JSTARS and 3(UK) Mechanised HQ hadn’t thought they had scored so well, no multiple rocket systems were amongst the enemy batteries firing on them, but they were not inclined to look a gift horse in the mouth. Another element that was missing was airpower, there had been no airstrikes so far, so perhaps the losses up north had hurt them more than they knew, or, it was being preserved for something yet to come.
Major Popham and the Guards RSM, Barry Stone had moved out of the battalion CP taking signallers and an MFC, mortar fire controller with them, and set up shop in a custom built bunker, circa 1940’s, that had been uncovered by the JCBs digging fresh positions. It was damp, stank of mould, but it had five feet of reinforced concrete around it, it made Jim wonder if his Grandfather had been involved in its construction before his slave labour gangs turn had come for the gas chamber. It was ironic that he was in part fighting for the country that had all but ended his family’s history in the death camps sixty years before.
By splitting the battalion command element they hoped to avoid the disaster that had befallen the Guards in their first defensive action, either half could run the fight if the other were taken out.
It was bitterly cold so for once the charcoal lined ‘Noddy suits’ were welcome, keeping out the unseasonable chill, still though they all sat with arms wrapped around chests and knees drawn up while the shells fell around them.
With nothing much to do except wait, the airborne soldier from Orange County, California and the WO1 from Nether Silton on the North Yorkshire Moors exchanged views on life, past experiences and soldiers anecdotes. Both were large men, and their bulky clothing and NBC respirators gave them bug like appearances.
“I was a boy soldier, joined up at fifteen.” Barry told him. “I remember the RSM at the first camp I was at, Park Hall, he was this God like figure that young squaddies like me used to steer well clear of, I thought he was a right bastard until one day I was on barrack snatch… that means guard duty.” Barry paused as a salvo of shells landing particularly close, shook the walls of their bunker, after a few moments he continued. “There was this twelve foot fence, topped with barbed wire around the perimeter and me and my mate were walking around on fire piquet when we saw this guy from C Company trying to go absent. He’d climbed on the roof of one of the ‘spiders’ and was trying to swing over the fence on a rope tied to the branch of a tree, but he kept bottling out, wouldn’t let go the rope once it had swung over the far side. Well we were watching him for a couple of minutes when my mate nudged me and pointed. Stood in the shadows was this RSM, Terrance was his name, Regimental Sergeant Major Terrence, Scots Guards, big bloke. He had a pencil and note pad out, his pace-stick tucked under one arm, and he was counting softly as he kept count in the notebook,
“In barracks… out of barracks… in barracks… out of barracks.” Eventually he nicked the C Company guy and charged him with nine counts of being absent without leave during a ten-minute period. It was the first time I ever saw a sense of humour in a warrant officer.”
The American major and the signallers chuckled, for the Coldstreamers present it was their first view of the man who lay behind the stern exterior of the ferocious ‘Baz the Raz’. “Today,” he announced whilst producing a bottle of scotch. “Is my birthday, and to mark this occasion, you may all have a drink on me… just a swig mind” He said in warning to the junior ranks present, and passed the bottle around once he had checked the detector paper indicted nothing nasty in the atmosphere.
“How old are you Sarn’t Major?” Jim Popham asked him.
RSM Stone smiled back, his eyes screwing up behind the respirator visors, the only part of his face that was visible. “Old enough to remember when sex was safe and flying was dangerous, sir.”
Grinding along towards the battalions rear through the mud were two British FV 432s in the armoured ambulance role, a pair of figures preceded them, using night goggles to pick out the nearest trench. Once they had memorised its position they took off the goggles and stuffed them inside their smocks and put on their respirators.
Secured to their backs were British Army issue SA-80s, an unsatisfactory piece of equipment in their view, but when in Rome… With their approach the enemy fires shifted, concentrating on the battalions forward positions.
Major Venables small battlefield radar screen showed the approaching vehicles, and he peered over at the tank to his right, a Chieftain with the job of covering that arc. He didn’t need to ask if they had seen them, he could see the big gun traversing slowly as it tracked them.
As the newcomers approached the trench PFC Luis Pinterelli eased off the safety catch of his M-16, beside him his partner took careful aim with a SAW, squad automatic weapon. Luis waited until they were clear of cover to duck behind and then challenged them.
When an American voice ordered them to halt it confused both of the approaching figures, their intelligence clearly stated that a British Mechanised Brigade held this area.
“Nine.”
“Twenty,” the figure on the right answered, and took a pace forward, but Luis wasn’t sure about these people, the casevac, casualty evacuation, plan was always for the wounded to be taken to the casualty collection point by the injured men’s own unit. Even in the darkness the red crosses on a white field, on the APCs sides could be made out.
“Hold up there… just you wait there a while, I ain’t finished wid yuze fellas yet. Whadya doin’ here?”
“You got casualties, we were sent down from brigade to fetch them.”
Luis reached for a field telephone, keeping his weapon pointing at the two men stood before the APCs, and then a third figured appeared, emerging from the rear of the nearest APC.
“What’s the delay here?” a female voice commanded as its owner strode forwards. Luis got an answer from his own platoon CP but the newcomer was striding past the two other figures.
“Hold on lieutenant… Hey, stand still there!”
His shout drowned out the metallic ring of a grenades spring-arm flying off.
It takes training and confidence to hang onto an armed grenade for the couple of seconds required for it to explode almost as soon as it lands, robbing the target of reaction time.
Team Five commanders right hand came forward in almost a casual fashion, tossing the grenade underarm into the foxhole and diving to the left as she did so. Luis dropped the phone and fired a wild burst one handed at the figure that had thrown something into their hole, the SAW next to him hammered at the two shapes behind, scoring solidly on the slower of the pair, but then the grenade in their hole went off.
From their positions out of sight behind the second FV432, two more figures stepped into the open, placing a 9M111 system on the ground between the two APCs and dropped down either side of it, firing a second later.
Major Venables had been watching through his Challengers viewing blocks, but was taken completely by surprise by the sudden automatic fire.
“Damn… ” grabbing the commander’s override he began to traverse the main gun to the right whilst keying his radio, and then his flanking Chieftain was struck by a missile, exploding immediately.
“Contact, contact, contact… enemy infantry in the rear, British army uniforms and 432 armoured ambulances!” Men were boiling from the rear of the two APCs and running into the position.
“Gunner, take over… target APCs, two 432s!” Major Venables undogged the hatch and pulled himself up, grasping the pintle mounted GPMG he swung it toward the APCs, cocked it and let loose with three sustained bursts at where he thought the anti-tank weapon had been fired from. In reply, a bright light first robbed him of all his night vision, and then an explosion deafened him as well. The Spetznaz crew had attached a fresh launch tube when the tank officer appeared; the probing fire killed the loader and wounded the gunner who squeezed off the round in reaction to being hit. Streaking across the intervening space it struck the top of the earthen berm, in which the Challenger was sitting and exploded.