The crews of the two FV432s, manning effectively a self-propelled mortar carrier, adjusted the 81mm mortars, ready to support their beleaguered colleagues. The armoured vehicles, the rearmost part facing the enemy, the barrel of the mortars jutting out of the circular hole in the centre of the vehicles’ fighting compartment, were ready. On orders from the corporal in command, two 81mm bombs were dropped into the tubes, the loaders ducking as the first of three rounds per vehicle were fired. The loaders bent down, picking up another bomb and, almost in unison, dropping two more rounds.
Graham watched as two mortar bombs landed just in front of the BMP-2s, the explosions causing no damage but disrupting the BMP-2 gunner’s aim. A stream of smoke from each explosion drifted north, blinding both the BMP-2 gunners and the Soviet infantry. Four more rounds landed in front of the enemy line. He needed a direct hit. He knew it was only a matter of time before more BMP-2s arrived and, under cover of 30mm rounds and 30mm grenades, the Soviet motor rifle troops would assault his position. He doubted they would be able to hold them. They would be quickly over run.
“Alpha-One-One. Up fifty, five rounds, fire for effect. And make it fucking quick.”
“On way,” responded the mortar team commander.
Within fifteen seconds, two rounds exploded on top of the BMP-2 line, quickly followed by two every three seconds.
That’ll fucking sort you lot, thought Graham. Now was the time to pull his men back to his line of foxholes, and he contacted them by radio and screamed down the line, the volume of fire from the enemy dropping off as more rounds exploded amongst them.
“Alpha-One-One. Fucking great. One tube, left fifty metres three rounds, then right fifty metres three rounds. Second tube up 200 then spread left and right. Got that?”
“Roger, Two-Two-Delta.”
If they could keep the pressure on the BMP-2s, give the AGS-17 teams something to think about, and get his men twenty-five metres further back, they had a slim chance. Graham heard the screams for a medic as his men pulled back to consolidate further to the rear. He leapt out of the foxhole, running low, guiding and helping his men back to relative safety. One badly wounded soldier struggling to keep up was quickly thrown over Graham’s shoulder in a fireman’s lift, finding the strength to run back and place the wounded man in a hole.
Alex called to his driver. “Mackinson, we move in thirty seconds.”
“Roger, sir.”
He peered through the forward vision blocks as another Swingfire missile streaked across their front, the missile striking the T-80 perfectly, but the explosive reactive armour defeating the missile’s attempt to penetrate the tank’s protection.
One more, he thought, knowing he was taking a big risk, then we must move. Although he was loath to stop firing. The poor bloody infantry were getting a pounding and needed his firepower. He adjusted his hydraulically operated seat slightly, then held the commander’s grip switch, pushing it in giving him complete control, overriding the gunner. He pushed the button selector switch ensuring it was set for sabot and gave his orders.
“Sabot. I’ve got this one, Corporal. Standby to move, Mackinson.”
Ellis did his job efficiently. “Up.”
Alex hit the firing button and, within seconds, the T-80 that had been moving to outflank the 438s on the higher ground shuddered as the penetrator cut straight through the tank’s thinner side armour, wreaking havoc inside, stopping the main battle tank in its stride.
Suddenly a Hind-D, one of a flight of four, appeared out of nowhere, a flying tank. It hovered about 2,000 metres out, its characteristic tandem cockpit with double-bubble canopy pointing directly at Two-Two-Alpha. Beneath one of its stub wings, an AT-2C, a Swatter anti-tank missile dropped, rocket motor firing and, at 150 metres per second, it came straight towards the now vulnerable tank. Alex knew that firing at it with the GPMG would be pointless: the titanium-protected cockpit could shield the pilot and weapons officer from up to .50 calibre weapons. The 7.62mm Gympy just wouldn’t be enough.
“Hind! Back, back!” he screamed into the intercom. Mackey didn’t need to be asked again, hearing the urgency in his commander’s voice. Then he hit the single set of smoke dischargers, laying a blanket of smoke on the right front of the tank. Mackey floored the accelerator, the gearbox already in reverse, rapidly gaining speed, dipping into the crater behind them, the engine wailing as it fought to pull the back end up, the tracks attempting to grip as the heavy beast slid sideways.
“Right stick!” Yelled Alex.
Mackey pulled back hard on the right stick, forcing the back end of the tank to swivel left, now tackling the crater full on.
“You’ve got it. Go for it!”
Mackey powered the engine, and the Chieftain clawed its way back. Twisting to the left, then back on track, where he knew the gap he needed to pass through would be. Faster and faster.
“Bloody move, Mackinson! Left slightly.”
Mackey flicked the right stick just enough to get back on track, then pushed the tank and its engine as hard as he could. It screamed in defiance as the anti-tank missile flew overhead. With a range of up to 4,000 metres, the Hind-Ds were not after Alex’s troop yet, but were hitting out at the British armour on the western bank who were starting to have an impact on the advancing Soviet forces. The rear of the tank smashed into a young sapling, tearing it down, the right track shredding it as the fifty tons passed over it. Fifty metres into the trees and a Swatter missile, fired by a second Hind-D, having seen Two-Two-Alpha on the move, struck the foliage of another tree, exploding uselessly. They were safe for now. But Alex knew the Hinds would come hunting for them. He had Mackey move them deeper into the trees. Not too far though, as there was a clearing just before you entered the town of Gronau. The birds of prey would be watching that gap.
“Two-Two-Charlie, location? Over.”
“Two-Two-Charlie, outskirts of town, Dotzummer Strasse. Fucking Hinds. Over.”
“Roger, Two-Two-Charlie. Hold position as best you can.”
There was a sudden explosion out front.
“Two-Two-Alpha. Rapier has just taken out a Hind. Blown the shit out of it.”
“Calm down. Hold position if able.”
“Roger.”
Alex tried to contact the infantry and 438s. From the Strikers he got nothing, but the infantry corporal was able to respond.
“Two-Two-Alpha. We’re in the shit here, sir. Managed to pull back to the second line. Multiple casualties. If we don’t get out of here soon, we’re fucked.”
“Hang in there. Standby. Two-Two-Bravo, this is Two-Two-Alpha. Over.”
Still no response. Alex pushed the turret hatch open, breathing in the fresh air, dragging it into his lungs, a relief after the smell and fumes from the firing of the GPMG and the main gun. He suddenly felt dizzy, exhausted. They had been under attack for nearly an hour now, yet it felt like they had been fighting for a full day. He heard the driver’s hatch open, enabling Mackey to sit up, ease his aching limbs, lift his head out of the fridge. Still no response from his third tank though.
“Bravo-Zero, this is Two-Two-Alpha. Sitrep. Over.”
“Go ahead. Over.”
“Lost contact with Two-Two-Echo call signs and Two-Two-Bravo. Infantry element under severe pressure. Over.”
“Understood. Help on the way. Just hang in there. Out.”