“Signal to Lieutenant Viljoen, flash priority. He’s to take his prisoner and his patrol to map reference…”
* * *
That evening, Lieutenant Viljoen decoded the latest message, read it three times, and swore loudly.
“What is it, sir?” Sergeant Bothma asked.
“Pack up, everybody. We’ve got to be at a rendezvous by dawn.”
They marched through the night, taking all the usual precautions against being spotted, but they saw no sign of enemy movement. Even the usual faint sound of high-altitude jet engines was absent. By shortly before dawn, they were concealed in a clump of bushes on the north side of a large grassy clearing in the brush, almost a quarter of a mile across.
“What now, sir?” Bothma asked.
“We wait.”
It didn’t take long before they heard two aircraft approaching from the south. As they came into view in the early half-light, the South Africans recognized the familiar silhouettes of Puma helicopters; but they didn’t land. Instead, they circled just south of the clearing, as if waiting for others to arrive.
Sure enough, within minutes more engines were heard, this time approaching from the north-west. Two Angolan Mi-8 helicopters appeared, circling to the north of the clearing. After a few minutes, probably consumed in establishing radio communication, one Puma and one Mi-8 landed in the center of the clearing, next to each other, facing north. Their pilots kept the engines running and the rotors turning as two figures disembarked from each chopper. They came together, exchanged salutes and handshakes, and moved out ahead of the aircraft. One of them, a South African officer, raised his hand and made a pumping gesture with his fist.
“That’s our cue,” Lieutenant Viljoen said, standing up. His team stared in shock as their officer abandoned any attempt at cover or concealment, then slowly, reluctantly followed his example. “General, you’re going home in that Mi-8 over there. We’re taking the Puma back to our base.”
“But…how? Why?”
“I’ve no idea, sir. I guess we may never be told all the details. Put it this way. We didn’t expect to find you aboard that chopper we blew up, and we didn’t know what to do with you once we’d captured you. I suppose the situation caused so many complications for so many people that they decided to cut their losses like this. I can’t say I’m sorry about that, sir. It’ll be good to get a shower and a cold beer, instead of a dust bath and sun-heated water from a canteen.”
“On that, we agree.” General Shpagin hesitated, then held out his hand. “I won’t say it’s been a pleasure, but this has been an experience I’ll never forget.”
Viljoen shook his hand. “We won’t, either, sir. Here, you’d better take these.” He held out the general’s cigar case and lighter. “You can enjoy one when you land.”
Shpagin laughed. “Please keep them as a souvenir, lieutenant. There are four cigars, one for each of you, and you can have the lighter and cigar case. I shall drink a toast to you and your men in some good Russian vodka as soon as I’m back in Moscow.”
“And we’ll do the same for you in South African brandy, sir, as we smoke your cigars.”
The two groups climbed aboard their respective aircraft, which took off and headed back to their bases. Within minutes, the only evidence that they’d ever been there was the drifting haze of dust thrown up by the helicopters’ rotors. Soon, even that was gone.
* * * * *
Peter Grant Bio
Peter Grant was born and raised in Cape Town, South Africa. Between military service, the IT industry and humanitarian involvement, he traveled throughout sub-Saharan Africa before being ordained as a pastor. He later emigrated to the USA, where he worked as a pastor and prison chaplain until an injury forced his retirement. He is now a full-time writer, and married to a pilot from Alaska. They currently live in Texas.
# # # # #
Nemo Me Impune Lacessit by Jan Niemczyk
Motto of the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards (Carabiniers and Greys)
15th May 2005. Outside Elze, West Germany.
‘The Royal Scots Dragoon Guards and its antecedents have served the Crown faithfully for over three hundred years. In that time, they have ridden with Marlborough and charged Napoleon at Waterloo and the Russians at Balaclava. They fought the armies of the Kaiser and Hitler, and more recently those of Saddam Hussein.
‘However, after 1945 the main preoccupation of the regiment was preparing for The War—World War Three. Spending much of its time based in West Germany. That war was to come in April 2005 and was to prove to be one of the toughest tests the regiment had faced.’ Extract from ‘Second to None—The Royal Scots Dragoon Guards in Peace and War’ by Major General Richard Stevenson, M.C (Edinburgh 2018).
* * *
“How many rounds do we have left, Angus?” Lieutenant Tom ‘Sherman’ Potter asked his loader.
“We’re down to three sabot and a couple of HESH, Boss,” Trooper Angus Malcolm replied.
“Christ,” Potter muttered under his breath. The sabot rounds were their most effective rounds against tanks. The high explosive squash head (HESH) might work in a pinch, but Potter was loathe to try them.
There should have been a resupply well before now, but it seemed that the vehicles carrying fresh ammunition had gotten delayed somewhere in the chaos of 1 (British) Corps’ rear area. Or perhaps there was no resupply?
“Here they come again; time for us to earn our pay again.” The voice of the Officer Commanding A Squadron said over the radio. Oddly, the voice was not the one Potter was expecting, but it was familiar somehow.
Too tired to care, not sure it matters, he thought.
Putting his doubts aside, Potter scanned the ground ahead of his Challenger 2—there they were! Dozens of Soviet T-80s and BMPs were rapidly advancing on his position. He selected a tank with additional aerials, which marked it out as a command tank.
“Sabot! One eight hundred! Tank! On!”
“Loaded!” Trooper Malcolm reported, confirming that a discarding sabot round and separate charge were loaded, and that he was clear of the breech.
“On!” Lance-Corporal Gregor Blamey, the tank’s gunner, said, confirming he could see the target.
“Fire!” Potter ordered.
“Firing now!”
‘KABOOM!’
The Challenger’s big 120mm gun spoke, throwing the sabot round at the T-80. The depleted uranium dart struck the Soviet tank on the turret ring, burrowing through to the crew compartment. Less than a second later, the T-80’s ammunition exploded, sending its turret into the air.
“Target!” Potter barked. “Next target right!”
The next few minutes were a blur as Potter and his crew fired off their remaining sabot rounds, before switching to HESH to try and kill the lightly armoured BMPs.
“Last round, Boss…oh, Jesus! It’s not a HESH…it’s cannister!” Malcolm said in horror.
“What!” Potter exclaimed.
“Oh, shite, we’re goanna to die!” Blamey said, with an uncharacteristic hint of panic in his voice.
“We need to get out of here! Driver reverse!”
“What, Sir?” Trooper IIivia ‘Mac’ Macawai, the driver asked. “I don’t understand.”
“Back! We need to go back!” Potter yelled, panicking now as he could see a T-80 bearing down on them.
“Reverse, ‘Mac’ you fucking fanny, or we’re all dead!” Blamey yelled.
“What? I don’t understand?” Macawi repeated.
Potter saw the flash of the T-80’s 125mm gun. This was it.
‘WHANG!’
* * *
“Oh, sorry to wake you, Boss.” Trooper Malcolm said as he closed the loader’s hatch behind him.
“What?” Potter said, sitting bolt upright with surprise. “I wasn’t asleep, was I?”
“Aye, you’ve been out for a while,” Malcolm confirmed. “Gregor said we should leave you be.”
“Yeah, thanks, I think, Angus,” Potter replied, rubbing his fo
rehead before pinching the top of his nose, thankful that it had all been a nightmare.
“Boss!” Blamey called down from outside the tank. “The O.C. is on the prowl!”
“Okay, thanks, I’ll get myself cleaned up.”
Potter grabbed his crewman’s helmet and ran his right hand over his face. There was a day’s growth of stubble, but it was too late to shave before his superior arrived.
* * *
“Morning, Boss,” Sergeant Stephen Miller, the Troop Sergeant of 1 Troop, A Squadron, Royal Scots Dragoon Guards (Carabiners and Greys) said in greeting as the Officer Commanding A Squadron arrived. “How are you?”
“I’m fine thanks, Sergeant,” Captain Alison Currie replied. “Mr. Potter about?”
“Think he was having a kip, Boss; he really needed it,” Miller replied.
Currie nodded, she understood all too well. She too could feel the fatigue that no amount of sleep could get rid of. It came with command, and even if technically she should not have been in charge of an armoured squadron group, that particular perk had come with the job.
Oh, if all those chauvinists could see me now, Currie thought. One of the first women qualified for combatant positions, Currie had initially only been allowed to serve with a Home Defence Yeomanry regiment, and she’d commanded a company before transferring to the Scots as a Media Operations Officer. The opening of the war had seen her supervising a group of journalists visiting the regiment; initial attrition had led to Scots’ commanding officer effectively conscripting her to replace A Squadron’s second in command. Forty-eight hours later, a T-80’s main gun had simultaneously disabled the squadron commander’s tank and given her a battlefield promotion.
I guess it’s unlikely the Queen’s going to insist a woman can’t properly be in charge of forces in combat, regardless of what her regulations might say, Currie thought wryly. Indeed, if rumours are true, she’s already gently prodded the PM to amend those documents. Currie was one of a number of women who had, by chance, either found themselves leading a combat unit, or fighting on the front-line, regardless of the alleged illegality of such events.
“I think we all need a kip, Sergeant,” Currie said with a weak smile.
Currie especially wanted to check up on 1 Troop because it had recently taken on the one remaining tank from 3 Troop, making it four vehicles strong, rather than three. There had been promises that at least one replacement tank and crew would arrive soon to re-constitute the Troop. But, it had yet to appear, and Currie had begun to doubt that it ever would.
* * *
“Good morning, Mr. Potter, I trust you’ve had a good rest?” Currie said by way of greeting when she reached Potter’s tank.
“Ah, yes, thank you, Ma’am,” he answered slightly sheepishly.
Currie smiled inside at the subaltern’s apparent guilt.
“Don’t feel guilty, Lieutenant; commanders need to be properly rested if they are to remain effective.”
God, do I feel like a fake, giving advice to a junior officer with more combat experience than me!
“Anyway, how are things? Corporal Campbell and his crew settled in okay?”
Potter nodded.
“Yes, Ma’am. They’re a good crew, but I’m keeping my eye, or rather Sergeant Miller is keeping his eye on them.”
“Good; they may well need a bit of extra TLC. Any other news?”
Potter shook his head, deciding not to share the nightmare.
“Any news on when we’ll be getting back into action, or if we’ll get any new tanks, Ma’am?” he asked instead.
Currie shook her head.
“Nothing yet, but as soon as I know, you’ll know.”
Captain Currie spent half an hour inspecting Potter’s troop, speaking to the men and checking on the tanks, before heading off back to Squadron H.Q. As he watched her leave, Potter realised who the voice had been in his dream—it had been his father. He wondered what Freud would have made of that.
* * *
16th May. Outside Elze, West Germany.
“Good morning, gentlemen…and lady,” Lieutenant Colonel Richard Stevenson, the regiment’s Commanding Officer, said to the assembled ‘O’ Group. “I think I may have some good news for you. Brigade have told me that we are to expect some replacements in the next few hours, so, Alison, you’ll be able to reconstitute 3 Troop, and Roger, you’ll be able to bring your 3 Platoon back up to strength.”
Major Roger Carter, the Officer Commanding, A Company, 1st Battalion, The Black Watch, nodded and looked pleased. The attached infantry had taken quite a few casualties.
“I’m assuming, Colonel, that there’s a catch?” Major Ian Anderson, the regiment’s Second-in-Command, asked.
Stevenson nodded.
“You’ve got it in one, Ian. Corps has not decided to release men and vehicles from what reserve it has left to us, and the other battle groups, from the goodness of its heart. We are going to be crossing the Leine…again.”
The SCOTS DG Battle Group, and indeed the rest of 1st Armoured Division, had already made two crossings of the Leine River. The first had been a withdrawal, as part of wrong-footing the Soviet 3rd Shock Army. The second had been a follow-up to that—an assault crossing to relieve the airborne troops of the Parachute Regiment Group, who had been defending the city of Hildesheim. The operation had given the 3rd Shock Army a bloody nose and allowed 1 (Br) Corps to pull back to a strong defensive line unmolested. It had also given the British breathing space to rest and refit.
“This time, however, I think that we will be going for good,” Stevenson continued. “As you know, the fighting going on as part of efforts to relieve Hamburg has been pretty heavy. The Soviets have been shifting their reserves up there to try and blunt our attacks. As a consequence, 3rd Shock Army has not been significantly reinforced. The only new troops reported were what the Paras thought looked like penal battalions.”
There was a low murmur at that, and Stevenson gave a feral smile as he continued.
“There is one bit of real good news before I move on: Since we’ve once again given the 3rd Shock a good kicking, they have apparently been stripped of their honorifics and are now just the plain old 3rd Combined Arms Army.”
That brought a round of hearty laughter from the gathered group.
“Couldn’t happen to a nicer bunch, Colonel,” Major Carter commented.
“Quite,” Stevenson agreed. “And we are going to be the ones who make sure that they don’t get them back.”
Stevenson turned to a map-board. The fingers of his right hand rested on the Leine.
“The operation we will be taking part in has been codenamed CONDOR, your guess is as good as mine why. At least the Septics are not getting to choose the names, or we’d have something like Operation OBVIOUS NAME.
“We will cross the Leine here, before swinging south of Hildesheim. The Soviets are still clearing a route through the city—the PRG and the West German engineers left one hell of a mess for them. Their armour is on this side of the city, but they can’t get their supporting vehicles through, which is why they have not attacked us yet.”
Stevenson looked to make sure his officers were understanding what he was saying.
“Our initial objective will be Schellerten,” he continued, indicating the West German village with his right index finger. “Depending on how things go, we will then push on Braunschweig.”
“Do we have a final objective, Colonel?” Captain Currie asked.
“Helmstedt,” Stevenson said simply.
There was silence for a moment.
“That’s ambitious, Colonel,” Major Anderson commented, breaking the silence.
Stevenson nodded.
“I know,” he agreed. “Now, this is for your ears only—the Brigadier let me know that American reinforcements from their I Corps started landing in French ports during the night. That’s at least four big, armoured and mechanised divisions, plus an armoured cavalry regiment and a great deal of artillery. It’s stil
l going to be at least 72 hours before any of those units arrives in theatre, but SACEUR is willing to take a risk and mount a major counter-offensive all along the line. Quite what form that will take, outside of our part, I don’t know, but I would not be surprised if there will be a major push for the border.”
That’s got their attention, Stevenson thought, seeing several apprehensive looks.
“The Soviets still have a lot of troops heading our way; the Byelorussian Tank Army Group, for example, is still transiting across Poland, and this will be a good chance for us to spoil any potential new Soviet offensive.”
“Any chance we’ll be allowed to cross the border?” Major Carter wondered.
“That’s supposed to be a political decision, but the informal order is not to stop pursuit of the enemy just because you reach the inter-German border,” Stevenson said. “If it was up to me, I’d not stop until we reach Poland. But it’s not up to me.”
He waited a long ten count, scanning the group.
“Well, if there are no further questions, get back to your troops and brief your own command teams. We’ve got 24 hours before the kick-off, so make the best of the time you’ve got.”
* * *
17th May.
Lieutenant Potter watched from the turret of his Challenger 2 as Royal Engineers finished off the bridge. In the early hours of the morning the ‘Toms’ of 4th (Volunteer) Battalion, Parachute Regiment, had been inserted by helicopter to secure the eastern bank of the Leine River. The plan was for the paratroopers to clear space for 7th Armoured Brigade, the spearhead of 1st Armoured Division, to cross unmolested.
So far, so good, Haig thought. M3 amphibious rigs had been used to carry the 9th / 12th Royal Lancers, the division’s reconnaissance regiment, across. They’d been closely followed by a squadron of The Queen’s Royal Irish Hussars and the Royal Scots Dragoon Guard’s Recce Troop. However, the engineers were now finishing off a pair of more permanent general support bridges to allow the rest of the brigade to cross more smoothly.
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