“Excellent. The rest?”
“The hedgeline to our north is covered by Two Section and two firing posts. Any armour that tries to flank us will get a nasty surprise. The rest of One Section is here with me. Three Section is covering the 51mm to the rear.”
“Have you plenty of smoke rounds for the mortar?”
“Half a dozen, sir. That will give us enough cover if we need to bug out quickly.”
“Sergeant Rose?”
“He’s with the mortar team and Three Section. I’m keeping them in reserve until we know the enemy’s line of attack.”
“Make sure they’re well dug in,” advised the CSM. “We haven’t got the luxury of the engineers this time. When the shit starts to hit, you’ll need a decent hole to hide in.”
“I tried to get a bucket loader,” the OC informed him. “But the priority is to get the troops further back dug in.”
A soldier ran behind them, running at a crouch, carrying more ammunition for the section’s Gympy. The gas-operated, open-bolt machine gun had a rate of fire of up to 1,000 rounds a minute, although a rate of 700 was more likely. Belt-fed from the left, it gave an infantry section significant firepower, enabling them to put down heavy suppressive fire while the rest of the section or platoon carried out an assault, or it could cover a withdrawal.
The OC studied the lay of the land with the aid of binoculars, while the CSM chatted to the rest of the unit close by. The field of fire ahead was perfect. If the enemy came straight down the metalled road, they would be hit by Two-Platoon in the centre and this platoon and Three-Platoon from the flanks. If they chose to skirt the village, either side, they would expose their flanks to the British troops. The OC could then shift his combat team reserve where needed. The sun felt warm on his helmet, and the smell of grass and earth assailed his nostrils. If it wasn’t for the circumstances they were in, it could even be considered a nice day.
The OC turned to Saunders who had just returned. “You ready, CSM?”
“Yes, sir. Two-Platoon next?”
“Yes. Dean, make sure your platoon put their Noddy suits on. If we get an arty-strike or air-attack, there’s no telling whether or not they’re going to kick off with chemical weapons.”
“I’ll get on it now, sir.”
“Good. We stand-to at 1830.”
“Sir.”
With that, the OC and CSM jumped up and ran back to the 432 which had turned around ready to take them to their next port of calclass="underline" checking on the dispositions of the rest of Combat Team Alpha.
Chapter 28
The forty-two-ton T-80 tanks tore up the ground as they weaved in and out amongst the trees of the Erxlebener Forest. They had travelled all the previous night, stopping further east during late morning and early afternoon, making the last dash to their final assembly area as dusk was setting in. The forest resounded with the whine of gas-turbine engines as the tanks jockeyed for position, ready to settle down for a few hours before they launched their attack on the West.
Lieutenant Colonel Pavel Trusov had left his crew to camouflage his battalion command tank so he could attend the divisional commander’s final briefing. That was the last briefing they would get. Now it was just a waiting game. As ordered, he joined his regimental commander, Colonel Pushkin, for an informal chat — if there was such a thing with a superior officer.
A tent had been erected for the regimental commander and, when Trusov entered, the colonel’s clerk who was fussing about with maps and papers was dismissed.
“Pavel, park yourself down and try this.”
The colonel handed him a flask and Trusov took a drink, smacking his lips. “This isn’t your usual rubbish, sir?”
“Your insubordination will get you into trouble one day, Pavel,” Pushkin said, but with no seriousness in his tone of voice. “I take it your men are ready?”
“Of course, sir. Any changes?”
“None. Aleksey is moving his battalion right up to the border tonight, acting as security for you as you pass through the Lapp Wald Forest.”
“Is it still going ahead?”
The colonel sighed. “Yes, Pavel.” He leant forward conspiratorially. “I hope to God we haven’t bitten off more than we can chew. The British aren’t going to just sit on their arses, and the Germans are going to fight like demons.”
“Are you against this, sir?”
“No!” Pushkin snapped. “Sorry, Pavel. Of course it’s the right thing to do. Just don’t underestimate our enemy — any of them. The British like a good fight, the Germans are fighting for their country, their soil, and the Americans have equipment and resources coming out of their ears. We can get to grips with that; it’s the bloody air force that worries me. They have some exceptional aircraft and those A-10s scare the shit out of me. Move fast, Pavel, and keep moving. We have to break up their covering force. If we stall and get bogged down, we’ll have the second echelon regiments up our arse.”
“We’ll not let you down, sir.”
“You need to get some sleep if you can. The arty bombardment will be your alarm call.”
Trusov got up out of his seat. “And you, sir?”
“I shall head back to RHQ. Division will no doubt be plaguing us for updates as soon as it starts. In the meantime, it’s radio silence, thank God.”
Trusov saluted and made his way out of the tent and headed into the darkness towards his command tank. He wanted a last-minute talk with his company commanders. He doubted any of them would get any sleep tonight. His stomach knotted; less than ten hours before they were committed. Committed to what? he thought. Hell and damnation?
The major stormed from one BM-27 vehicle to the next, cursing his men to get their vehicles camouflaged as quickly as possible. He didn’t expect NATO to do any overflights, but he was aware of their capabilities with respect to satellites and the latest side-looking radar. A battery of six were lined up abreast. The 220mm high-explosive missiles had just been slotted into the sixteen tubes, and a resupply was ready and waiting to rearm them the moment their bombardment was complete and they had finished relocating. They would need to get out of the area quickly, to avoid a counter-strike by the enemy, and to move forward maintaining an appropriate distance between them and their advancing armies.
The launchers were in the upraised position, a forty-five-degree angle pointing over the cabs of the Zil-135 chassis. The major was eventually satisfied that the crews were finally draping their vehicles with camouflage netting, dragging it over the cab and launcher tubes. Dusk would do the rest.
Just west of Brandenburg, but east of the town of Genthin, on a flat piece of ground that up until now had been used for planting crops. 3rd Shock Army’s twelve Scud-Bs, carried by the heavyweight MAZ-543 TELs and totalling over thirty tons, had destroyed any cultured crops that had been planted there. Dispersed in groups of four, then paired off, they had been aligned forty-five degrees to their direction of fire, the guidance system taking its cue from the number one fin. The launcher vehicles were currently at Readiness Level 2. The launch section commander, a lieutenant, was sitting in the combat cabin in the centre of the vehicle, in between the two large centre wheels. He was checking the weather data from brigade command. His Scud-B TEL was on one side of the battery command vehicle, and the second one, fifty metres the other side. The battery command vehicle was linked to the brigade’s 9S436, another Zil-131 box body, by their R-142 radio. Closer to the time of the launch, they would receive additional information while they carried out the task of raising the missile ready to fire. For now, all he and his crew could do was wait.