He ordered his driver to pull forward, his intention to push east for a further two kilometres. The patrol first headed north, before turning east, passing through the southern tip of the forest that had blocked his view earlier. Once through, the view east was now clear. They pushed forward again, the second Fox following 100 metres behind as they crossed a narrow waterway called Rodenberger Aue. Ashford acknowledged the engineers that were preparing the small bridge for demolition. It wouldn’t delay the enemy for long, such was the capability of the Soviet bridging and ferry units, but they had to slow the enemy’s relentless advance somehow. This was the furthest east he would go for now.
After five minutes of patrolling the local area, the two Fox armoured cars returned to the bridge. The engineers had finished and, after a quick discussion, confirmed that the bridge was ready to blow and they would depart the area, two engineers staying behind to initiate the destruction of this crossing point. This section of Rodenberger Aue, between the canal to the north and Bad Nenndorf in the south, was under the watchful eye of a K-Company from the 1st Battalion, Yorkshire Volunteers. It was Lieutenant Ashford’s job to watch for the enemy while the Territorial Army unit prepared its defences. He looked over his shoulder, his ears picking up the sound of four-tonners labouring under their heavy loads of infantry, equipment and as much ammunition as possible that could be packed on-board. It was time to cross the water again so he ordered his driver forward, and they tentatively made their way across the bridge, the second Fox fifty metres behind. This time, his two reconnaissance vehicles would need to move further east, acting as a screen for the battalion while they deployed, and informing them of any enemy threat. The Fox armoured cars crawled along the road, choosing stealth over speed. Ashford wasn’t sure which was best: to dash along the road to the village of Haste and risk being ambushed on the way, but using speed to charge through it, or to try and spot any tell-tale signs and reverse out of danger quickly. He eventually chose to pick up speed, the growl of the two Jaguar engines intensifying as they sped at over fifty kilometres an hour along the metalled road.
They left Rehren to their south, passing through Nordbruch and the village of Wilhelmsdorf, the Mittellandkanal no more than a kilometre to their north. Following the edge of a small forest on their left-hand side, the two armoured cars eventually slowed down as they approached the first houses of the next village, Haste. Ashford’s head moved from side to side, his neck straining to allow him visibility of as much of the area around them as possible. He admitted to being scared. He was a Lieutenant in the Queen’s Own Mercian Yeomanry now, but two weeks ago he had been sitting comfortably in his office, part of a large accountancy firm, reading The Times while he sipped an Earl Grey tea. The news had been about the financial crisis, a countrywide moratorium on spending, a murder in the outskirts of Manchester, but nothing about a large planned annual exercise by the Soviet army. And certainly nothing about the impending invasion of West Germany. After eighteen months training in the Territorial Army as a troop commander, here he was now, in West Germany, going into battle for the first time in his life.
The driver slowed as they came to the junction, connecting the minor road they were on with the 442 that came from the north, from the direction of the Mittellandkanal to Bad Nenndorf in the south. A railway line also crossed their front.
Lieutenant Ashford ordered the driver to pull off to the left and to manoeuvre the Fox as best he could into the trees. Ashford twisted his shoulders and signalled for his other recce vehicle to move right and find a position amongst some scattered buildings on the southern side of the road. He ducked as a low-lying branch scraped across his face, nearly pulling his beret and headphones off. “Stop, stop.”
The large wheels stopped turning.
“I’m going to the edge of the trees. Then I’ll check out the village. I’ll guide you forward.”
He clambered down from the large turret and the Fox reconnaissance vehicle followed him slowly, stopping on Ashford’s signal once it was positioned at the edge of the treeline. Checking his pistol in the canvas holster on his right hip, Ashford stepped out onto the road, ready to move towards the bridge over the railway line. His plan to walk as far as the outskirts of the town on the other side of the road and railway line, were not to be fulfilled as the Fox opposite exploded in a shower of flame and metal fragments. Ashford was stunned momentarily before regaining his senses and sprinting back to his Fox. His gunner, a bricklayer from the West Midlands, was on the alert; more out of fear of the position he found himself in on the frontline in West Germany than through professional training. He hit the firing button, and a burst of three 30mm rounds punched into the Soviet airborne troops he had seen assault his fellow soldiers, his friends, people he used to drink with after work.
The armour of the Fox rattled as small-arms fire spattered the turret, and the gunner heard Lieutenant Ashford screaming at him. “Behind you!”
The lieutenant was racing towards him, now within the trees, trunks splintering as the airborne troops across the road recovered and opened fire. Corporal Alfie Jarrett pulled himself up so his shoulders were out of the turret, and opened fire with his SMG, the 9mm rounds going wide but forcing the enemy who had been sneaking up to take cover. He quickly dropped back down and fired a burst from the coaxial machine gun at the first group of soldiers, pinning the airborne troops down, leaving Ashford safe to clamber on board.
“Harry, get us out of here, go right. Alfie, turret left as we go.”
Harry Beale, the driver, didn’t need a second telling. He was more than ready to carry out his orders and get out of the area, terror cutting into him like a knife. The four-litre engine screamed as he fumbled with the gears. Eventually, the Fox shot forward, a trail of mud and debris splayed out behind as he manoeuvred the vehicle sharply to the right, throwing the crew sideways. Ashford dropped down inside, on the left, pulling the hatch after him as the Fox was pummelled with bullets. Once the turret had turned to face the now burning second Fox, he banged the button and the two four-barrelled smoke dischargers fired, engulfing the area out to the front in a cloud of dense white smoke. Harry lost control, the Fox swerving left before he brought it back under control, an explosion behind them indicating that his accidental manoeuvre had put the airborne soldier who had just fired an RPG-16 off his aim.
Lieutenant Ashford looked back through the vision block to see Golf-One-Bravo on fire. The aluminium armour was capable of stopping 7.62mm rounds and artillery shrapnel, but not an anti-tank round from a rocket-propelled grenade launcher.
“Zero-Golf, this is Golf-One-Alpha. Contact. Soviet airborne. Golf-One-Bravo destroyed. Over.”
“Zero-Golf. Roger that. Your location? Over.”
“West of Haste, returning Rodenberger now.”
“Roger. Friendlies in situ. Deploy and provide cover. Over.”
“Understood. Deploy Aue.”
“Golf-One-Charlie and Delta will join you. Out.”
The driver had the Fox moving almost at top speed, barely able to avoid deep ruts on the edge of the road or to maintain track as he steered around the bends.
“Steady, Harry, steady. We’ll be at the bridge in less than a minute. Then we can turn and fight.”
The Fox slowed slightly, but mild panic ensured that the driver kept the reconnaissance vehicle moving at a steady pace.
They crossed the bridge and Lieutenant Ashford called a halt, shouting down to the Territorial Army infantry platoon that had moved in to defend the bridge. “They could be right behind us. Keep your eyes peeled.”