“A copse. There’s a minor road coming up. Take it, left. Three hundred metres south, then right on the next track. You should see the copse by then. Go for it.”
“Got it,” responded the driver.
Barrett spun the cupola round, watching the 120mm gun moving up and down above the engine deck as it maintained its level on whatever point Corporal Farre, his gunner, was tracking.
“See anything?”
“Sod all, sir.”
“Keep your eyes peeled.”
“No worries about that, sir.”
Lieutenant Barrett pulled down the hatch as the sixty-ton giant made its way south, Tyler steering left as he came across the track. Within 700 metres, they reached the copse and the Challenger crashed through the foliage, brushing aside that which the driver couldn’t avoid. Spinning it round on its tracks, he brought them back to the eastern edge of the copse. The 432 had gone straight through. The infantrymen and the three surviving tank crew dismounted, setting up a position along the outer edge. The gun-group, with barely 600 rounds of belted ammunition, set up and watched for any sign of the enemy in pursuit. The 432 then spun round, the pintle-mounted machine gun adding to the section’s firepower. The tankies lay alongside their comrades, their SMGs of no real use at long range, but up to fifty metres they would provide a significant boost to any close-quarter fighting.
The corporal issued arcs of fire to his section, now down to five men. He had lost his second-in-command and three men on the outskirts of Hanover: two as a consequence of the chemical strike, the other two from an attack by Spetsnaz forces. He spoke calmly to his soldiers, but inside he was still shaking. He and his men had been bombed, shelled, strafed, ambushed and poisoned. When ordered to pull back, fighting for every metre of ground as they did, he still looked at his small section with incredulity, astonished that they had escaped at all, let alone survived. The platoon, separated from its Company, had tried to push further west, but came across Soviet airborne troops and were deflected south. They were later ambushed and the section became separated from their platoon. It was then that they met up with the retreating units of the Royal Hussars Battle Group. That was a great relief for the young twenty-four year-old corporal.
“Delta-Four-Bravo, this is Delta-Four-Alpha. In position. Copse 1000 metres west your location. I’ll talk you in. Over.”
“Understood. Moving now. Out.”
Colonel Kharzin pressed his regiment hard. The Bear had left him in no doubt of the consequences of failure. Artillery shells airburst above his head, and he dropped into the turret, the turret cover quickly pulled down to secure the tank. Moments later, his regiment felt the effects of the 155mm rounds as they discharged sub munitions above their heads, showering the racing T-80s with a rain of small, almost insignificant-looking, armoured-piercing projectiles. His regiment, spread out across the open fields, charged west to maintain the Operational Manoeuvre Group’s momentum. Elements of his forward units were brought to a halt as four salvos, of nearly 3,000 sub munitions, fired by the Royal Artillery, struck. The sub munitions, small shaped-charge warheads, smashed into the top cover of the speeding tanks. The ERA blocks secured across the armour deflected many. Although limited in capability, penetrating only tens of millimetres of armour some got through causing devastation. One managed to penetrate a tank’s ammunition carousel. The explosion was catastrophic. For some of the T-80s, the thinner armour on top of the turret succumbed, crewmen inside injured, but several drivers were able to keep their tanks on the move. One ground to a halt, the thin engine deck failing to resist the hot molten metal as it bit into the gas-turbine motor, rupturing the engine, engulfing the armoured vehicle in a steadily growing ball of flame. Black, oily smoke identified those tanks most badly hit.
Kharzin ordered his spearhead company to halt as the last salvo of Improved Conventional Munitions struck. A company of BMP-2s had been ordered forward to provide right-flanking protection from the British Mechanised Infantry Battalion that he knew to be out there somewhere to the north. In fact, the two antagonists had been in parallel, racing west: the British to escape and reform further back, the Soviets to link up with the airborne carpet that had been laid out in front of their axis of attack.
The smaller armoured vehicles fared worse, the company of ten mechanised infantry combat vehicles, MICVs, each carrying a Soviet motor-rifle section, losing half of their force. A concentrated salvo had straddled the small group on three separate occasions in less than a minute. Soldiers had huddled in their dark, cramped troop compartments, some feeling sick after being thrown from side to side inside the claustrophobic space as the BMP-2s raced across the undulating ground as if the devil himself was after them. In some respects, he was, in the form of their divisional commander, the Bear. Then they were met by a searing heat as jets of molten metal penetrated the thin armour, splaying out inside in a plume of destructive energy that ate into the flesh and bone of the cowering human beings who had nowhere to go but die a horrible, painful death as their vehicles continued on. The driver, in his own world of fear, carried on, deaf to the screams of his comrades dying less than a metre behind him.
A second vehicle erupted in a violent ball of flame. First, it was struck by a single charge which tore off a track rendering the BMP motionless; then by two more of the small but deadly charges, one piercing the troop compartment killing four men as they scrambled to escape the stricken vehicle, the second penetrating the turret, setting off the anti-tank missiles and the large calibre ammunition from the 30mm gun.
The platoon commanders, those that had survived, were terrified by the cacophony of sound battering what they’d hoped was their safe haven. They had to use every ounce of persuasiveness to keep their soldiers from panicking. One infantryman opened the rear door as the BMP was on the move. The sound from without horrified his comrades even more as they heaved the door shut, one soldier striking his comrade with the butt of the gun he had retrieved from the clip at his side. The lieutenants and sergeants either used threats or attempted to cajole their men to keep order. One sergeant, cramped in the back of a troop compartment with his subordinates, even begged the soldiers to keep their alarm in check, promising them they would survive. They just needed to remain calm and trust in the protection of their armour. His cries fell on deaf ears as two charges struck the top armour, punching through, savagely tearing into the helpless men inside, mutilating their bodies. Prisoners, trapped inside their own steel coffin.
The BMP Company was brought to a halt; the commander dead, killed in the first salvo, the rest of the unit either crippled, dying or leaderless and floundering. Kharzin radioed his force, establishing the state of his leading unit, and ordering the following units to make best speed and catch up. He was immediately in contact with the 1st Battalion Commander having him order his second and third company to bypass the crippled lead company and continue to push ahead.
Kharzin’s tank approached his lead company and received reports from the battered unit. He then waited for the second and third company to pass through. Out of the ten T-80s and ten BMP-2s he had pushed forward, three of the main battle tanks were ablaze, their engines afire, fuel and exploding ordnance feeding it, forcing back any rescuers attempting to recover the crews. One had a track split in two places: recoverable, but out of commission for at least half a day. The fifth had survived, mainly intact, but the turret was frozen in place, the repair time unknown. As for the rest of the company, plus his own T-80K, they were fully operational, but many had lost explosive reactive blocks from the surface of their armour, the blocks fulfilling their role in protecting the tanks.