Chapter 16
Colonel Trusov, now a full colonel, his new rank confirmed by radio an hour earlier, made his way down a street in the small town of Harsum. His T-80K was camouflaged in the woods behind him, manned by his crew and the MTLB-RkhM-K, one of two, his mobile command post, had gone on ahead, 200 metres to where the regimental headquarters had been set up in a barn. From the south came the sound of small arms fire. The West German Landwehr were doing battle with Soviet NKVD forces, along with elements of the VolksArmee, the East German Army and Grenztruppen, East German border guards, that had been shipped in especially to subdue Hildesheim. It would take at least a regiment, if not two, to take the town, but Trusov didn’t much care so long as the enemy were kept occupied and his men were kept out of it. The follow-on forces would clear the town at a later date, should it prove necessary. He passed a T-80 on his left, backed up in a side street. One of the tracks was laid out to its fullest extent in front, the crew doing their best to make a repair. He approached the men, and two AK-74s were immediately aimed in his direction as they heard him approach.
“Sorry, sir,” stuttered a sergeant, realising he had pulled a gun on his Regimental Commander.
“Better you were ready, Sergeant. I may well have been a Western saboteur. Your repairs going well?”
The Sergeant lowered his weapon and rubbed the back of a blackened hand across his forehead, leaving a smear of oil and grease. “This one will be fixed, sir, but we’ve had to cannibalise another tank for the parts. When will we get some spares, sir?”
“They’re on their way, Sergeant. When will this one be ready?”
“About an hour, sir.”
“Good. We need as many tanks as possible operational. Keep up the good work.”
“Sir.”
He left the men to continue with their task and headed towards his HQ. Command had informed him that spares were on the way. He hoped that was the case. His equipment was now starting to feel the strain of being in battle for over forty-eight hours. The repair list was growing rapidly, and he needed as many tanks as possible ready. Although there was a major air battle for air superiority going on above him, NATO forces were still able to interdict some of the Soviet army’s supply lines. And, despite the fact that his regiment was now considered the divisional reserve, he had a suspicion that he and his men would be needed far sooner than anyone expected. Although they had suffered battle losses in material and men, he sensed that this first phase of the war had been easy. Perhaps too easy. In part due to NATO’s strategy of trading ground for time, and the fact that they were still flying and shipping reinforcements from the US and the British mainland. The assault that was planned to go ahead shortly would find a very different approach from the British, and their new Challenger tanks would be a formidable obstacle, not that the Chieftains didn’t pack a heavy punch. Within fifty metres of his destination, he could hear the steady hum of the generators, powering the lights and the communications systems. As he approached his Regimental Headquarters, two sentries, who recognised him as their Regimental Commander, even in the dim early morning light, saluted and waved him through.
Trusov pushed his way through a layer of blankets that had been suspended from the roof of the open-ended barn. The other end had been closed off in a similar fashion, creating a space inside that could be lit without giving away their location to enemy aircraft that would likely be on reconnaissance missions in the skies above, searching for such targets. The officers and men jumped to attention as they recognised him, and he waved them back down. Lieutenant-Colonel Antakov, the Commander of the 1st Battalion, 62nd Guards Tank Regiment, was standing over a crudely assembled table, a temporary platform supported on wooden crates, perusing the map placed there, familiarising himself with the perceived positions of the enemy and those of his own units.
“Sir.”
“Grigory, checking positions or hoping to catch a glimpse of the forthcoming battle?”
“Both, sir,” Antakov responded, smiling; coming to terms with the fact that this man was now his senior, and his commander.
Trusov turned as one of the three radios, set up along one of the barn walls, crackled into life as a routine message was passed through. “The next radio transmission I hear that isn’t critical to the success of this regiment’s operational role, I will personally have the man responsible shot. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” all three radio operators responded, knowing that it was not an idle threat.
“We’ll have bloody NATO rockets down our throats.”
“Well, sir, it’s going to kick off in ten minutes,” said Lieutenant-Colonel Antakov, checking his watch.
Before Trusov could answer, the blankets were again pushed apart as three more Lieutenant-Colonels joined them. Oleg Danshov, commander of the third tank battalion, Kirill Mahayev, newly promoted in order to take over command of the second battalion from Trusov, and the commander of the unit’s infantry battalion, Lieutenant-Colonel Pyotr Lachkov.
“Make yourself useful and sort out some drinks for over here,” called Antakov to one of the junior lieutenants hovering on the fringes, watching over the radio operators in the command post. He in turn despatched a sergeant to fulfil the order. A second lieutenant was checking the latest supply returns, while a captain kept track of the radio log.
Another radio message came in and the Captain informed his senior officers. “Artillery strike has started, sir.”
Trusov nodded and checked his watch. It was four in the morning. General Abramov had already informed his senior officers that, on the advice of his new Chief-of-Staff, Colonel Pushkin, he intended to bring the artillery barrage and the assault timings forward from the original time of four-thirty. Using the twilight to provide them with additional cover. Should the current wind speed and direction remain steady, a smokescreen would protect the advancing army from the prying eyes of the enemy, but it would also blind the Soviet tanks who would blunder about in the smoke, disorientated and potentially at the mercy of the NATO tanks and anti-tank missiles. They could just make out the thunder of the explosions in the distance, some ten kilometres away to the west. The defenders would now get thirty minutes of heavy bombardment, a deluge of shells, missiles and rockets shaking them to their very core.
“It’s started then,” said Mahayev, slightly nervously, having not yet fully adjusted to his promotion and higher level of responsibility. The day before he was junior to the other three battalion commanders; now, he was their equal.
“Have there been any changes, sir?” asked Danshov.
“No major changes other than bringing the assault forward. Colonel Pushkin has also convinced the General to hold back the air-assault battalion. He is suggesting we use them when we go for a second push.”
“A second push? They’ve been running like rabbits. There were times when I thought we wouldn’t be able to keep up with them,” exclaimed Antakov, always the arrogant one. Trusov had already logged that this particular battalion commander was a hothead. Most of the tanks he had lost due to enemy action were as a consequence of his over-confidence. That was a trait that could perhaps be useful at some point in the future. But only when the time called for it, thought Trusov. Antakov was the officer who seemed to resent the change of command the most, believing it was he who should now be commanding the regiment. Trusov suspected that the man had links to someone higher up the military hierarchy, or even a politician. He would have to watch him closely.