“A motor rifle regiment is equivalent to one of our infantry brigades, as you well know.” interrupted General Allain. “Together, the Coldstreamers and Commandos make a superannuated battalion…hell Dave, I combined what was left of two Brit mech’ brigades and together there’s still barely more than three grand’s worth of them on their bit of that hill.”
“There are Jim Popham’s boys too sir, 1CG and his guys are joined at the hip.” It was a desperate shot as even with those three units combined they were still outgunned, but Dave Hesher was betting that the Czechs were about to try and build on their earlier success and he wanted to kick them in the balls and regain the lost ground at the same time. He believed the amity, the brotherhood that had built up between American paratroopers and British guardsmen, if combined with the enmity the guardsmen and marines had for the Czech 23rd, would compensate for lack of numbers.
Pierre Allain had been the one who had originally ordered the remnants of the battalion of the 82nd that had fought its way out of Leipzig Airport, and the half strength Guards battalion to combine. It had been geography and circumstance that had made the temporary arrangement a logical one at the time, it had been expeditious and Pierre had not envisaged the odd union lasting beyond the time it took to re-establish NATOs defensive line.
The last he had heard was that troops in both units had exchanged items of uniform and kit so that now, not unlike two soccer teams at the final whistle, the paratrooper from Washington, Illinois was indistinguishable from the guardsman from Washington, Tyne and Wear, unless they spoke of course.
The odd union had lasted months.
Pierre Allain was not one to change a winning team before the cup final.
“The 23rd have been quiet for an hour now.” Major General Hesher had said. “I’m betting that around midnight they’ll try again and I have dedicated two batteries of 105s and two flights of AH-64s, fuelled, armed and on standby.”
“Alright then, it’s your battle so I won’t interfere.” SACEUR had allowed. “I can’t spare MLRS but I can get you a few extra rotary assets from the Danes.” In the early evening a half dozen Lynx from Eskadrille 723 had arrived unexpectedly in company with two Sea Kings loaded down with TOW reloads. General Allain had not asked any awkward questions but had authorised their attachment to the Italian army’s Agusta 129s operating out of forest clearings in the Herbst Wald. They both used TOW rather than Hellfire missiles anyway.
The Romanian armour was another matter though, as for one thing he had no accurate tally of the numbers involved and JSTARS guestimate was between one company and a battalion. Ten tanks or thirty, they had not acted according to standard Soviet doctrine, they had not immediately turned about and set-to in securing and widening the breach for follow-on forces.
War gaming, the fighting of battles on large table tops by enthusiasts moving models around is known simply and logically as ‘war gaming’. Apparently someone believed the professionals required several degrees of separation from the hobbyist’s pastime and an acronym was urgently required. It is entirely possible that somewhere in the process a tender was put out and a parliamentary committee formed to select the ablest PLC of bright and thrusting young graduates who would receive a big bung of tax payer’s money for completing the awesome task of thinking up a title. However it came about though, the professional soldiers were not consulted and stubbornly refuse to say ‘tactical exercise without troops’ when they see the word ‘TEWT’ printed on a training roster, using instead the term ‘table top exercise’ as they have always done.
SACEUR leaned forward and rested his hands on the edge of the map table, staring at the unit symbols, already knowing each units current strength and equipment, he mentally conducted several table top exercises as he decided who, if anyone, he could detach to intercept the Romanian tanks before they could seize the autobahn junction, if in fact that is where it was heading.
There was no ‘Eureka moment’ during his contemplation, merely a resigned sigh as he finally decided upon whom to send as yet another Forlorn Hope.
The rain beat down without mercy anointing scarred and splintered tree trunks with its thin salve. It soaked the underclothing of a soldier via a rent in his Gortex combat smock as he made his way cautiously through what remained of Flechtinger Höhenzug, the forested ridge southwest of Magdeburg. A low profile fabric panel attached to a breast pocket fastener depicted two woven stars above a crown, showing his rank as that of Tenente Colonnello, a Lieutenant Colonel, but it was hard to see even in good light ever since a Russian sniper had narrowly missed killing him with an intended head shot, perforating the waterproof material two inches from his neck and killing a young soldier behind him instead. Although he rarely drank, a large glass of Grappa had restored his equilibrium far more ably than surgical sticking plaster had thus far achieved in restoring the smocks waterproof integrity. As to the rank panel, well that was now even more low profile than originally specified by the army board of uniform standards, owing to a palm full of camouflage cream that had been applied to the material with a shaky hand, pre-restorative Grappa.
The lieutenant colonel was now accompanied by a half section of infantrymen and the brigade adjutant, also a lieutenant colonel but one who was junior in grade. Together they made their way parallel to the top of the ridge, but remaining carefully on the reverse slope, out of the enemy’s sights.
The colonel’s nose wrinkled with distaste as he neared one of his brigade’s eight wheeled B1 Centauro tank destroyers, the barrel of its 105mm main armament was drooping at an angle, fire scarred and blackened. Not even the rain could cool the blistered paintwork of the vehicles bodywork, but instead hissed and spat as it struck the hot metal. It was dug-in, hull down in a once well camouflaged position, but the luck of both vehicle and crew had run out. Only lack of ammunition had prevented a catastrophic explosion though the flames consumed it instead, feeding off combustibles where the rain could not reach. 120mm rounds for the main battle tanks were in ready supply, thanks to the latest convoy’s arrival, but the brigades tank destroyers had been reduced to the role of mobile hardpoints in the anti-infantry role, using their exposed external 7.62mm machine guns for the previous two days.
The colonel ducked as small arms ammunition suddenly cooked off in the flames inside, the ball and tracer rounds ricocheting about the interior with the odd round escaping with a whine, whirring away into the night from out of the open commander’s hatch. The stench that was issuing was that of the electrical insulation and the still smouldering rubber of the tyres, but it was combined with something else too.
He doubted he could ever eat pork again.
Fifty minutes of negotiating his way, with the occasional pause at fighting positions to speak to the troops, finally brought him to the M113 APC he was using as a command vehicle.
Entering the rear of the track and pushing through the heavy blackout curtain, he emerged in the dimly lit interior.
“Sir.” said one of the radio operators in the cramped confines they had to work in. “The commanders on the line.” indicating the telephone handset to their secure ‘means’, protected by fourteen layered encryption.
He paused for a moment before replying.
“Bloody good range that set has if it can reach the afterlife.” he observed with a hint of sarcasm, not directed at anyone in particular.
The brigade commander, his 2 i/c and the regimental commanders, their own included, had been killed several hours before at an O Group, assassinated by Russian Spetznaz troops in the guise of a Carabinieri close protection squad.