The Colonel had not yet seen the results, but had witnessed the streaks of the rockets and missiles overhead, and the horizon had been lit up as if a theatre show was in progress. Once he and his men were in position, the rest of their force would be brought in, consisting of artillery, a battalion of D-30s, an anti-tank battery with its 85mm ASU-85s and anti-aircraft support. He was certain they would need it all if they were going to achieve their objectives.
Ping.
A bullet ricocheted off the airframe and the Colonel and the co-pilot looked at each other. The co-pilot looked fearful, but the pilot appeared calm, concentrating on the task at hand, the control stick vibrating in his hands, his feet working the peddles as he banked the helicopter to the right. They had flown south of Gronau, keeping low as the flight passed between Gronau and Banteln, the pilot showing two fingers, indicating they were two-minutes out. A Hind-D raced past them, its rocket pods launching four projectiles at a suspected enemy position, its guns suppressing an infantry machine-gun post, protecting the armada that was rapidly approaching. Ivakin watched as sparks flew off the airframe of the Hind. Not all the enemy units were seeking cover. His men were going to be in for a fight when they landed. The pilot indicated one minute and the Colonel warned his men in the back. The craft jolted as another Hip, flying alongside and slightly back from them, erupted in an explosion. A Blowpipe missile, spoilt for choice there were so many targets, missed the helicopter it was meant to target, striking the engines of a second Hip that just happened to get in the way. The pilot fought with the controls as his aircraft dropped 100 metres, the majority of the passengers, although shaken and some injured, survived.
The Hip Ivakin was in suddenly juddered as the pilot brought the front end up, pulling back on the controls to bring the Hip to a hover, the tail boom close to the ground, before leveling off and touching down, almost gently. He’s a good pilot, thought Ivakin, intending to mention it to his commander when this was over. His men started to leap out, and he tapped his hand on each shoulder as he counted his soldiers out of the aircraft. Jumping down himself, he looked back, the downdraught causing him to squint as he indicated to the pilot that all his men were out.
Two rows of bullet holes stitched along the canopy. The mangled faces of the pilot and co-pilot were visible as an Infantry GPMG and a Chieftain’s coaxial machine gun reminded the Soviet airborne forces that the British were far from beaten and they were very much in for a fight.
Lieutenant Dean Russell sheltered behind his FV432 armoured personnel carrier, the thumps and sounds of combat in the distance a constant reminder that they were very close to the front line. No artillery ordnance had landed in their vicinity, and apart from keeping close to their armoured vehicles just in case they needed to change location, they were using it as an opportunity to get some hot food and a little rest. Although Combat Team Alpha had been hit hard, and was destined to move behind 2nd Infantry Division, which was slowly moving into position behind the two armoured divisions that were currently taking the brunt of the Soviet assault, the 1 BR Corps Commander had made the decision to hold back a small element of 4th Armoured Division. The Corps Commander, General Cutler, wished he had more men, more tanks, more units, but he didn’t. He had to make do with what he had. Although more of 4th Armoured Division had survived than expected, some seventy per cent, they were battle-weary and their armour and equipment needed maintenance, refuelling and rearming. But he had made the decision to keep the Royal Green Jackets Battlegroup in the immediate theatre. At sometime in the future, he would thank all that was holy that he had made that decision: keeping a tired, battered unit in reserve. Combat Team Alpha had gone through a major thirty-minute Soviet artillery and missile bombardment in the early stages of the war and had suffered crippling casualties. Following on from that, there was an assault by Soviet T-80 tanks and the dreaded Hind-D attack helicopters. It had ended in a defeat for the British. Although it could be argued that they hadn’t been able to put up much of a fight, they had fulfilled their intended mission: held up the enemy for short period of time.
Dean was angry. Some of his men had been killed, while some had been maimed so badly they probably wished they were dead. He heard the growl of an engine approaching from the village of Osterwald.
“Stand to, stand to,” he bellowed.
He brought up his SLR, and the rest of his platoon dropped their mess tins and prepared to defend themselves. But all was well. A Ferret scout car appeared from around the corner, one of the occupants the combat team commander, Major Philips. A cloud of dust rolled forward as the four-wheeled scout car came to a halt and the Major leapt down from the Ferret and called Lieutenant Russell over. Dean was there in seconds. He saluted, and Major Phillips flicked him a quick response. “Problem with your 432, sir?”
“No, Dean, this was just quicker. Anyway, I have a task for you.”
The Major pulled a map out from the inside of his combat jacket. None of the combat team were currently donned in NBC suits as they were originally being pulled well back to the rear. He placed the map on the front of the scout car, the driver sitting at the front-centre of the small, unarmed reconnaissance vehicle, trying to look anywhere but at the two officers.
“We’ve got big problems heading our way.”
“But I thought we were being pulled out of the line, sir?”
“I’m sorry, Dean, but the entire Battlegroup is being brought back into operation. Here,” he pointed to the map. “A Soviet parachute unit has just landed here and one here,” he informed Russell, pointing to a location south of the village of Oldendorf, only four kilometres to the south-east of their current location. “And one here south-east of Esbeck.”
“What strength, sir?”
“We’re not sure, but first estimates say company strength.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem, sir. They can soon be isolated, surely.”
“I wish it were that easy.”
For the first time, Dean saw tiredness in his company commander’s eyes. He suddenly looked older. Dean felt goose bumps prickle down his back. His men were going to be asked to fight again.
“At least one battalion strength unit is in the process of parachuting in to join the company south of Esbeck, and we anticipate one will join the unit already south of Oldendorf.”
“Christ, sir, we can’t take on a battalion, not the state we’re in.”
The Major looked at his Lieutenant, but said nothing.
“Sorry, sir, just tired.”
“We’re all tired, Lieutenant.”
“Sir.”
“Right, there’s more. A heliborne landing is in progress here, just north-west of Gronau, and Sov helicopters are blasting everything in their path to the south-west. So, we expect another landing there.”
“They’re after the bridge—”
“Yes, Dean, and it looks like they’re throwing a full Air Assault Brigade at us.”
“Do we have a full brigade, sir?”
“No, the rest of 11th Brigade are pulling back towards the River Weser, our next stop line.”