Private First-Class Larry Poole applied a touch of power to the tracks and edged the sixty-seven ton M1-Abrams forward, the 105mm barrel pointing in between a few saplings along the edge of the railway line running north to south in front of them.
“Stop,” called Staff Sergeant Kyle Lewis, the commander of the tank and the second in command of the platoon. “That’ll do it, Poole. Shut her down.”
The engine was turned off and SSGT Lewis checked his arc of fire. A-platoon, Anvil, was situated along the western side of the railway line, on the north-eastern edge of the village Kerzell. Only three tanks now; one had been destroyed during the initial attack by the Soviet forces that pushed their way into West Germany and were now at the very outskirts of the town of Fulda and in places further north, crossing the River Fulda to continue their advance west. They had pushed the US forces, the 11th Cavalry Regiment, the Black Horse Regiment, twenty-five kilometres back and were now on the doorstep of the Fulda Gap ready to push the final 100 kilometres that would take them directly to the German city of Frankfurt. If the Soviet army got in amongst the slowly consolidating US reserve forces arriving into theatre, were able to attack and destroy ammunition and supply dumps, and destroy the airfields being used by the US and West German air forces, the entire war would take a turn for the worst for US V Corps and split CENTAG, separating it from NORTHAG and cutting off the 2nd German Corps from its Army command.
Lewis called down an order to his crew, and the gunner, Corporal Emery, and loader, PFC Peeger, clambered out and started to unpack the camouflage netting to spread over their tank and protect it from the prying eyes of the Soviet air force.
Lewis rubbed his eyes and ran his hands across his stubbled chin. “The guys could do with a coffee. See what you can do, Larry.”
His pale-faced driver joined him on the turret. “Sure, Staff Sergeant, we’re all ready for one, I think.”
Lewis looked at his driver, his face even paler than usual, with sunken eyes and faint black circles starting to form beneath. “It will do us all good. But don’t stray too far. Take it in turns if you need a piss, but be ready to get back in double-quick time. We don’t know when Popov will be here, but they won’t be far away.”
“Sure, Staff Sergeant.”
Poole clambered across the tank to acquire the makings of a coffee, and Lewis picked up his binos from the turret and surveyed the area ahead. He could hear the thumps and claps of explosions coming from the east. They had been almost pulverised in the initial onslaught. His squadron had suffered badly, his platoon getting off lightly, losing only one tank. The other two platoons had lost two tanks each; one from each platoon had been destroyed by a mixture of artillery fire and Hind-D attack helicopters, and the remaining two were mobile, but incapable of firing their main weapons. At this very moment, the two M1-Abrams were racing back to be repaired so they would be able to get back into the fight. He heard a rustle of netting being pulled up behind him.
“Sorry, Staff Sergeant, can you pull this over?”
Lewis grabbed the netting, pulled it up over his head; then Corporal Emery grabbed it and pulled it down the front of the turret, the other crewman placing long, thin poles beneath to push the netting up and out, disguising the shape of the tank. Once the next fight started, if they had time, it would be secured again so as not to interfere with the tank’s ability to fight.
“Once you’ve finished,” he shouted to them, “both of you grab two hours’ sleep. Poole and I will keep watch.”
“Cheers, Staff Sergeant. I’m bushed,” responded Emery.
Lewis rubbed his eyes again; then ran his finger round his neck between his skin and uniform, topped with his MOPP suit. The Mission Oriented Protective Posture suit would protect him, and his crew, from the toxic environment of a chemical or nuclear attack. They were currently on MOPP level 2: suit and boots were to be worn, and their gloves and mask carried at all times. Although it would provide him with protection against a chemical attack, the downside was that he was hot, dirty, smelly and uncomfortable. He and his crew were close to exhaustion.
After the massive artillery bombardment conducted by the Soviet artillery guns, missile and rocket launchers, which lasted over an hour, they had withdrawn in a swirl of dust and smoke, shocked and shaken, leaving behind a burning M1-Abrams with their friends inside. They hadn’t fired a single shot, and Lewis had had to lambaste his crew and drive them hard to get them back into being an effective unit. They had driven backwards almost blindly, passing through Second Squadron who would hold the ground while they withdrew. They then passed through Third Squadron, and only then could the platoon, along with the rest of the troop, reorientate themselves, pull themselves together, identify which units were missing, and dig in to take their turn to slow the advancing Soviet army that was attempting to brush them aside as if they didn’t exist.
After the other two squadrons had pulled back through their positions, it was their turn to be on the front line again. This time though, due to the Soviet advance losing some of its way, and even though the Abraham’s 105mm guns had a hard time punching through the armour of the enemy’s T-64Bs, they had scored their first hit, the crew elated. Then they again withdrew; Soviet artillery tracking their escape, helicopters hunting them down. The Vulcans, self-propelled air defence vehicles, did their best to retaliate, but half a dozen were taken out by the swarm of Hind-Ds that came out of nowhere, often attacking both them and the tanks from behind. The crew had another success, taking out a T-64B and a BMP-1 Mechanised Infantry Combat Vehicle. Once the battle had moved into the undulating area, deeper into the forests, the Soviet BMP-1 MICVs were finding it difficult to use their AT-3 Sagger anti-tank missiles, which were situated just above the 73mm gun. The confines of the terrain often meant that distances were too short, or the wires trailing behind got caught and snapped, leaving the missile to go out of control. This constant fire, move, fire, move and fire had continued up until nine in the evening, when they finally got a respite from Soviet ground-attack aircraft and artillery. But their work was far from finished: refuelling, rearming, minor repairs and maintenance. On top of that, there was sentry duty, always on the alert for a Soviet sneak attack. They knew that at least one bridge had been destroyed. When they felt, as well as heard, the nuclear explosion that devastated the bridge near Fulda and the infrastructure around it, it gave them a feeling of satisfaction that they had deprived the enemy of an easy crossing. They weren’t able to see the iconic plume of smoke and gases, but they certainly saw the flash light up the sky and felt its destructive power.
Lewis peered through his binos, lines of netting and plastic foliage obscuring his vision at times, and he scanned the ground ahead. The other side of the railway line were the built-up areas about five kilometres south of the town of Fulda. In front were Eichenzell and Loschenrod; immediately south of their position, Hattenhof; south-east, a slab of forest; north and north-west, the large forest of Kerzeller Lass-Wald; and further south of Hattenhof, about four kilometres from Kerzell, more forested areas.
The problem for the Soviets, he knew, was not only the dense forest and undulating ground, but heights of up to 500 metres, impassable by heavy main battle tanks, or even MICVs for that matter. Their troop was covering the approach to Kerzell. One platoon to the south, on the other side of the L3430, were providing a watch over the Bundestrasse 40 that continued east into the E-45, an ideal route to bring Soviet armour quickly west, his platoon to the north. A third platoon was actually astride Bundestrasse 40 itself and a fourth platoon was in reserve. Two hours ago, a battered cavalry squadron had withdrawn to the rear and the 3rd Armoured Cavalry Squadron, holding the line, was being hit again and again as it fought desperately and bravely to hold the enemy back.