With the engineers apparently finished, a Royal Military Police ‘Redcap’ motioned to Potter that his troop should cross.
“Keep it down to twenty kays while you’re crossing, Sir,” the RMP Sergeant said, as Potter’s Challenger drew level with him. “Otherwise the Wedgeheads get upset that you might break their bridge.”
“Right, oh, Sergeant. Don’t want to upset the Engineers.”
“Good luck, Sir, and give ‘em one from the Monkeys.”
“Don’t worry, Sergeant, we certainly will,” Potter replied before ordering his driver to proceed.
* * *
‘PARP!’
The sound of someone in the troop compartment of the Warrior Infantry Fighting Vehicle was clearly audible in the turret. The smell of the noxious emission arrived a few seconds later.
“God all mighty, what have you lot been eating? Stinkin’ up my track like that, ah think I’ll put on ma respirator!” Corporal Andrew Lonnie, the section and vehicle commander complained.
“You think it’s bad up there? Try sitting down here!” Lance Corporal Paul MacConachie, the second in command of the section, and commander of the second fire team, replied. “I blame those ‘Boxhead’ rations Deeky ‘obtained’ for us.”
“You never complained when I got them at the time,” Private Derek ‘Deeky’ Wilson said defensively. “Anyway, it wisnae me; smelt it dealt it!”
“Well, don’t look at me,” Private David ‘Jock’ Stein, one of the section light machine gun gunners, said. “I think it was defo Deeky!”
“Man, that smell is boggin.’” Private Robert ‘Robbie’ Robertson complained. “Can we no’ open a hatch? If the Russians get a whiff of that, they’ll think we’re trying to gas them!”
The other three men of the section and the Warrior’s gunner all also vociferously denied that they had been responsible for polluting the air inside the vehicle.
“Awwfirfucksake, we’re a couple of minutes away from assaulting a Ruskie position and all you lot can argue about is who’s farted,” Lonnie said finally, putting an end to the argument. “Anyway, those of you who have got them, fix bayonets.”
Private Wilson, the guilty party, despite his protestations, reached down, drew his bayonet and fixed it to the barrel of his rifle.
Well, this is about to get serious, he thought. To think that we’ve paid tons of money for a fighting vehicle, and it’s still going to come down to ‘stick them with the steel’ like we’re fighting the Zulus, or something. Each member of the section went through a ritual of checking that he could reach his spare magazines and grenades easily enough, that his helmet and body armour were properly fitted and the straps secured, and that their comms were working. Wilson watched as Stein double checked the LMG’s ammunition belt again, the nervous action clearly a comfort. On the other side, Robertson loaded his grenade launcher and then affixed his own bayonet.
Even worse that there’s only two of us with the pig stickers, even if the LMG and underslung grenade launchers add to our firepower, Wilson thought. Before the war, he’d remembered his section sergeant complaining loudly about the new section and squad organization’s “deficient in cold steel.”
I guess there’s a point to all—
The Warrior halting interrupted his thoughts. The rear door opened as the IFV’s 30mm RARDEN cannon engaged some unseen target.
“Troops out!” Corporal Lonnie ordered.
Wilson, Stein, Robertson, McConachie and the other three men of the infantry section sans Corporal Lonnie spilled out of the vehicle’s back. Lonnie remained aboard the Warrior for the moment, the vehicle’s optics and radio allowing him to better control the action and co-ordinate their fire support. The reason for this decision became readily apparent as Wilson sprinted forward, as the wood A Company had been assigned to assault was still dark. Smoke from phosphorous rounds was drifting through the trees, further reducing visibility.
Private Wilson saw a few shadowy figures ahead of him through the swirling smoke, and their helmets looked ‘wrong.’
Soviets! He charged forward, screaming to release the tension, firing a few shots as he did. The rest of the section was similarly engaged, and a few of the figures dropped. The shock caused the majority of the others to turn and run. One Soviet stood still, either planning to stand his ground, or rooted to the spot by fear. Wilson did not care either way, as he was upon the man before the Soviet could really make any decisions. The British soldier plunged his bayonet into the man, then twisted his rifle to the right as his victim screamed. Operating purely on muscle memory, Wilson withdrew the weapon as his section and squad continued after the fleeing enemy. Looking down as the Soviet soldier twitched then went still, Private Wilson wiped off some of the blood that had spattered onto his face.
Well, guess we’re in it, he thought, striding to keep up with the rest of his squad. To his shock, Private Wilson was not scared any more.
Lieutenant Potter watched the infantry assault progress against the Soviet anti-tank gun battery. The battery, equipped with the 125mm towed 2A45M Sprut-B, had hoped to ambush the SCOTS DG battle group as it crossed at the expected ford site to the north.
Good thing these idiots didn’t understand thermal camouflage, Potter thought. The guns had stuck out like a sore thumb to the reconnaissance vehicles, and the battle group’s fire support officer had brought down a mortar barrage on the battery and its supporting infantry company. That had allowed the Black Watch to get on top of the position before the Soviets had a chance to dust themselves off.
Oh no, that won’t do, Potter thought, watching as one of the guns attempted to reposition so that it could engage the friendly infantry. He’s probably got flechette or HE loaded.
“HESH! One six hundred! Anti-tank gun! On!” Potter barked.
“Loaded!” Trooper Malcom reported a few seconds later.
“On!” Lance-Corporal Blamey confirmed.
“Fire!”
“Firing now!”
‘BOOM!’ The L30 120mm gun fired, kicking up a huge dust cloud as it sent the HESH round down range. The shell slammed into the anti-tank gun and exploded, almost obliterating it and bowling over all of its crew.
“Target stop!” Potter ordered.
The rest of the assault was over in minutes. With the anti-tank battery and infantry company eliminated, there was now no significant Soviet formation between the SCOTS DG battle group and Schellerten. Soviet forces in Hildesheim were now horribly vulnerable to being cut-off.
* * *
Hildesheim.
Acting Major Pavel Krylov held a cloth over the lower part of his face as he surveyed the rubble that was once a city. A platoon commander at the start of the war, Krylov was now a veteran soldier who had seen his unit rebuilt several times. Each time, he’d taken great pains to properly incorporate the survivors of other, shattered, units. Now for the first time, as the new commander of the 243rd Motor Rifle Regiment’s new 4th Battalion, Krylov wondered if his task was beyond him.
At least No. I Company is solid, he thought. No. I Company was formed from the survivors of his old unit, reinforced by some newly arrived reservists, Numbers II to V Companies, however, were formed from a mix of soldiers who were regarded as having ‘failed,’ mainly political prisoners and common criminals. No. VI Company was made up of MVD personnel, all experienced prison guards, along with a platoon from a KGB ‘Security Battalion.’
Allegedly the last is to keep the prisoners ‘honest,’ but it fills me with dread, Krylov thought. The appearance of the KGB unit, combined with penal soldiers, was a sign of the Kremlin’s increasing impatience with the Soviet Army. No longer would discipline be the sole province of the Commandant’s Service (the military police) and the GRU. The KGB had been given near carte blanche to do whatever it felt was necessary.
Which means this stench will surely get worse before long. Although Krylov had smelled death a great deal since the start of the war, he had never grown used to it, hence the cloth. The s
tench was especially bad as his battalion, or at least the ‘penal’ portions of it, had been assigned the task of clearing a route for vehicles through part of Hildesheim. That had resulted in uncovering decomposing bodies that had been buried by rubble. Krylov had been saddened to see that by far the majority of the bodies wore Soviet uniforms.
‘BOOM!’
Krylov ducked reflexively as a booby-trap left by West German Wallmeister pioneers exploded. Small pieces of rubble and ‘other’ material spattered the Soviet major, fortunately not causing him any injury.
Why do those idiots not listen to the warnings? Krylov brushed himself down, noticing to his disgust that there was a piece of intestine on his left boot. He shook it off and tried not to think about the fact that some carrion creature would probably soon be eating it.
“Comrade Major! Comrade Major! Are you all right!”
Krylov turned, seeing his orderly jogging over. The man was a reservist old enough to be the major’s father. Like all the other replacements, Krylov had not bothered to learn his full name, just knowing that he was called Boris.
“I am fine, Boris,” he replied. “Which is not something I can say for those clots over there.”
“I am glad you are well, Comrade Major. As for those men…” Boris shrugged, evidently indifferent to his fellow soldiers’ fate. Krylov regarded the man coolly.
“I have a message from headquarters,” Boris added, remembering the reason he had been looking for his commander. The older man handed over a message slip.
‘British forces have cut Autobahn 7, south-east of Hildesheim and Bundesstraße 1 at Schellerten. Enemy forces also reported to south of Sarstedt, near Bundesstraße 6. You are to prepare your battalion for road movement and counter-attack.’
Krylov could see that the message had been signed by the Regimental Commander, Colonel Ivanov. Evidently the message had been regarded as too sensitive to risk passing by radio, even though the major was accompanied by a radioman wherever he went.
The major opened a case containing a rare and secret item in the Soviet Army: a map. It showed Hildesheim and the surrounding area as he unfolded it. Casting about for a flat surface, Krylov finally beckoned Boris across so that he could use the orderly’s back to support it.
“Damn,” he muttered on seeing where the locations on the map were. Enemy forces were now to the rear of Hildesheim and would not have to make much more of an advance to surround the city.
They have effectively done to us what we have done to their paratroopers, like a python eating a barn snake that is swallowing a rat.
“Come on, Boris, time to get back to H.Q.; I have some proper work to do.”
Boris enthusiastically hurried off ahead of Krylov, who marvelled at the energy a man of his age had. The orderly opened up quite a gap between himself and the major. This proved fortuitous for Krylov, as after a short distance Boris unwittingly caught his foot in a trip wire connected to the pin of a grenade. The resultant explosion, while not as impressive as the most recent one Krylov had experienced, was still sufficient to strike him with organic debris.
Well, looks like I am going to need a new orderly, Krylov thought with equal parts annoyance and apathy.
* * *
Schellerten.
The Royal Scots Dragoon Guards Battle Group had halted just to the east of the village to allow its vehicle to refuel and replenish ammunition. Its men would also take the opportunity to rush a quick meal.
Lt. Colonel Stevenson was finishing up eating in the turret of his Challenger 2 when he was interrupted by the Regiment’s Adjutant, Captain Thomas Young.
“Got the Brigadier on the line for you, Colonel.” Young informed him.
“Damnation.” Stevenson muttered, putting the plate of curry aside and climbing out onto the roof of the turret, before following Young across to the Sultan Armoured Command Vehicle.
“Stevenson here,” he said once he had put the radio headset on.
“Hello Dick, got a bit of a change of mission for you,” the voice of Brigadier Harris said. His voice sounded a bit like a Dalek over the scrambled radio link, and the comparison was an apt description of the short, powerfully built officer. From the tone of voice, Stevenson could tell that the impending mission was going to be a tough one.
“The Soviets are beginning to react, a little faster than we’d hoped in fact,” Harris said, the distortion forcing Stevenson to pay much more attention. “While the bulk of their forces to the west of Hildesheim have been pinned in place, a motor rifle regiment in the city itself is moving towards where you are. Division needs you to re-orientate to the west and halt that regiment before they threaten the bridgehead. While you hold them, the Queen’s Dragoon Guards Battle Group will hit them from the left flank.”
“I’ll need as much support as you can give me, sir,” Stevenson replied. A MRR wasn’t far off from a British brigade. Stopping one of those would have been a tough task for his unit at full strength, never mind its current state.
“You’ll get it. Corps is going to give your battle group priority for artillery and air support. When your Forward Observer and Forward Air Controller ask for support, they will be at the front of the queue.”
Stevenson grew worried at that.
That assumes there’s anything in the queue to answer the call, he thought.
“Dick, I can’t emphasise how important it is that you stop this Soviet regiment. If they get past you, they’ll be in a position to disrupt our advance on Helmstedt. The Black Watch and the Queen’s Royal Irish are practically at Braunschweig. I’d have to turn them around, never mind what other units would have to stop. I imagine that General O’Connor would be seriously displeased if CONDOR is messed up,” Harris said.
The corps commander can be as upset as he wants, Stevenson thought. Fact is, that’s a lot of combat power I’ve got to stonewall for this to work. While a gulag or business end of a Makarov were unlikely for a British officer, O’Connor had developed a reputation for being fond of ‘sacking’ people.
Of course, have to be alive to get sacked.
“Don’t worry, sir,” Stevenson replied. “If that regiment gets past us, it will be because none of us are left standing.”
* * *
651 Squadron, Army Air Corps. Forward Arming and Refuelling Point.
Captain Rachel ‘Firekitten’ White carried out a ‘walk-around’ check of her Apache AH.1 attack helicopter before climbing up into the rear cockpit. She took a moment to reflect on the irony that the current FARP was only a few miles away from the squadron’s peacetime home—Tofrek Barracks in Hildesheim.
I hope the Paras or the Soviets haven’t wrecked grandma’s china, she thought unhappily. Mum will never let me hear the end of it.
White shook her head at the memory of her mother fussing at her about ‘a bloody war likely breaking out’ as she finished pre-flight.
“Ready to rock and roll, Dav?” White asked her Gunner, Staff Sergeant David ‘Dav’ Jones.
While White’s nickname was a slight mystery—it had come with her to the squadron—Jones’ was quite the opposite. It had originated from an army form that had left off the ‘id’ of his first name, and from them on he had been known as ‘Dav.’
“Certainly am, Rach,” Jones replied.
White glanced to her right to check on the other Apache that would be flying tonight’s mission, flown by Warrant Officer Cliff ‘Spooky’ Budden, Canadian exchange pilot, and Sergeant John ‘Jack’ Newton. Budden gave her a ‘thumbs up’ from the other aircraft’s pilot’s seat.
“Okay, I’m firing up No.1,” White said, pressing the button to start one of the Apache’s RTM322 engines.
* * *
Half an hour later, the pair of helicopters were over the battlefield heading towards their first target. The airspace at low-level had proven to be almost totally lethal for helicopters and fast jets during the day, so both now preferred to operate at night. Even so, it was still a very dangerous environment. Other t
han the standard 30mm cannon, each Apache was armed with eight Brimstone missiles and two CRV7 rocket pods under their stubby wings, while four Starstreak missiles adorned the wingtips.
Both Apaches slowed to the hover behind a small wood, and White slowly climbed until the Longbow on top of the rotor hub was exposed. She briefly illuminated the radar, which scanned the ground ahead of them.
“Looks like we’ve got some customers ahead.” White remarked as she studied the CRT display showing the Longbow data.
* * *
The 243rd Motor Rifle Regiment’s sole tank battalion had started the war with forty T-90A tanks. In twenty-three days of conflict it had already gone through that complement one and a half times. It had recently been brought back up to strength, but the replacement tanks were older T-72Bs from reserve stocks.
While a single platoon of four tanks had been detached to the Regiment’s Advance Guard, the remainder were following the BMP-2s of No.2 Battalion. Unfortunately, none of the regiment’s four 2K22 Tunguska (SA-19 ‘Grisson’) anti-aircraft vehicles were in a position to protect the tanks from what was about to happen. For that matter, no one had even passed a warning so that the tanks might attempt to protect themselves.
* * *
“One away! Two away!” White announced as she fired two Brimstones.
Both helicopters ducked down behind the woods after firing a pair of missiles and rapidly relocated to a new firing point. Not staying in one position too long was a lesson learned by both NATO and Warsaw Pact attack helicopter crews. Even when an enemy formation had no dedicated anti-aircraft systems, tanks had proven quite capable of shooting down helicopters with their main guns.
Trouble in the Wind Page 44
