his skates on so they could all get back to the company location and roll into their maggots.
With the springing of the ambush Bethers had switched on his night scope, scanning their surrounds without the device being hindered by the trip flares light. It had shown only the wet landscape in green hues, and reassured by this he had switched the device off.
His next look had been a different story as the shapes of armed men were now moving amongst the trees to at his twelve o’clock and ten o’clock, moving cautiously to envelop the British position, whilst several more were picking their way silently through the undergrowth, heading straight for the lance corporal and his gun group.
Bethers froze momentarily as he tried to decide what best to do, whether to call up the CSM and report, leaving the decision making to someone else, or whether to act. Immediately to his left lay his gun group and he alerted them to the danger with a thumbs down gesture before removing the safety on his own clicker and tugging on the communications cord before firing the mine.
On the track, the searching pairs stopped what they were doing but took differing courses of action in response to the fresh firing. The left hand pair dropped to the ground and began looking for threats, whilst their neighbours turned and ran back the way they had come. The runners were caught in a hail of fire from the direction their prey had come from, and sent tumbling into the mud before the unseen firers switched aim to the second pair.
As the trip flare sputtered and died Colin located the clicker for his number five Claymore, which was actually the first mine he had placed and was sig
hted along that track but facing towards his own position.
Colin filled his lungs and yelled at the top of his voice. “Incoming!” and the Guardsmen hugged the wet earth. Some of the mines seven hundred ball bearings sent splinters of wood down onto the exposed backs of the British troops but the six soviet paratroopers further down the track who were doing the firing were torn to shreds by the mine exploding behind them, allowing the second pair of searchers to regain the Guards position.
Switching his night scope on Colin swept it around and decided that the time for radio silence was long past.
“Hello all stations One One, this is Sunray, sitrep, over?”
Answering in sequence clockwise starting with the right cut off group, then the right flank, rear protection, left flank and finally the left cut off group, CSM Probert learnt their situation.
“One One Alpha, we have movement from our ten o’clock through to four o’clock, all foxhounds okay, over.”
“One One Bravo, movement to our front, all foxhounds okay, over.”
L/Cpl Bethers sounded breathless, the product of adrenaline still coursing through his system.
“One One Charlie, we bumped four attempting to infiltrate, we have movement from our eight to two o’clock. No foxhounds down, one Claymore expended, over”
“One One Delta, no enemy seen but we can hear them to our front, all foxhounds okay, over.”
Colin bit his lip; he had an awful feeling he did not want to hear what his final callsign had to say.
“One One Echo, troops in the trees from our eight o’clock, that’s who Delta are hearing, through to two o’clock, no foxhounds down, over.”
His platoon was surrounded which left him with two options, to break out or to dig in and hang on. It took a moment to decide on his course of action, and on changing his PRC 349 to the company frequency he sent his own sitrep.
Making his way to the company CP, Oz passed the mortar section attached to 1 Company and damn near got shot by their sentry who had been paying more attention to his mates laying on the 81mm tubes for a fire mission, than to what he was supposed to be doing. He hadn’t seen Oz until the sergeant was almost on top of him and had received a brief yet ear-blistering bollocking.
