Another T-80 appeared out of the gloom, its barrel swinging towards Two-Two-Alpha’s location. A bank of earth and debris splattered the glacis and turret as a Soviet armour-piercing round came in low, displacing part of the berm before ricocheting off the side of the Chieftain. Its force was badly depleted, but the crew knew that it had been a close one.
Alex saw the offending tank and took control of the turret, swinging it round to the right, on target in less than a second. “Sabot!”
Ellis went through his loading procedure, now completely in the swing of it. Round, bag charge, breech, firing charge, shield. “Up.”
“I’ve got this,” informed Alex. Head up against the tank laser sight, satisfied he was on target, he pushed the red firing button. The tank rocked and, in less than a second, the round struck, careering down the right side of the T-80’s turret as the driver had veered right at the last minute. Thinking he was safe, the driver maintained his direction of travel, the gunner ready to hit Two-Two-Alpha again, only to be hit on the flanks by a Milan missile. Still not halted, it took Patsy’s shot to finish the beast off, grinding to a halt less than 700 metres away. The breeze gathered strength, disrupting the smokescreen completely, allowing the Chieftains on the west bank of the river to join in. Although at an extreme range of 3,000 metres, the additional support was welcome, putting further pressure on the Soviet tank crews.
“Well done, Corporal Patterson.”
“Leave the firing to me, sir.” Patsy laughed almost maniacally as he depressed the firing button again, tearing a BMP-2 apart.
It’s going well, thought Alex, although he knew they had been lucky. Their luck would run out if they didn’t move to their alternate position soon. It was tempting to stay in this location, picking off the advancing enemy one at a time. The Soviets would not be so accommodating for long. Already BMP-2s were being ordered to unleash the AT-5 Spandrel anti-tank missiles, suppressing the enemy, allowing the armour up front to get close, then through the British line.
Some artillery erupted around the tanks, stripping off some of the protective blocks. A long-rod penetrator sliced through the upper section of a glacis, disabling the tank’s firing systems and killing the gunner. The commander and driver desperately tried to get out of the stricken tank, only to be cut down by a British Gympy, waiting for this very moment to kill off the tank crew that had been trying to destroy them.
Alan Berry settled into position behind the Milan firing post, his eye up against the sight as he tracked the target through the Milan’s optical sight. He steadied his breathing and pulled the trigger. The missile burst from the launcher, ejecting the missile container tube from the launcher as it left, a white flare of its solid-fuel rocket clear to see as it headed for its target at 200 metres per second. Berry focused, all his thoughts on keeping a steady control of the launcher, keeping the crosshairs dead centre of the BMP-2 as it rumbled towards them, its 30mm cannon firing wildly as the driver jerked the vehicle left and right to make them a harder target. But, within four seconds, the stand-off probe of the shaped-charged warhead struck, huge clouds of smoke and fume blocking any further view of the vehicle as the Milan missile obliterated the BMP. Finch, on the other side of the Milan, immediately placed a fresh tube, with a new Milan-2 missile inside, on the side of the firing post ready to fire again. After this, they would change location. The other firing point should have already moved.
A platoon of three BMP-2s came to a halt 300 metres out, firing round after round of 30mm high-explosive shells at over 200 rounds per minute into the defending infantry. The Milan firing post further to the south, their position broken up by artillery shells and the crew in the process of picking up the launcher, took half a dozen hits, smashing the launcher and killing its crew. More BMP-2s pulled to a stop in a line facing the British defenders and the Soviet soldiers, sitting back to back on padded bench seats inside, pushed the two heavy rear doors open and started to climb out ready for action. Even after losing at least eleven BMPs and four T-80s to the British anti-tank fire, the two first echelon motor rifle battalions and the two supporting tank companies of the attacking motor rifle regiment, still had forty-nine BMPs and sixteen tanks to do battle with the small force they were up against. The six soldiers from each one came around the side of their infantry combat vehicles, AK-74s blazing. Behind them, spread along in a line, two platoons of three BMP-2s came to a halt, 200 metres further back, each disgorging two-AGS-17 teams. Within less than a minute, the twelve AGS-17s were set up on their tripods and, on the command, opened fire.
The onslaught was shattering. The British sustained-fire GPMG, supported by a sturdy tripod, sprayed the advancing Soviet soldiers with over 600 rounds a minute, the belt of 7.62mm rounds sliding quickly through the assistant gunner’s fingers. The gunner attempted to create a ‘beaten zone’, the firer wishing he was part of a larger force with additional Gympys’ in support. Then they could really give the Soviet infantry something to think about. His thoughts weren’t to worry him for long.
The 30mm grenades from the AGS-17s started to land amongst the defending soldiers. The thirty-round boxes, one for each of the heavy infantry support weapons, fed the launchers and, within six seconds, nearly 400 grenades exploded amongst the defenders. The SF-Gympy was straddled by half a dozen, plus two arching directly into their fortified position. Both soldiers were killed instantly and the heavy machine gun destroyed.
Corporal Graham, situated in the rear line of foxholes, tried to maintain contact with his small force, but quickly realised he had lost a Milan-FP and the SF-GPMG, and another foxhole had gone quiet. He heard the whine of shells passing overhead towards the troops on the west bank of the Leine, the enemy swamping them with smoke to reduce their effectiveness in supporting the soldiers on the east bank. The 30mm rounds tore up the ground in front of him, high-explosive shells bracketing the village buildings behind as the T-80s joined in to support at least two Soviet infantry companies that had been ordered forward to take the village and secure the eastern end of the bridge that crossed the river at that point. Graham urgently needed some help.
He called forward the 432 from the outskirts of the village, rounds from the 7.62mm gun in the peak-engineering turret forcing the Soviet infantry to drop down and take cover.
“Alpha-One, Alpha-One, this is Two-Two-Delta. Where the fuck’s our mortar fire? Over.” He had to shout above the noise of another batch of 30mm grenades exploding off to his left.
All he got back was a hiss of static.
“Two-Two-Delta, Alpha-One-One. We can’t make contact with the MFC either. Give us a grid and range. Over.”
“Wait, out.”
A sudden explosion erupted behind him and off to the right as a succession of 30mm rounds from a BMP-2 annihilated the 432 he had brought forward for support.
With his finger on the map, he keyed his radio. “Alpha-One-One. Grid, Charlie-One-Seven, Mike-Two-Five. Fire for effect.”
“Roger.”
He hoped to God the mortar rounds came soon while he still had some men left. He could hear the standard Gympy firing off to the left and the crack of SLRs. Peering through his binos, he a saw a Soviet soldier go down and suspected it had been a bullet from Jones’s SLR. Only he could hope to hit someone at over 200 metres while under fire. He pulled his head down as a strip of ground twenty metres in front erupted, a piece of metal casing zinging off his helmet.