“How long will we have, sir?” asked Corporal Simpson.
“Ten minutes notice. So there will be no drills. Blow your smoke dischargers and head for the bridge in double-quick time.”
“Sir,” they both acknowledged.
“I hope they choose another bloody troop for point next time.”
“I’ll make sure of it, Sarn’t.” The Lieutenant laughed.
“Sir… sir.”
Wesley-Jones looked up to see the silhouette of Corporal Patterson on the engine deck of the Chieftain, leaning over.
“Corporal?”
“We’ve got movement out there, sir.”
Alex was up in a flash and quickly shook hands with his two tank commanders who then sped off to join their own tank crews, ready to take on the inevitable Soviet tank advance. Alex ran round to the side, then the front and climbed up onto the glacis plate, then onto the turret before slotting into his commander’s position.
“Where?”
Patsy handed his troop commander the binoculars and pointed. “About one o’clock, well over 1,000 metres, I would imagine.” He then dropped down into the fighting compartment, grabbed his headset, settling into his seat, face up against the sights of the one-twenty-millimetre gun, and awaited orders.
Alex quickly zoomed in on the area and immediately picked up the shape of moving armour clawing along the road. “Two-Two-Bravo, Two-Two-Charlie. Standby. All Two-Two call signs, standby, standby. Movement, direction Barfelde, 2,000 metres.”
The turret moved to the left by about ten degrees as Patsy tracked the oncoming vehicles. Alex’s crew were on the ball. He couldn’t quite make out the shape, but was sure the lead vehicle was a tank like his, a Chieftain. If the group did a dog-leg off the road, to avoid the mines laid alongside the road, it would more than likely be a Brit unit, probably the remnants of 4th Armoured Division, the final units limping back.
The lead vehicle dropped off the road, closely followed by the rest, and Alex allowed himself a sigh.
“I think they’re ours, but don’t relax just yet.” He spoke into his mike boom in front of his mouth. “It could be a trap, or there are Sovs close behind hoping to be led through our minefields.”
He could hear the roar of the straining engine as the lead Chieftain made its way back up onto the road, the sound distinctive, the vehicles following now coming into view: two Chieftains and three 432s. The last Chieftain in line looked OK, its turret and gun facing backwards over the engine deck, covering the withdrawal. The lead Chieftain, in front of the 432s, sounded and looked very different. The engine was cutting out intermittently, the driver going quickly through the gears in an attempt to keep the fifty-ton monster on the move. The tracks squealed loudly, more than was normal, and the turret appeared frozen at a forty-five-degree angle, the barrel twisted and bent over the rear engine deck.
“These guys have been in the thick of it,” Alex said to himself.
The growling of the engines grew louder as they headed for the bridge, clouds of black smoke now visibly emanating from the engine of the lead tank. The engine screamed louder, fighting against the driver’s efforts to keep it running and the tank moving as he desperately tried to get across the bridge and home. Home being safe across the river amongst a more powerful force, protected.
Alex could still smell the lingering fumes from the lead tank after it had passed, smoke pouring from its engine. He hoped they would make it to Gronau.
“They’re ours,” he called down to his crew. “But standby. We don’t know what’s coming in behind them.”
Lieutenant Baty lowered the binos and rubbed his eyes before raising them again. He felt slightly afraid that, if he took his eye off the ball for only a second, the enemy would be on top of them. He tried his best to discern any distinctive shapes on the edge of the Gronauer Holz Forest, an indication that the enemy were preparing to leap forward and continue their assault west. He was covering an arc from ten o’clock to nearly two o’clock. He had definitely seen some signs of movement and had reported it back up the line. But, for the moment, it was quiet. His Scorpion was in an open-ended barn, stacks of straw bales across the front and the sides hiding his armoured reconnaissance vehicle from the eyes of the enemy, fulfilling their motto: ‘to see without being seen’. His task was not to fight the enemy, although their 76mm gun could pack a punch, but to be the eyes and ears for the regiment, so the Chieftain tanks could deliver a deadly blow to any advancing armour. He knew the enemy were out there somewhere, close on the heels of the battered unit that had just passed through. The term higher command were using was that they were pulling back, to consolidate a better defensive position. In reality, thought Baty, they were on the run.
He shifted in his turret, the NBC suit chafing the skin of his neck, making it itch, no matter how well he pulled up the collar of his shirt beneath it. The inside black charcoal layer always managed to irritate somehow. He was hot, sweaty and tired; the thought of a shower under hot running water a mere dream. They had not experienced any chemical strikes to date, but now was not the time to relax their guard, and orders from on high had stated they were to remain at NBC level Romeo-four.
“Two-One, this is Two. Orders. Over.”
“Two-One, send. Over.”
“Move to grid Yankee, Delta, Two, Charlie, Echo, Five.”
“Roger, moving now. Out.”
Baty informed his driver, and the engine of the heavily camouflaged Scorpion increased its revs as the driver backed the vehicle out of the barn.
“Stop. Left stick,” he informed the driver up at the front of the vehicle. “Forward. Stop.”
Baty checked the map, shielding the red filtered torch, but the ambient light was improving every minute. He then guided the Scorpion to their next position; higher command no doubt wanting a report on what could be seen from this new location. On instructions from himself, the second Scorpion followed at a safe distance behind. The two vehicles of the recce troop were on the very eastern edge of the village of Barfelde, and they followed the road, Burg Strasse, as it tracked around to the right until they found themselves on An der Schmau. With houses either side of the street covering their left and right flanks, they remained unseen. The streets were deserted as were most of the houses. Most of the German population had fled west, although they had seen at least one elderly couple who had no intention of leaving their home, even for the Soviet army.
“Right stick, take us through the gap then left. Take us up to the edge.”
The Scorpion spun on its tracks, turning right, in between the two houses, flattening a small picket fence, turned left and stopped after seventy-metres, up against a dense line of thicket and a few small saplings. This would provide good cover while they conducted surveillance of the northern part of the village and the open ground out front. The other Scorpion pulled into a hedgeline, but further south, closer to Schul Strasse. Baty’s troop was responsible for watching the approach roads and ground to Gronau, and reporting back.
“Stop, stop.”
The Scorpion rocked gently on its suspension as it came to a halt. The crew quickly spread an array of foliage across the glacis and turret, completely softening the hard lines of the armoured vehicle. It blended in well with its surroundings. The binos were up to his eyes in seconds, a quick scan left to right to identify any immediate threats. Nothing. Perhaps as the light improved, he would be able to see more. It was three-fifty. In the meantime, they would have to wait.