“We’re all there is, Colour, at least for the moment. We’ll do all we can.”
“I’ll call up the troops, sir, make sure they’re ready.”
Colour Sergeant Rose moved off with the signaler to call up the rest of the platoon, leaving his platoon commander to assess, yet again, the positions of his small unit on the map.
He had to defend a piece of ground from the base of the Hohenstein on their right to the high ground of Nesselberg-Osterwald on their left. His two Milan FPs were dug in at Clapham, the junction of the road and the railway line, the south-west point of the village. They also had a gun-group plus two men to provide cover. By the bridge over the water feature, designated London Bridge, about 400 metres back, he had a section of six men. He also had a Blowpipe team close by and one other team further back in the village. He knew his men would do what they could, but wasn’t confident that they would provide them with much support. At least they might put the Hind helicopter pilots off their stride, he smiled to himself. He looked across at Voldagsen, Little-town, glad that a twenty-seven ton tank destroyer, a Kanonenjagdpanzer along with a dozen Jaeger were in position. Another dozen Jaeger were to the south.
Colour Sergeant Rose dropped into the trench, the signaler to the side of him. “HQ, sir.”
“Zero-Alpha, One-One-Alpha. Over.”
“There’s heavy movement on both sides of the river. Friendlies are being shelled to the east of Gronau. On the other bank, they look like they’re getting ready to move up.”
“Roger that, sir. We’ve normally had an arty strike by now. Over.”
“They’re tricky bastards, Dean. They’re up to something so keep your men on the alert.”
“Understood, sir. Anymore reinforcements? Over”
“Not confirmed yet, but we may be getting some reinforcements to you within the next couple of hours. So hold on as best you can. Zero-Alpha. Out.”
Dean passed the handset to his signaler. “Give everyone a warning. Now.”
“Sir.”
The radio operator carried out his order: informing the units of the platoon to be on their guard as something, although he didn’t know what, was imminent.
In the next trench, Private Daly placed his SLR on the top of the berm to the front, scrambled out, and adjusted a thick piece of turf that had been placed on the door, lying flat across one side of the trench. They had pulled the thick oak farm door out of one of the houses, using it, along with a layer of earth, as overhead protection. Placing turfs of wild grass, they hoped it would help to hide their position form the enemy. A shadow caught his eye, and he looked up and back, towards the west, towards Coppenbrugge. He peered into the sky that was slowly gaining colour as the early dawn started to give way to the early morn.
He knew almost immediately they were aircraft. They were flying low and could have been helicopters, but were going too fast.
“Sir, the RAF are coming at last. Them’ll give the Sovs something to think about.”
One second.
“Get down!” yelled Russell as he held his breath and fumbled for his respirator, pulling off his helmet at the same time.
Two seconds.
He pulled the rubber mask over his face and screamed, “Gas, gas, gas” with what little breath he had left. Quickly checking the straps at the back, the seal around his face, he finally sucked in a deep breath, before pulling his Noddy suit hood over his head.
Three seconds.
“Gas… gas… gas,” he yelled again, his voice muffled. He heard mess tins being banged together off to his right, a warning to everyone.
Four seconds.
On hearing his platoon commander’s warning, Daly had tried to do two things at once: grab for his respirator and jump down into his hole.
Five seconds.
Russell looked up and back as the two aircraft flew over, a trail of white mist coming from canisters beneath their wings.
Six seconds.
“Oh God,” he groaned to himself.
Seven seconds.
Daly slipped and went down on his backside, frantically pulling at his S6 respirator, ripping his helmet and hood off, dragging his black rubber mask over his head, panicking, breathing rapidly, forgetting all of his drills.
Eight seconds.
He’d pulled it too far, the front chin cup sliding over his mouth.
Nine seconds.
He finally pulled it back down and tightened the straps.
Ten seconds.
Daly shouted, “Gas, gas, gas.” Instinct told him he had to get into his foxhole, but he knew he was in trouble. His nose had started to run and his chest felt uncomfortably tight. As ordered, he had been taking his NAPS tablets, a pre-treatment to increase his body’s defence against low levels of nerve agent, so he should be alright, he thought. Maybe he had missed one or two. What should he do now? He fumbled in his respirator-case, searching for a ComboPen, his eyesight starting to dim and his rubber-gloved hands trembling as he pulled the entire contents out, panic setting in. He was sweating now, drooling at the mouth, and his vision was so bad he could no longer identify the objects laid out in front of him. Feeling nauseous and dizzy, he vomited into his mask, tearing it off before he choked to death, just managing to peel it off as his body stiffened, his muscles cramping, then his muscles jerked in uncontrollable spasms.
Lieutenant Russell clambered out of his trench and ran over to Daly, knowing exactly what had gone wrong, seeing the twitching soldier, his one leg kicking out uncontrollably. Another of his platoon joined him to help. He spotted the ComboPen lying next to Daly. Picking it up, he peeled off the packaging, removed the cap that protected the needle, knelt on Daly’s leg to keep it as still as possible, and placed the point against Daly’s thigh. He pressed the button on the top and the powerful spring inside ejected the long needle through the soldier’s NBC suit, combat trousers and deep into his muscle. The fluid flooded into his upper leg, and Dean moved into a crouch as he was joined by Rose. Daly urinated and defecated inside his combat trousers, his body heaving as he convulsed violently, unable to breath, then his body twitched irrepressibly, faster and faster, one leg kicking out involuntarily, until he went into a coma and death released him. He died close to the men he had drunk with, fought with and now died next to. One pinprick of Sarin nerve agent was all it had taken to kill yet another British soldier.
They didn’t hear the sound of the incoming shells through their NBC hoods, but the explosions that erupted behind them were all they needed to encourage them to dive for cover in their prepared holes. A line of explosions erupted along their front, fifty metres away, but they still felt the force of the blast. With his head down, Dean peered at the detector paper stuck to the pocket of his Noddy suit. It was coloured blue. Not that he needed confirmation that they had been hit by a chemical agent after seeing Daly die in such a horrendous manner; the confirmation was there all the same. He was glad that Colour Sergeant Rose had reminded him that, now they were back on the front line, NBC suits should be worn again. That advice had saved many lives that day.
They spent fifteen minutes hunkered down before the explosions ceased as quickly as they had started. A sharp boom came from the direction of Little-town as a tank-round from the Bundeswehr tank destroyer lifted a BMD mechanised infantry combat vehicle off its tracks, a plume of smoke following the surviving Soviet airborne soldiers as they escaped the inferno inside only to be cut down by machine-gun fire from the Jaeger soldiers.