“All right, lads?”
“Fine, Corp, so long as you’ve brought us a brew.”
“Fuck off, Berry.”
“Corporal.”
“Just heard from HQ. They reckon we’re going to be hit within the next hour or so, so keep your bloody wits about you. You, in particular, Finch. Before that though, we’ll see an infantry platoon and a couple of Chieftains making hell for leather towards the bridge, so keep your fingers off that Milan trigger. Understood?”
They all acknowledged, their mouths suddenly dry, even after the drink. Finch couldn’t help but lick his dry lips, a knot building up in his stomach. There was no malice in the Corporal’s voice, just banter in an attempt to keep his men alert, but at ease, not tense. If they felt anything like he did, they would be shitting themselves. But he couldn’t show it, needing to set an example to the small force under his command. If they sensed how he really felt, it would dent their own confidence. He had ten firing positions in totaclass="underline" seven in a line along the edge of the field in front of the small village behind, and three behind those. One he had just left to the north with two men; this Milan firing point; next another foxhole with two soldiers, one being LCPL Graham’s position; then a second Milan Post; then a Gympy team of two, the general-purpose machine gun, the main weapon of the small section; and one more foxhole to the south with the mortar fire controller and forward air controller, although they hadn’t seen much air support. They had been told that the RAF were still trying to gain air superiority, and due to the many airfields being hit by missiles and bombs, and some being attacked by Spetsnaz, squadrons were having to shift position. In the last one he had positioned the sustained-fire GPMG, attached from the support company. The three holes further back, maintaining a defence in depth, would be manned by himself and the rest of the section. Two of those men were in the house further back, but he would pull them out of there shortly. The two Milan firing posts came from the battalion’s anti-tank platoon, from support company. The platoon commander had also given him two LAW 66mm anti-tank rockets, useful for close protection should the Soviet armour get too close. It didn’t seem very much, but he had been reassured when he passed the solid, powerful-looking Chieftain tanks off to his left. If he listened carefully, he would just be able to make out the throbbing engines. Only three tanks though, and a couple of 438s, he thought. He wouldn’t be sorry when they were pulled back across the water, back amongst the rest of the battalion. At least then, he and his men would have a river flowing between them and the Soviet army.
“Keep your wits about you,” Carter encouraged. “Once you’ve fired two Milan missiles, pull back to your alternate position. It won’t take them long to zone in on your original position. And, for fuck’s sake, take your time. Don’t be rattled. Better to take a couple of seconds longer and take one of the bastards out. Don’t forget, we’re not here to stay, so be ready to bug out when we get the word. The 432s are right behind you, just south of the village. I may bring the Peak-Turret forward if we need more support. If we have to pull right back, don’t go through the village itself,” he advised. “By the time the Sovs have finished with it, it’ll be a rock pile. OK?”
“Yes, Corp,” they all responded.
“Get to your hole, Will,” he said to his second in command. “I’ll be in the one behind you once I’ve been along the line.”
With that, he got up from his crouch and made his way along the line of the forward firing positions, talking to his men, cracking jokes, pulling them up if their kit needed sorting, confirming their arcs of fire. Once complete, he felt a little more confident now he had exchanged some jokes with his men. Sergeant Thomas had been called back across the river, his task to make sure the rest of the platoon were well dug in. His platoon commander, Lieutenant Chandler, had also paid them a visit before being called to a combat team brief. The Lieutenant in command of the tank troop, Lieutenant Wesley-Jones, was in overall command on this side of the river. He seemed a decent enough bloke for a Rupert; in fact he came across as quite switched on. That made him feel better — although, in reality, he and his crew would be battened down under fifty tons of armour, fighting their own battle to worry too much about a handful of grunts. He was determined to do his best for his men, his mates. Yes, they were his mates. Finch got on his tits at times and Will could dither a bit, but he wouldn’t want to fight alongside any others. He was in command, and he would keep a grip of his section and those attached, get them back safely, or at least die trying.
Sergeant Andrews and Corporal Simpson were crouched down at the rear of Two-Two-Alpha, Lieutenant Wesley-Jones, their troop commander, whispering last-minute instructions to his two tank commanders. He was kneeling down and, even through the layer of his combat trousers and Noddy suit, could feel the cool ground, cooled as a consequence of a fine dew that had freshly formed during the night. He caught a faint whiff of the ground beneath, but generally it was overpowered by the smell of the Chieftain’s engine as it ticked over, and even, although not too bad at the moment, the smell of his own unwashed body. He had removed his woolen jumper earlier in the day. With the jumper, a combat jacket and the NBC smock, he had found a film of sweat forming on his body every time he moved. It was pretty cool in the early hours of the day, but as dawn broke and the sun rose higher in the sky, so did the temperature, sometimes reaching as high as twenty-four degrees Celsius. His tank was pulled up to the edge of the berm, the OC calling a stand-to. With the trees behind them, a heavily camouflaged turret and main gun, the enemy would struggle to see them until it was probably too late. The small forest they were in front of was less than half a square kilometre, a prominent outcrop on the eastern edge of the German village of Gronau. His tank was at the northern part of the small forest, where he could cover the open fields to their front, as far out as Betheln, a village three kilometres to the north-east. South of Betheln and about a thousand metres closer lay the village of Barfelde, linked to Gronau via a metalled road, Barfelde Strasse. There were four Scorpions, from the regiment’s reconnaissance troop, situated around Barfelde and Gut Dotzum, watching and waiting for the enemy to move. The rest of his troop, Two-Two-Bravo to his left and Two-Two-Charlie to his right, had pulled forward into their berms, and soon their respective tank commanders would be joining them. Further left, the ground to the left of the road was raised slightly, providing a shallow plateau, and close to the western edge of it, two FV438s had dug in. Any enemy armour approaching from the east between Gronau and Betheln, across open ground, could be picked off by the two FV438s and their Swingfire anti-tank missiles. The crew had a foxhole about fifty metres from each vehicle, linked by a control unit, in a position where they could watch any approaching armour. With the Swingfire missile capable of making a ninety-degree turn once launched, the vehicles could be hidden and the crew firing it from a safe location. He was in command of the entire force on this side of the river. It wasn’t large, but they would still hit the enemy hard.
Wesley-Jones spoke. “If I can’t get you on the radio, or even if Squadron can’t get me, they will fire two red flares. That will be our signal to bug out.”
“The Sovs will know that as well, sir.”
“I know, Sarn’t, but staying here and getting cut off once they’ve blown the bridge will be far worse.”
“Flare it is then, sir,” Sergeant Andrews responded with a smile.
“So keep your eyes peeled, both of you. There’ll be all sorts flying around.”