“Stand-to, stand-to.”
Dean doubted many of his men had heard him, but it helped to prepare him for the fight that was coming their way. Peering through the fogged lenses of his respirator, he pulled his SLR into his shoulder and aimed it in the direction he thought the enemy would appear.
Brrrrrp, brrrrrrp, brrrrrrp.
The Gympy was already firing at the advancing Soviet airborne soldiers, hundreds of rounds tearing up the ground in front of them, many of the bullets ripping into their bodies. Thank God the gun team had survived both the chemical and artillery strike. This had to be a local attack. The gas to weaken them, he thought, then the Assault Brigade using its own D-30 122mm artillery, parachuted in the previous day, to prepare the ground for this particular battalion’s attack.
Boompf. Another BMD suffered from a 90mm round from the Bundeswehr tank destroyer, as it punched through the MICV’s 19mm thick side-turret armour. A plume of earth shot up at Dean’s right side as a BMD tried to target the Gympy that was cutting the advancing soldiers to pieces. A sudden flare shot across the front of his eyes as a Milan missile rocketed towards the vehicle that had just fired its 73mm gun. There was no competition. At 1,000 metres away, the Milan warhead struck. The shaped charge tore a hole in the side of the eight-ton vehicle, stopping it dead. The minute the soldiers lost the covering fire of their armoured support, they went to ground. The closest airborne soldiers were now 200 metres away, and Dean took aim. Although he felt shaky, he steadied his aim, controlled his breathing and squeezed the trigger. The powerful rifle kicked into his shoulder and, less than a second later, the soldier that had been in his sights spun around, a fatal wound taking him out of the fight. More and more cracks and rifle reports could be heard as more of the elements of the platoon defending this area picked off other targets. A deafening explosion close to his right ear indicated his signaler was also joining in the fight.
Dean unfolded his map, spread it on the rear slope of the berm and beckoned for the handset. “One-One-Foxtrot, One-One-Alpha. Target. Over.”
“One-One-Alpha. Send. Over.”
“Grid. Three, nine, nine, seven, two, zero. Four rounds, fire for effect. Grid. Four, zero, zero, seven, two, five. Four rounds, fire for effect. Grid. Four, one, zero, seven, three, zero. Four rounds, fire for effect. Out.”
He’d had to shout through his mask to ensure they could hear and that they understood. A mistake and they could be on the receiving end of the mortar rounds that would soon be on their way. But, the Corporal in command would have all friendly forces marked on his map and would quickly know if there was a error in his officer’s orders.
Colour Sergeant Rose dropped down next to him and he returned the handset to his signaler.
“Sir. The Sovs aren’t wearing NBC kit!”
Dean thought back to the soldier he had shot, and Rose was right. They had no protective equipment on. It had been a non-persistent chemical strike. If they could get a breather, they could decontaminate, change their kit and remain in the village. Dean nodded.
They fought for another thirty minutes before the Soviet airborne troops withdrew, the mortar rounds bracketing their positions proving to be lethal and effective. The company sent forward to probe the defences had suffered badly. They had lost four of their precious BMDs, with twelve men dead and over twenty wounded; the mortar bombs breaking up the attack just as they were about to make a big push.
Dean didn’t know how much time they had before the next attack, but he had no doubt it would be the full battalion, and they would try to flank him and his men. It was time to check on his men, then decontaminate and move back to their second line of positions. Looking at the dead soldier across from his trench, he wondered how many more of his men had succumbed to the deadly chemical attack.
Chapter 29
Colonel Trusov was jolted suddenly as Kokorev pulled heavily on the left stick, the T-80K swerving around a burning hulk of a T-80 from the 63rd Guards Tank Regiment. Twice, the tanks of 10th Guards Tank Division had been thrown at the NATO front lines east of the River Leine, but the Challengers of Combat Team Delta, even after being battered by a thirty-minute artillery barrage, struck back. Many of the T-80s encountered the scattered minefields, salvos from 1st Armoured Division’s artillery, and a steady assault from tank-busting aircraft. Even with ERA armour, the hardened penetrators fired from the superb British 120mm main gun knocked out tank after tank. As the Soviet armour got closer to the river, the Challengers, dug in on the western bank, added their weight to the wall of steel that was meeting the Soviet tanks as they clawed their way west. It was only when the divisional commander released the Hind-D tank killers that they were they able to make progress and force the now battered combat team back across the river. A few Landwehr units had not retreated, preferring to fight to the last man, protecting their homes and the families that had remained behind.
Combat Team Delta was effectively finished as a fighting force. Out of its original fourteen Challenger tanks, the pride of the British Royal Armoured Corps, only three had made it back across. Now part of the Battlegroup reserve, they had been withdrawn to safety, where they could recover from the horrors of the battle they had just fought. Feeling secure as they initially crossed the river, their opinion changed as they passed a regimental aid post. The horror of the sights they saw sickened them. Lines of soldiers mixed in with civilians were laid on the ground outside a large house that was now a makeshift first-aid point. A member of the, Women’s Royal Army Corps (WRAC), was helping to triage some of the recent arrivals. One line of soldiers and civilians were covered in blankets and sheets, many killed by toxic gas; either failing to pull on their respirators in time, or shrapnel opening a rent in the NBC kit and combats exposing them to the deadly nerve agents. The civilians, some of them with skinny legs and small feet sticking out indicating they were children, just hadn’t stood a chance.
Trusov had been disappointed that his regiment, 62nd Guards Tank Regiment, 10th Guards Tank Division, had been put in reserve and excluded from the main thrust the previous day. Now, he perhaps regretted that eagerness after hearing tank after tank being knocked out, the screams of dying men over the airwaves, the cries for help and, even worse, the burnt and torn bodies, the lucky ones being brought back in the hope that the medical team could keep them alive. Although, seeing some, death would probably be their preferred option once they realised the extent of their injuries.
Major-General Abramov, the Commander of the 10th, the Ural-Lvov Division, had pulled his senior officers together for an urgent briefing, and the look he gave Trusov said it all. Pushkin, the new Chief of Staff and his ex-Regimental Commander, nodded his head once, and Trusov knew immediately that tomorrow was not going to be a good day for him and his men. The division had to succeed. The Operational Manoeuvre Group was waiting to complete its mission. But, to do that, they needed to get across the river.
The briefing had been short and sharp. The General knew exactly what needed to be done and who was going to do it.
“Not only have I had our own army commander sticking his fist down my throat, but General Zavarin has ordered me personally to cross that river.” He had said the next bit more quietly. “There is no alternative. I cross it or go down in it.” A weak smile broke through, but nobody laughed. They all knew that the General was not joking; the consequences of failure were known to all of them. As senior officers, they would not escape the retribution of the MVD or KGB. “We have four assets to support us in our venture tomorrow. The Independent Tank Regiment has been released and will be under my direct control.” He looked across at Trusov. “Colonel Trusov, you and your men will have the honour of making the crossing.”