Tait scrutinised the open ground where the Guards Division tanks would have to cross. A good killing ground for the Milan teams, he thought. Where the hell is the Soviet airborne though? That was the biggest worry. Well over 1,000 elite soldiers were out here somewhere, no doubt getting ready to cause havoc. The retreating British forces would have to fight their way through them if they were to get back to a safe area. But, first, they would be expected to hold the first stop-line, Red-Rook, that ran from the Mittellandkanal in the north, south to Barsinghausen, then further south again, spiking east to Springe, before turning back to Bad Munder and south to Hameln. The retreating regiments would need to try and consolidate along Red-Rook before they pulled further back. It was hoped that this could be achieved in good order, or the retreat could quickly turn into a rout. If that wasn’t already the case.
Tait turned to the pilot and nodded, the action unsettling his stomach again. He had seen enough. Sheppard nodded back, smiling, recognising the sergeant’s pale face and the reason for it. The Gazelle dropped back down, the pilot manoeuvring backwards before turning on the spot, heading north, steadily picking up speed before the hedge-hopping started all over again. They were to recce the locations where the 2nd Battalion, the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, would be inserted. A second Gazelle was south of Stadthagen where two companies of the 1st Battalion of the King’s Own Royal Border Regiment would be defending. A third Gazelle was conducting a recce of Haste, where a Territorial Army company would conduct a fighting withdrawal once the 3rd Battalion, the Queen’s Regiment, had passed through.
Higher command had made a decision. The ground east of the River Weser had been lost, and they had no intention of frittering away the lives of British soldiers to defend a forlorn hope. Just hold the enemy back long enough to enable 1 British Corps to dig in.
A TOW-armed Mark 7 Lynx, along with its partner, hovered in the gap between Lindhorst in the south and the forest to the north. The Gazelle further east had reported the contact around Rehren where a Territorial battalion was providing a forward screen. South of Lindhorst, a second trio of helicopters were providing cover. West of Ludersfeld, four Lynx Mark 9s swooped down, each disgorging a section of infantry from A-Company, the Aviation Company, 2nd Battalion, RRF. Once their passengers had been offloaded, the Lynx helicopters surged forward and gained height as four more helicopters tilted their noses into the air, tail rotor dropping as the pilots brought their aircraft to a halt, depositing a second platoon. The first platoon was already running forward, skirmishing, until they found themselves up against the metalled road that ran north to south across their front. The road to the north connected with a crossing point for the Mittellandkanal and, to the south, swept southwest into Lindhorst.
The platoon commander, Lieutenant Oliver Thorpe, indicated where he wanted his sections deployed. He made his way through the line of trees, across the road and in between two houses. The entire road was an avenue of trees, scattered with houses of all shapes and sizes, wildly dispersed along its complete length. A-Company had to defend the line from Ludersfeld to the canal in the north. First-platoon were deploying close to the canal, by Niedernholz, a machine-gun section with them to help secure the northernmost anchor. Third-platoon would have Ludersfeld itself, plus out to 300 metres to the north. Second-platoon, Thorpe’s platoon, would defend the centre. His platoon explored their positions whilst First-platoon pushed north to their area of responsibility.
Sergeant Cohen dropped down beside him. “The sections are in place, sir, but I’ve told them no digging in just yet.”
“Agreed, Sarn’t. We’ll wait until the OC confirms this is our position. Just in case we have to change location. Make sure they keep their eyes peeled though.”
“Sir.” With that, Sergeant Cohen pushed himself up and went to check on each section, confirm their arcs of fire, and ensure they had found some decent cover. He was sure the lads wouldn’t need reminding. They had witnessed some of the troops returning to the rear, loaded onto one-ton Land Rover ambulances and Samaritans, the ambulance version of the armoured CVRT, along with the wounded loaded onto supply trucks returning from the front. The wounded were swathed in bloodied and dirty bandages, some with horrific facial injuries and third-degree burns from blazing armoured vehicles. Limbs were missing as a consequence of artillery salvos or from heavy-calibre bullets fired by attack-helicopters or armoured infantry combat vehicles. They didn’t need to be reminded of the necessity for good cover. But, he would remind them just the same. That was his job.
Lieutenant Thorpe eased himself forward, his SLR resting in the crook of his arm as he did a rough leopard-crawl until he was beyond the boundary of the house wall on his left and alongside the bole of a fairly old but thin trunk of a tree. He heard his runner and radio operator shuffle forward, so one was either side of him. Placing his SLR rifle on the ground in front of him, but within easy reach, he removed the binoculars from their case. “We’re a bit out in the open here.”
“Sorry, sir?” asked his signaller.
“Just muttering to myself, Pritchard.”
They’ll need to dig in to protect themselves from artillery and ground-to-air strikes, he thought, but it’s a good position from which to hit the enemy. He scanned the area out to his front: wide open fields, out to two kilometres. Once his Milan firing post was set up, along with two additional Milan’s provided by a detachment from the mobile anti-tank platoon, they could hit any armour that attempted to cross the open ground. A killing ground. The L445 road, 500 metres away, running to the northeast, had a water feature, the Ziegenbach, 200 metres this side of it — only a few metres across, so not a real obstacle for the enemy. But any crossing operation would have to occur under the guns of the lieutenant’s platoon. He wasn’t high enough to see the Mittellandkanal, but that was only 1500 metres to their north.
He picked up his SLR, slithered backwards and, once hidden from view, jumped up. “Pritchard, Barnes, with me. We’ll have a better view from a two-storey house.”
The trio moved along the outer wall of the house towards the front where it faced the road. The door was locked, but a quick boot by Pritchard and they gained entry.
“Barnes, you stay here and let Sergeant Cohen know where we are.”
“Sir.”
Lieutenant Thorpe made his way into the corridor, the stairs leading up to the second floor directly in front of him. The inside of the house was dark, the owner having closed all the wooden shutters. Many houses and flats in West Germany had a shutter system where they could enclose the windows in either wooden or metal shutters, providing additional insulation against the harsh German winters and also providing added security.