Now that each of his men were reunited with their Bergens and the extra ammunition they held, Colin set up shop in the centre of the location where he could best control things. He sent a pair of riflemen to reinforce each of the flanks and kept the remaining two with the GPMG as a quick reaction force, only then did he begin digging some cover for himself.
So far they had been bloody lucky, the last attack had showed that the soviet airborne troops did not know the disposition or numbers of those they were taking on. It had come at his right cut off group from directly across the track, and half the paratroopers had unknowingly entered the original killing zone dominated by the killer group, and a combination of small arms and Claymores had chopped them up. They hadn’t been quite as fortunate with the remainder though and Colin had to bring up the remaining gimpy from the killer group in order to beat them back, but they had still managed to get within grenade range of the Guardsmen, killing one of his men and slightly wounding another.
His own shell scrape was only a couple of inches deep when someone screamed a warning, and mortar rounds began exploding on the position.
Seven and a half miles north an oblong shaped radar array sat at the rear of a Foden truck, pointing toward the forest. It picked out each mortar round twice during its time of flight and the information allowed the operators of ‘Arthur’, the artillery locating radar, to backtrack the flight of the rounds to within ten feet of the base plate positions they had been fired from. The information was passed along until it arrived at B Battery, 17 Field Regiment Royal Artillery, and the barrels of its AS 90, 155mm self-propelled guns swung around to the required bearing and elevation, but remained there without firing.
Colin lay in the shallow depression with his hands pressed to his ears as yet another belt of mortar rounds straddled the Guards enclave, one striking a tree and amputating the top twenty feet from the rest of the trunk, splinters of wood found soft tissue below as the severed section crashed down.
Colin didn’t hear the beat of rotor blades passing overhead, but the Apaches occupants noted the fall of shot matched the point on the map they had been told the friendly forces were, they reported that important item back and continued with their task.
Once the last round had impacted Colin called for another sitrep before again switching to the company net, requesting once again the defensive fires that would bracket his position and give them some breathing space to carry out a quick reorg. He didn’t hear the reply because the ground rose up and smacked him in the face, filling his mouth with mud and pine needles as more rounds slammed onto the position.
It takes bags of guts and discipline to make maximum use of supporting fire, because it entails the risk of taking casualties from it. While the rounds were still landing a Russian paratrooper captain rose to his feet just across the wide firebreak from the Guards right flank and ran forwards, firing from the hip. Two dozen men followed him, well spread out in a line and screaming like banshee’s as they did so.
Nikoli grunted in pain as he was struck in the right thigh, but the leg didn’t collapse so he ran on, borne along by a mixture of fear and adrenaline.
Halfway across the firebreak the sound of his men firing was replaced by two tremendous explosions, and he flinched and faltered, deafened by the blasts and robbed of his night vision by the flash of the detonations.
Falling to the ground he squeezed his eyes closed to rid them of the after image left by the flashes, and on opening them again he looked to his left and right, seeing that two men were still with him, but of the rest they either lay screaming in wounded agony or broken and motionless where they had been flung.
Pure luck had guided him to this spot; the Claymore that had covered this area had been fired on the previous assault, which was cold comfort for the men on the left and right.
Raising his head a fraction Nikoli could see they were just twelve or so feet from the tree line, and muzzle flashes from the dark interior showed the NATO troops perimeter was about ten feet beyond that.
Fresh firing came from behind them and Nikoli knew the next wave was about to begin its assault. His right thigh was now throbbing in earnest but he ignored the pain and reached inside an ammunition pouch for a grenade, showing it to the other two men who did the same, and when all three pins were pulled he raised himself on one arm and they threw them towards the nearest enemy position.
When all three grenades went off he pushed himself to his feet but stumbled as his right leg gave way and was then knocked over backwards by the falling body of one of the men, his right leg was bent backwards, trapped underneath him and he screamed in agony, pushing at the dead paratroopers body that bore him down.
In his pain Nikoli was only distantly aware of the ground bucking beneath him, with the detonation of 81mm mortar rounds impacting on the next wave of paratroops, and the more distant explosions of 155mm artillery rounds creating ruin on the soviet mortar line. With a final heave he rolled away the dead body and freed his injured leg, but relief brought a roaring in his ears and darkness dimmed his vision as the rain began once more, beating down upon the already sodden terrain.
Colin lay on his side and planted a foot on the prone body of a soviet para that had breached the perimeter, entering through a gap created by the grenading, and gripping the pistol grip of his SLR with both hands he pulled backwards, freeing the attached bayonet that emerged from the dead man’s chest with a sucking sound.
His hands shook and he had to take a deep breath to compose himself before leading his tiny reserve at a crawl towards the sound of screaming at the point of penetration. A Guardsman thrashed on the ground with both hands pressed before his eyes, and Colin could only remove a morphine syrette and jab it into the blinded man’s thigh. He emptied the man’s ammunition pouches, handing one of the magazines and a grenade to a rifleman before unzipping the casualties smock, extracting a belt of fifty rounds which he snapped in half, tossing one half to the gunner. He repeated this with the wounded man’s oppo after confirming no pulse remained, but stuffed everything inside his own smock for redistribution elsewhere, and finally he removed the I.D tags from about the neck and put them in a pocket.
Colin left his pair of Guardsman plugging the gap and hauled the wounded soldier back to the centre of the position by the yoke of his webbing, where he left him.
The Army Air Corps AH Mk 1 Apache finished its sweep at the forests southern edge and egresses to the north east to take up a holding pattern whilst someone decided what next it should do.
Standing in the open and listening to the sound of it depart a soviet paratrooper removed his helmet and raised his face toward the falling rain. The droplets made little effect on the grease based camouflage cream that broke up the contours of features made gaunt by half rations and near exhaustion, and failed to absorb into the matted greying hair that was normally shaved almost to the scalp.
As if accepting that the rain could not wash away the weight of responsibility he shook his head as a dog rids its coat of unwanted suds, and replaced the headgear.
He viewed the members of his small staff that crouched beneath the bows of the trees.
“Gentlemen, I do not believe that taking cover fooled that aircraft for a second, they know we are here now.”
Reaching down he assisted one of the men to his feet but the man could only grunt his thanks, a dressing about his head held a shattered jaw in place and the often cold soup he was forced to ingest did not provided sufficient calories. He was desperately weak and for a few moments he clung to the arm of Colonel General Alontov as he fought for balance. “It’s alright Stefan, one way or another our trek is coming to an end.”