Wolfenbuttel fared better. Although the rain of shells pounded the buildings into rubble, tore into their quickly prepared positions in the ground around it, the unit was spread over a much wider area. A fully mechanised infantry company, less the platoon defending the forest to the north, along with five Milan firing posts, were still capable of putting up some resistance when the attack they knew was inevitable came. The Soviet High Command had allotted Frog-7, Scud-B and BM-27 missile launchers for the main bombardment on the towns of Braunschweig and Wolfenbuttel. They had only one intention: to smash the covering force once and for all and keep the momentum of the army, of over 1,500,000 men, advancing west.
Barsukov came up alongside, and Trusov felt the shudder as Kokorev started the tank’s engines. He looked at his tank commander and tapped his watch, holding five fingers in the air. “Five minutes,” he mouthed.
Trusov nodded in acknowledgement. There would be no radio messages, no waving of flags in the air like they did in the early days, but his unit knew to pull out in exactly five minutes and attack. To the north, Captain Yakovlev’s recce company, two platoons of BMP and one of T-80s, would conduct a feint to the south-east of Braunschweig, distracting the enemy, also acting as 62GTR’s right flank protection. The scout-car company of BRDM-2s would form a screen on the regiment’s left flank, warning the unit of any enemy counter-attack. Lieutenant Colonel Aminev’s third-battalion with its remaining twenty-six T-80s would strike south, under cover of a smokescreen provided by a battery of the regiment’s 2S1s. His unit would try and filter through the wood to the north of Wolfenbuttel. The motorcycle section from the recce company would help guide them through. The motor rifle battalion would head straight for the centre of the wooded area, fighting their way through the battered British forces there, meeting up with 3rd Battalion’s tanks. Once the wood was secured, the infantry would fulfil their role as the regiment’s reserve, and remain there.
Unknown to the Soviet forces, the British infantry, the remnants of two platoons, one from Combat Team Alpha in the north and a platoon from Combat Team Bravo in the south, were already pulling back to a safe area in the rear. They had done their job — in spite of the fact that they felt like they were retreating taking their casualties with them. But they had left at least fifteen men behind, dead, some unrecognisable after the battering they had received from the Soviet rockets. The soldiers were asking — no — demanding to know where their help was from their own artillery and air force. British artillery had scored some successes in their counter-battery fire missions, but with so many targets out there and the constant need to move to ensure they weren’t targeted themselves, they had little effect in significantly reducing the array of tubes and missiles aimed at their armour and infantry. The air force was in a fight for its own survival. Heavy air and missile attacks on the NATO airfields, along with Spetsnaz sabotage, had disrupted their ability to support their forward troops to any great extent. Protecting reinforcements speeding to the front, preventing their precious airfields from being made unusable and fighting off the Soviet air force that attacked in wave after wave, there was little they could do for their covering force.
The sudden silence was almost disorientating; the artillery bombardment ceased almost as one. A fug of smoke had manifested itself along an entire ninety-degree front ahead of Trusov’s tank. He caught a whiff of propellant on the breeze, coming from the mass of Soviet artillery that had been firing for the last hour.
Whoosh, whoosh… whoosh, whoosh.
Trusov and Barsukov looked up at the sky-blue underbellies of two pairs of Sukhoi SU-25s as they shattered the silence that had lasted for a mere few seconds. The shoulder-mounted trapezoidal and conventional tailplane gave the jet a unique silhouette. Weapons were slung beneath the five hardpoints beneath each wing. Two carried 57mm rocket pods, more death to rain down upon the enemy. In addition, a 30mm cannon, with 250 rounds of ammunition, was located in a compartment beneath the cockpit. Nicknamed Frogfoot by NATO, the single-seat, twin-engined jet aircraft was specifically designed to provide close air support for Soviet ground forces. They would be expected to perform between eight and ten sorties a day. This was the first one of today’s attacks.
“The bloody Grachs (Rooks) will sort them out if the artillery hasn’t,” crowed Barsukov.
Trusov didn’t answer, but checked his watch. Thirty seconds to go. He pointed downwards to Barsukov who then slid into his gunner’s position on the left.
Pulling on his padded helmet, he now had communications with Kokorev, the driver and his gunner. “Fifteen seconds.”
“Sir,” Kokorev responded.
Ten seconds. A ripple of 57mm rockets, smoke trails behind them, left the aircraft pods. Two aircraft targeted the southern edge of Braunschweig; two attacked the northern edge of the forest.
Kokorev looked up at the barrel of the tank gun above him, just to his right, and pulled on the hatch handle and heaved the driver’s hatch closed.
Five seconds. Over 100 missiles, fired by the Rooks, struck their targets, laying a carpet of high explosives and shrapnel along the periphery where any remaining British troop would be waiting for the expected enemy advance.
“Go, go, go,” Trusov yelled into his mouthpiece.
Kokorev peered through the three vision blocks in front of him, his left hand raising the engine-idle lever and his right foot pushing on the accelerator pedal, the T-80’s 1,000-horsepower gas-turbine engine powered the tank forward. They pulled out from behind the two-storey house they had been secreted behind; their camouflage netting had been removed earlier. T-80s along the entire length of 62nd GTR front appeared from their hiding places and slowly gathered speed.
As for Trusov’s battalion, Vagin’s third-company was on his left, Ivashin’s company on the right, and Mahayev’s out in front, followed closely by two mine-plough tanks. Earlier, during the hours of darkness, a Soviet reconnaissance patrol had identified a probable minefield. The British had laid a carpet of bar mines between the forest and Braunschweig, hoping to hold the Soviet tanks up while their Milans picked them off from the side. The engineers had just completed their survey when they were bounced by a British fighting patrol. They barely made it back to the Russian lines, losing a third of their small force on the way. Under the cover of a smokescreen, the two mine-plough tanks moved forward rapidly and started to plough a passage, the width of two tanks, through the minefield. The remaining tanks of the battalion would pass through the gap, fanning out either side, the fuel injected onto their manifolds providing additional smoke; much needed cover from the eyes of their NATO enemies.
“Two-Zero, Two-One. One down, one down!”
“Two-One, understood. Keep moving.”
Another T-80 casualty, thought Trusov. He pushed the hatch open and climbed up so his shoulders were well out of the turret, being met by a swirl of smoke, the stench of diesel fumes nearly making him gag. The tank bounced across the open ground ahead, Kokorev heading slightly north-west as instructed. Neither he nor Kokorev could see very much at the moment. The biggest risk was driving into one of their own comrades. Travelling at about twenty-five kilometres an hour, they would step up to forty once they were through the minefield. Although he could see very little, Trusov strained his ears and could pick out the roar of engines ahead as they negotiated the occasional ditch or mound.