“It’s been deliberate, Grigory,” advised Trusov. “The British make many mistakes, and many of their officers are incompetent. But, they are far from stupid.”
There was a noise at the entrance as a sergeant, and a private, followed by his sergeant, brought a battered tray in, arrayed with an eclectic mix of mugs and a large plate of sandwiches: thick dark bread with a heavy layer of Leberwurst, no doubt appropriated from the local population.
“Excellent, excellent, Sergeant Tsvilenev. Someone finally knows how to use their initiative.” Tsvilenev ordered the private put the plate in front of Trusov and the commander helped himself to one slice.
“They are moving into position, sir,” called a lieutenant manning the divisional radio net.
“Put it on speaker,” ordered Trusov.
The speaker, on top of one of the wooden tables, crackled into life.
“One-Zero, Six-One. All units in position.”
“Roger, Six-One. Five minutes.”
Trusov looked at the map, picturing where the 61st Guards Tank Regiment would be forming up. A tank battalion would be moving north-west of Sorsum; the infantry battalion would be preparing to infiltrate Emmerke and provide cover for the battalion as it advanced, using the anti-tank missiles on their BMP-2s to target any British armour that exposed itself. A second battalion would be lying up east of Emmerke, ready to whip around the northern outskirts and go hell for leather south-west. Mine-clearing tanks would lead the way, and bridging units would be quickly brought forward to cross the Rissingbach, avoiding the small marshy area just north-west of Emmerke. The third battalion would be moving into the wooded area south of the high ground, Giessener-berge, ready to respond quickly, when committed to thrusting through a weak point in the enemy’s defences.
“One-Zero, this is Six-Three. Units in position.”
“Roger, Six-Three.”
“They’ll be around Giesen then,” suggested Danshov.
“Yes,” responded their commander. “A battalion will strike for the gap between Rossing and Barnten. The motor rifle battalion will push north of Rossing to cover the regiment’s left flank with a tank company from the second tank battalion covering the north around by Barnten. The rest of the battalion will support the thrust through the gap. The third tank battalion will come forward when called.”
“Two hundred tanks. The British are going to piss their pants.”
“So they might, Kirill. But they have to cross at least three-kilometres of pretty much open ground first.”
“The arty fire has stopped, sir,” Lachkov informed the Colonel.
They all checked their watches as one. It was four-thirty.
But the reprieve for the Royal Hussars and the rest of 7th Armoured Brigade units didn’t last for long. Four SU-25 ground-attack aircraft, with the NATO designation of Frogfoot, weighed down with weapons’ loads of 80mm rockets, flew low above the barn, heading towards the front line. They were soon joined by another four. Overhead, SU-27 Flanker fighters and Mig-31 Foxhound fighters provided cover to protect their charges below. At least thirty Mig-27 Flogger ground-attack aircraft carrying 4,000 kilograms of bombs each weren’t far behind.
A constant stream of aircraft flew over the barn and the village as the Soviet attack aircraft swooped in to deliver their deadly loads, complete a circuit and either drop the rest of their weapons load or strafe the dug-in defenders with their powerful cannon.
“16th Aviation Army have promised at least 200 sorties during this first hour.”
“This has got to work, sir,” Lachkov chimed in.
They heard a large explosion, high up and to the west. A Frogfoot had just been taken down by a Rapier missile.
“Let’s hope so, Pyotr, let’s hope so.”
They chatted through various tactics, how they thought the battle would play out, while the air-to-ground attack and air-to-air battle went on around them. Trusov just listened most of the time, starting to get the measure of these men from a different perspective: one of command.
The speaker crackled. “One-Zero, Six-One. Moving.”
“Roger, Six-One.”
“One-Zero, Six-Three. Call sign Six-One-One advancing.”
“Roger.”
“First battalion on the way,” suggested Antakov.
“About three-kilometres to Escherde,” mused Trusov.
“One-Zero, call sign Six-One-Four moving.”
“Acknowledged.”
“One-Zero, call sign Six-One-Two moving. Six-One-Three holding position.”
Antakov’s hand swept across the map, the other flicking the ash from his evil-smelling cigarette to the floor.
“That’s their motor rifle battalion heading for Emmerke and the second tank battalion sweeping north of the village.”
“They’ll need to be bloody quick with their bridging equipment,” suggested Mahayev, his confidence steadily building. “If they get stuck west of Emmerke, they will be wide open to tank fire from Rossing.”
“The 63rd will cover their flank,” advised Lachkov.
“One-Zero, Six-Three. Six-Three-Four and Six-Three-One on the move.”
“There they go.” Danshov smiled. “The foot sloggers will push on Rossing, while the real work is done by the tanks.”
That brought a laugh from the assembled officers. Even those on the periphery couldn’t help but get caught up in the excitement. The group felt like voyeurs, spying on their comrades who were about to go into battle.
Every troop of the Royal Hussars’ Battlegroup had been on the receiving end of a Soviet strike, whether by artillery, missiles or the bombs and rockets from Soviet aircraft. At least two of the low-flying attackers had been shot down by Rapier missiles, and one had been damaged by a Blowpipe shoulder-launched SAM. British RAF Tornado, Air Defence Versions (ADV) and a dozen West German Luftwaffe Phantoms called in to support, battled with the Soviet Flankers and Foxhound fighters at high altitude. Their preferred target was the Flogger ground-attack aircraft, preventing them from inflicting damage on the defenders dug in to hold back the massed tank attack that was about to ensue. They shot down five fighters and damaged a Foxhound, losing two Phantoms and a Tornado in the process, before breaking off the attack to refuel and rearm. More NATO aircraft were on the way, a maelstrom of activity forming overhead of the British 1st Armoured Division. But the Soviet air force was also sending in a second wave.
“Delta-Four-Alpha, Delta-Four-Bravo… movement, 2,000 metres, near high ground west of Giesen. Cannot identify at this time. Over.”
“Numbers. Over.”
“Delta-Four-Bravo… ah, maybe three, no four. Large, possibly main battle tanks. Over.”
“Roger, out to you. Zero-Delta, this is Delta-Four-Alpha. We have sighting at grid Charlie, five, nine, five, Echo, eight, two, nine. Unidentified armour, numbers estimate figures four. Over.”
“Roger.”
Earlier Lieutenant Barrett had provided his squadron commander with a situation report on his troop, and he in turn had received feedback on the state of the squadron. His troop had survived intact. Most of the shells and missiles had landed behind him and the aircraft had not spotted his position. The two Challengers he had pushed forward hadn’t been touched. The Soviets had a vast area to bombard and clearly had difficulty in picking out the well-camouflaged British defenders east of the river. Had they spent more time on preparation and completed a more detailed reconnaissance of the defensive positions, the artillery and missile strikes might have been more effective. But urgency seemed to be what the Group of Soviet Forces Germany Commander was advocating, keeping the pressure on NATO, giving them no time to effectively dig in using properly prepared positions.