For fifteen minutes, the artillery strike battered the defenders on the eastern banks of the river before switching their interests to those troops watching from the western bank. The sounds and vibrations slowly faded as the guns and rocket launchers adjusted their aim to hit the rest of the defending forces.
Rocket after rocket, shell after shell flew over the heads of the two Scorpions in Barfelde. Lieutenant Baty risked poking his head out of the hatch, the tumultuous barrage going on above and behind him. He swallowed and, although in his heart he felt for his fellow soldiers further back, he was thankful that he and his men weren’t on the receiving end. The soldiers on the east and west bank of the River Leine, however, were getting the full attention of the massed Soviet artillery, the intention to smash the British army’s resistance. For now, though, he and his men were safe. Although a worry filtered to the surface of his thoughts. If they weren’t hitting Barfelde, it could mean the Soviets were going to move troops to the immediate area under cover of the shelling, using the L482 road to the south-east, or coming across the open ground from the east. Either direction, he and his second recce unit would be able to see them and report. His gunner, Lance Corporal Alan Reid, called up, “Is it bad, sir?”
“The lads behind are getting a pasting, I should imagine. Thomas OK?”
“Needs a piss, but I told him now is not the time.”
This brought a laugh from them both.
“No, he needs to stay put. Something is going to happen as soon as the shelling has stopped, if not before.”
“We’ll be ready, sir.” Reid went back to his gun sight, ready for whatever was to be thrown at them. He had confidence in his troop commander.
The young officer, on the other hand, was not so sure. He shifted his slim frame as he mulled over the likely options of what could transpire. He patted his respirator case, making sure it was on hand should he need it urgently. He had contemplated ordering his men to mask up as the first salvos had flown overhead, but relented. He needed his vision to be clear and unobstructed if he was to observe the slightest of movements from the vicinity of the forest in front. The explosions were occurring at least two kilometres back, and the wind was from the east, so he was confident that he had made the right call. His watch told him it was four-thirty, as the ordnance continued along its westerly flight above him. Picking up his binos, he scoured the horizon, looking for any sign of enemy activity — any activity for that matter. Once spotted, he could report it back and bring down some of their own artillery and start hitting back. Minute after minute, Soviet missiles and shells arced overhead, impacting on his comrades, the bombardment unrelenting.
Thump… thump, thump… crump… boom… crump, crump, crump… thump.
His head started to throb; the heat of the turret’s confined space; the uncomfortable Noddy suit; barely a few hours’ sleep in the last forty-eight hours; the constant drumming behind him. He suddenly felt disorientated and somewhat isolated, wishing he was back home in England, or even back at Regimental HQ, preparing to go to a mess dinner. He knew they were the furthest unit east, the last of the battered 4th Armoured Division in their area, having passed through the village about an hour ago. His ears perked up as he recognised a change in the sound of the barrage: the torrent of missiles and shells were still rolling west, but now across the river, targeting the troops on the west bank, headquarters’ formations and those reserves dug in further back. It continued unabated for another fifteen minutes; then silence. When the silence came, it was eerie, almost disconcerting.
Baty shook his head and spoke to his crew through the intercom. “Standby, lads. This quiet won’t last for long. All Two-One call signs report. Over.”
“Two-One-Alpha, all OK.” His second in command was in one of two Scorpions watching the approaches from the village of Gut Dotzum.
“Two-One-Bravo, all quiet. Out.” The second Scorpion in Gut Dotzum was reporting all quiet.
“Two-One-Charlie. All OK.” The southern part of Barfelde was quiet as well.
“Bugger.”
“What is it, sir?” asked his gunner.
“Watch your front, enemy movement. 1,500 metres, ten o’clock, Track 2, BMP-2.”
The turret whirred as Reid slowly turned the turret, moving it gently so as not to cause any sudden movement that could be noticed, the 76mm gun soon aimed in the direction of the Soviet mechanised infantry combat vehicle.
“All Two-One call signs. Enemy movement 1,500 metres, north-east Barfelde.”
The BMP-2 had emerged from the western edge of the forest in front of them, creeping forward, sniffing out the territory that lay ahead of it.
Baty kept his gunner informed of the enemy’s movement. “First BMP-2 moving north-west, second BMP-2 following.”
“Roger. Ready to fire. First BMP, then the second.”
“Two more BMPs, moving south-west. Stay with the ones to the north, but hold your fire.”
“Roger.”
“Two-One-Charlie. You have two Bravo-Mike-Papa-Twos, 1,500 metres out, heading your location. Over.”
“Understood. Have visual. Southern sector quiet. Over.”
“Roger.”
More vehicles emerged from the forest. A couple of BRDM-2s, an SA-9 to provide air cover, and a T-80 fanning out and picking up speed, heading towards Barfelde.
“Two-One, this is Two-One-Charlie. Three Bravo-Mike-Papa-Twos and one Tango-Eight-Zero heading north-west towards my location. Over.”
“Roger. Their start point? Over.”
“Direction of Eitzum, north-west along Lima, four, eight, two. Over.”
“Roger, Two-One-Charlie. Standby. Hello Two, this Two-One. Contact to my front. Two, Bravo-Mike-Papa-Two’s and one Tango-Eight-Zero, two, Bravo-Romeo-Delta-Mike-Two’s and One, Sierra-Alpha-Nine, fifteen-hundred metres, advancing my location. Need to move in two-mikes, over.”
“Two-One, this is Two. Standby for outgoing. Out.” The squadron headquarters had acknowledged his report and had also informed him of the anticipated strike from 1st Division’s artillery assets.
“Hello Two, this Two-One. Two thousand metres south-east of Two-One-Charlie’s position, three Bravo-Mike-Papa-Twos and one Tango-Eight-Zero.”
“Two-One, this is Two. Roger that. Out.”
The triangular piece of land, bordered by trees and hedgerows, 600 metres east of Oldendorf, was an ideal spot for the one of the batteries of 40th Royal Artillery Regiment to use as a firing base. The eight M109A2s had lined up in two troops of four, ready to complete a fire mission to support the beleaguered troops to their front. M109A2, a Self-propelled Howitzer, was the indirect fire weapon of the artillery regiments of the British army, and for many artillery regiments and brigades of other NATO forces. The twenty-seven-ton SPH, with its 155mm gun, could pack a punch that would go some way to interdicting the Soviet advance that had just kicked off on the eastern side of the River Leine. The crew of six — the vehicle commander, driver, gunner, assistant gunner and two ammunition handlers — were preparing their particular gun ready for combat. This would be the first time they would have fired in anger. To date, 4th Armoured Division had taken the brunt of the Soviet advance. But, today, the Soviet army was going to be hit by fresh troops, fresh artillery, and more of it. They also had a little treat in store for the advancing forces: the M109A2s would be firing the new lethal round, the M483. This dual-purpose round would deliver sixty-four M42 and thirty-two M46 grenades.