Chapter 14
After arriving at Helmstedt the previous evening, and after a very short rest period, the division was again on the move. The next stage, taking them to the area of Salzgitter, would have to be handled very differently. Although still some way from the battlefield, there was an ever greater risk of NATO airstrikes; deep strikes in order to disrupt the Soviet flow of ammunition and other much needed supplies. But one additional target, reinforcements, would also be on their list. Although, in some cases, the reinforcing units were of an inferior calibre, what they lacked in aggression and expertise, they certainly made up for in sheer numbers. But not the 25th Tank Division. This unit had trained hard and was more than ready to give a good account of itself. Now the division had been split into three independent columns. Each column would march along one of three separate parallel routes, in the region of six to eight kilometres apart. The total width of the march sector taken up by the 25th Tank Division would be in the region of thirty-two kilometres wide. Each of the Division’s regiments, and even down to battalion, would need to be prepared to deploy into a battle formation as soon as ordered. They would halt for up to an hour, every three to four hours. Once they reached Salzgitter, sixty kilometres west, they would be at their departure line; ready to receive orders as to when and where they would be committed to battle.
After a journey of nearly fifteen hours, travelling for 400 kilometres, the division came across its first obstacle. The railroad bridge and the road bridge at Torun had been destroyed. NATO bombers had flown in low, keeping well below Soviet radar, and attacked both. Thinking that was it, Soviet engineers immediately began to throw another bridge across, using the infrastructure that was already there as the foundation. But a follow-on attack prevented the reconstruction, killing many of the engineers in the process. The trains started to stack up, there being no route for them to continue their journey. Yes, they could turn back, but the parallel railway lines were already at congestion point with so many units moving reinforcements to the front, along with essential supplies. A local commander, a Polish officer, an engineer, had been charged with finding a solution. Local and Soviet engineers were pooled and tasked with getting this badly needed division across the water. The solution, although difficult, was obvious. They brought together as many ferries as they could lay their hands on, and with pontoons and floatable makeshift platforms, they started the long, drawn-out process of getting the unit across to the other side.
Chapter 15
“All Two-Two call signs. Incoming! Incoming!”
Alex dropped down into the turret, pulling the hatch down after him. “Gas, gas, gas!” he yelled, pulling his respirator on, followed by the hood of his suit, his rubber neoprene gloves already on. Although the Chieftain tank had an NBC protection system, attached at the rear of the bustle, he knew that any rupture of the fighting compartment would leave them exposed.
“All covered?” he called to the crew.
All three responded positively, a slight tremor to their metallic-sounding voices.
Oh God, thought Alex, it’s finally come.
Corporal Carter pulled his body down as low as possible in the confines of the slit trench, two soldiers of his section doing the same. His vision seemed to suddenly turn dark as over 1,000 122mm rockets landed along the full length of the thin line of the Bravo Troop element of the British troops defending this sector of Gronau. The entire stretch of ground appeared to lift up as one as the combined weight of explosives tore into the ground, a dense cloud of dust and debris forming a layer, as if levitating, ten-metres above the ground. No sooner had it levelled at that height than a continuing ripple of explosions maintained it, a screen of debris and shrapnel smashing everything it touched. Those on the other side of the river looked on in awe, seeing nothing but a blanket of death that shielded their eyes from anything they might recognise as landmarks. The enlarged foxhole sheltering the Mortar Forward Controller and Forward Air Controller was hit by two rockets, one after the other, that tore the trench apart, sending chunks of prefabricated panels skyward like misshapen Frisbees; the bodies of the soldiers they had been trying to protect were not far behind them, crashing to the ground, torn apart and unrecognisable. No sooner had the ripple of rocket strikes and explosions started to die off than the crews were already preparing the reload for the next launch, but in the meantime, heavier calibre shells took over the onslaught.
Two-Two-Bravo’s crew pressed their rubber-gloved hands to their ears as shrapnel from the exploding shells gouged their Chieftain tank, spattered it with flying masonry and bricks from as far afield as the village. Other objects that got in the way of the barrage, added to the debris as the shelling pounded the ground around them.
Clang… ting, ting… clang… clang, clang… clang. Shrapnel eat away at the armour, gouging rents into its outer skin, stripping off anything it could find such as the Gympy, aerials and stowage bins. BOOMF! The one side of the tank was lifted completely off the ground, as a 152-millimetre shell exploded right next to it. The track shredded, stripped away from the bogie wheels as if a zip ripped from a garment. The crew as one cried out in fear as a second and third shell ensured the upward momentum of the fifty-ton giant was maintained, flipping it onto its side as if a mere toy.
Sergeant Andrews smashed his head against the hard metal of the turret, his bone-dome saving him from a more serious injury, but a smashed hand put paid to him operating in a tank again for some time — providing he was able to get out.
His gunner, Lance Corporal Owen, fared worse. His body was thrown violently against the breach of the 120mm gun, crushing his ribs and piercing his lungs with splinters of the now exposed ivory bone, his gasps for breath suffocated by the frothy blood, flecking the lens of his respirator with pink spots as it slowly engulfed the inside of his mask. A cry of agony was drowned out by the cacophony of sound outside as the tank continued to be buffeted by the barrage. He tried helplessly to move a broken arm to relieve himself of the mask that was preventing him taking the urgent, deep breath his body and mind craved for. Now distraught, he frantically tried to remove his mask, rubbing its surface against the front of the fighting compartment, desperate to dislodge the respirator that was slowly sucking the life out of him. One last attempt failed as his lungs collapsed, and the very mask that was designed and issued to save his life in the event of a chemical attack, killed him.
The Chieftain, stripped of everything that had been attached to its exterior, the barrel buckled and useless, settled at an uneven angle on its side, the battered gun barrel and the sides of the berm having prevented it from being turned upside down completely.
Trooper Lowe was pinned horizontally in the driver’s compartment, on his side, in a space that could barely take a small man in normal circumstances, let alone when on its side. Lowe just stared into what little room he had, stunned. The vision blocks that he had depended on for an external view were now chipped and coated with earth, blinding him, having the effect of magnifying the sound of the shells that continued to explode around them. Tears ran down his cheeks; the urge to tackle the itch beneath his respirator almost as great as the need to escape his current position.