“Sounds like the best option to me,” responded Badger. Hacker and Tag also agreed.
“OK, let’s go. The minute we get some breathing space, I shall call in.”
Wilf led the way, leopard crawling his way through the culvert that crossed beneath the road, a few centimetres of rank liquid mud soaking his combats. Once out the other side, they pushed forward, crouching so they were below the lip of the gully. They heard more shots, but the sound faded the further east they went. They tabbed for nearly two hours and, just before daylight, they were able to hide up.
Once the radio was set up, the aerial extended, Wilf called in. The PRC-319, a fifty-watt microprocessor-based radio transceiver, would pass on the information they had just gathered. Using the electronic message unit, he tapped on the small alphanumeric keys and typed his message for his commander. As it was a burst transmitter, he could send the message data at high speed giving them significant security.
Chapter 27
“Two-Two-Alpha, this is Bravo-Zero. Over.”
“Two-Two-Alpha, go ahead. Over.”
“Heavy movement your east. Incoming likely.”
“Roger, Bravo-Zero. Out to you. All Two-Two call signs. Standby, standby. Out.”
Alex called down to Corporal Patterson. “Mask up. Make sure Mackinson and Ellis cover up as well.”
“Sir,” Patsy shouted back.
Dropping down, he closed the hatch cover and peered through the scopes, turning the cupola to scan the area. Mackey started the engine again and they were ready for action. He felt sick, knowing what was coming this time. They had finally got to Two-Two-Bravo. The crew had been unable to get out of their Chieftain tank, trapped in a potential coffin. For the Gunner, Lance Corporal Owen, it had literally become his steel coffin. His broken arm, crushed ribs and pierced lungs, after being bodily thrown heavily against the solid breech of the 120mm gun, had left him crippled and effectively drowning in his own blood. His muffled screams of agony had gone unheard by his fellow crewmen as the clamour of sound outside the tank, and the noise resonating through the fighting compartment, left him isolated. When Two-Two-Charlie had finally got to them, they discovered the tank on its side, the top of the turret and the glacis pressed up against the side wall of the berm. Deep gouges had been cut into the armour, such was the ferocity of the shelling. The track, in short sections, barely hanging together by the odd pin, lay draped over the side of the tank, the drive sprockets and bogie wheels unprotected and vulnerable. Two of them were missing, wrenched off by the powerful explosions. Anything attached to the outside had all but disappeared. Baskets, storage bins and the radio antenna were nowhere to be seen.
Corporal Simpson immediately called for help and, within an hour, the unit was joined by an armoured recovery vehicle. While Two-Two-Charlie provided cover, they slowly pulled the giant tank away from the side of the berm, allowing the tank troopers to get access to the turret and fighting compartment. Sergeant Andrews, who had smashed his head against the hard metal of the turret, was conscious, but his smashed hand had swollen to treble its normal size, and he was in severe pain. A jab of morphine and he was carried to the tracked Samaritan armoured ambulance where he could get further treatment before being shipped to one of the field hospitals in the rear.
Trooper Lowe, who had been pinned in the driver’s compartment, was well and was soon spouting off about how he was going to kick some arse when he got back in a driver’s seat. He too was taken to the Samaritan. They removed Lance Corporal Owen’s body, as ceremoniously as they possibly could, manoeuvring him through the second turret hatch, four of them carrying him to the ambulance. Lowe burst into tears when he saw his friend, realising how lucky he had been and wondering why Owen and not he had died.
The tank was dragged further out; then pulled over onto its remaining track and bogie wheels. A Scammel tank transporter had been ordered to assist, so they could recover the Chieftain fully and, perhaps in time, even have it back on the battlefield, although it would be days rather than hours. But they were building up quite a graveyard of battered tanks, so spare parts were becoming easier to find. The barrel, buckled and useless, would have to be completely renewed, as would some of the splintered and shattered vision blocks. Two-Two-Charlie could stay no longer. They had been ordered to move to their new location, but a pair of Scorpions were being sent across the river to act as sentries. The rest of the recce troop, along with a second one, were helping with the battle to keep the Soviet airborne forces out of the town. Lieutenant Baty and his two Scorpions, with their 76mm guns, had already had some successes, knocking out four BMDs. The Soviets were slowly running out of armoured support.
Corporal Carter ran along the line of foxholes, checking on the new section that had recently arrived. He had sent the remnants of his section back into the orchard, about 100 metres behind them, giving them the opportunity of being out of the direct firing line, but available as a quick reaction force should they be needed. He wasn’t so sure of how quickly they could react. They were tired and shocked, and had seen their dead and wounded comrades taken away. Ashley, the youngest member of the section, was just a mass of blood, his body peppered with shrapnel from an AGS’s 30mm grenade. Against orders, they had used their own first field dressing, bandaging him up to try and stem the flow of blood pulsating from numerous rents in his body. He had just stared at his section commander, a slight smile on his pale face; a smile that said, I know you will take care of me, Corporal.
There was still a second 432 with the Peak Engineering turret. Carter’s plan was to use what was left of his section, along with the 432, to block any flanking attacks. The best way to judge when to use them and where, was by remaining on the front line himself. He wasn’t trying to be heroic by staying; he just needed to orientate the fresh section to their new location: point out where the BMPs might stop to disgorge their troops; where the AGS-17s could set up and suppress them while they assaulted their defences; where the tanks were likely to come from; blind spots; dead ground… all the pointers that could keep these men alive and maybe even hold their position. He assisted the new section commander, Corporal Lawton, in establishing arcs of fire, where best to position his GPMG, where best to place the Milan FPs. Carter’s surviving Milan firing post had volunteered to stay on the line, but his orders had been explicit: he was to pull his unit back unless needed. His platoon commander was with the third section of the platoon, battling with the Soviet airborne troops that were trying to get to the Gronau bridge; adding his leadership to the West German reservists who were doing their best to protect their homes and defeat the enemy trying to take their town, and their country, from them.
Carter keyed the handset of his radio. “Two-Two-Alpha, Two-Two-Delta. Radio check. Over.”
“Two-two-Delta. Five, five. Over.”
“Roger. Out. Two-Two-Delta-Alpha. Radio check. Over.”
“Two-Two-Delta, loud and clear this end. Anything happening, Corp?”
“Negative on that. Will keep you posted but we expect incoming any minute now. Out. Foxtrot-One, this is Two-Two-Delta. Radio check. Over.”
There was a delay of about ten seconds before he got a response.
“Two-Two-Delta. We receive you. Can you hear, bitte?”