Although old, the Centurion had proved its worth. During the Yom Kippur War in 1973, in ‘The Valley of Tears’, an Israeli Defence Force Brigade with less than 100 Centurion tanks defeated an assault by 500 Syrian T-55s and T-62s. With their 84mm guns, 2nd Squadron would also be depending on its legendary status. Two battalions of Infantry, the 2nd and the 4th, were digging in further forward but ready to move within two hours’ notice should they need to relocate and isolate any attempt by the Soviets to force a bridgehead on Danish soil.
The 1st Zealand Battle Group (Reserve), with its tank squadron, two Infantry battalions and artillery battalion, had responsibility for the coast from Koge to Naestved, in the south. The 3rd Zealand Battle Group (Reserve) held the west coast from Naestved to the thin peninsular of Kalundborg, and the 4th Zealand Battle Group (Reserve) was on the southern island based around Nykobing. The three Battle Groups had deployed at the outbreak of the war, the 2nd Battle Group being held in reserve. The 1st Zealand and 2nd Zealand Brigades, much larger formations than the Battle Groups, manned by regular soldiers, were being held more centrally. The 1st Zealand Brigade was being kept close to Copenhagen, the capital of Denmark. Once the landing point, or points, had been identified, these two heavy brigades, with their eighty Centurion tanks between them, along with their mobile infantry battalions, would attempt to stop the Soviet invasion in its tracks.
2nd Squadron wasn’t destined to finish its preparations to hide because, at that moment, they received an urgent call. A large Soviet airborne force was in the process of landing east of Ringsted, the location of the headquarters of the Allied Land Forces of Zealand. Camouflage netting was quickly dragged off the tanks again and literally thrown on the rear decks. The Centurion’s Rolls Royce Meteor engine was turned over, and the lead tank pulled out from the trees and spun round until it faced the northwest. An M113 pulled up alongside it, and Lieutenant Colonel Jensen jumped out from the back of the APC and ran to the front of the Centurion yelling up to Captain Petersen, the commander of the squadron of eight tanks.
“You’re to get to Ringsted as fast as possible,” ordered the commander of the 4th Battalion, Gardehusarregimentet, the infantry element of the Battle Group. “It seems a significant force has landed, and the local troops are not holding.”
“Do we know the size of the force, sir?”
“Not entirely, but they estimate at least a battalion.”
“How the hell did we miss them coming in?”
“It’s not surprising. Command has been leeching aircraft from Zealand to help support the Landjut forces.”
“So the Soviets are coming through the back door.”
“You need to move,” ordered the Colonel. “Time isn’t an asset that we have much of.”
“Let me know when the Infantry moves out, sir. We’ll be pretty vulnerable out there on our own.”
“I’ve not received any sightings of armour yet, Captain.”
“It’s not the armour I’m worried about,” responded the captain.
“We’ll get there as soon as we can.”
“Right, we’re moving out now, sir.”
“Good luck.”
The Colonel stepped back as the Centurion reared up at the front, the driver pressing hard on the accelerator pedal as soon as he received the order to pull out. Petersen estimated they had about twenty-five kilometres to travel. With a top speed of roughly thirty-kilometres per hour, and bearing in mind the undulating ground, they could be on the eastern outskirts of Ringsted in less than two hours.
They bypassed Tureby then headed northwest along the Slimmingevej, maintaining a steady speed. After a drive of roughly twelve kilometres, Captain Petersen planned on taking a left turn, using the Kogevej that ran parallel to the Vestmotorvejen, a major motorway, to take his small force direct to the town of Ringsted. The last report had the Soviet airborne soldiers on the eastern outskirts of the town. The squadron passed cultivated fields either side of the road and made their way through the occasional small village. Thirty minutes later found the squadron of eight tanks 2,000 metres from the turning. A large forest of pine trees loomed up on the left. Once they left that behind, Petersen knew they should be less than 1500 metres from the turning.
The tall, straight pines dominated his view, as he looked left at the proud line of trees 300 metres away. Suddenly, a huge explosion sent a pressure wave of heat that whipped past his back and head. He twisted his body around so he was facing to the rear as a streak of light emanated from a ditch in front of him and to his right, as an anti-tank grenade headed for its target. The target of the rocket-propelled grenade quickly became apparent as the Centurion, fifty metres behind his, seemed to surge upwards as the hollow-charge warhead slammed into the side of the main battle tank, slicing through it with ease, killing the crew inside instantly. Beyond that, he could see a second Centurion in flames, a firework display shooting skyward as the ammunition cooked.
“Put your foot down!” he screamed at his driver. “Gun left,” he ordered his gunner as he gripped the handles of the .50-calibre machine gun. He swung round as the turret started to turn, the tank rapidly increasing speed until it reached its maximum of thirty kilometres per hour. The machine gun vibrated in his hands as he aimed at the likely location of the ditch where he had seen the rocket grenade launch, the rounds curving towards it, now over 1,000 metres away. He watched the spurts of dust from the strikes of the heavy calibre bullets as he played them across the likely enemy location.
“One-eighty, one-eighty,” the captain called down to his driver as he saw a third Centurion brew up as it attempted to escape the carnage that was ensuing. He needed to provide support while he still had some tanks left. The fifty-ton Centurion slowed then spun on its tracks.
“Fifteen hundred metres, one o’clock, ditch right of road, HE,” he ordered his gunner as he fired another burst towards the enemy location.
Something exploded in the road on the southern flank of his squadron as one of his tanks drove over an anti-tank mine laid by the Soviet airborne soldiers as soon as the convoy had passed them.
“Up,” informed the Loader.
“Fire.”
The tank snatched as a round left the barrel. Moments later, the High Explosive shell exploded in close proximity to the ditch he had fired on earlier. He had the satisfaction of seeing a number of soldiers running from the vicinity, two of them with a wounded comrade draped between them. Peterson suddenly realised the danger as they approached the forest, they had passed earlier, now on their right.
“Left stick, left, left.” He swung the machine gun round to face the potential danger just as a smoking flame streaked alongside the turret, missing him and his tank by mere centimetres. He fired into the trees as the tank bounced across the rough earth, the engine growling as the driver changed down to negotiate the undulating ground. He sprayed the trees but doubted he had hit anything as he rocked back and forth in the turret.
He shouted into his mike, “All call signs report. Right stick.” The tank slewed to the right as the driver steered the heavy tank round.
“Forward.” They were now heading south, parallel with the road, but they had at least passed the forest.