Chapter 31
Lieutenant Dean Russell had called stand-to at just before four in the morning; his men, some rubbing the sleep from their eyes, propped their SLRs on top of the foxholes that had been dug out the previous day. It had been hard work as no bucket loaders had been available, the engineers being used to assist the units further back, helping them dig more permanent positions. Combat Team Alpha wouldn’t be hanging around. All they had to do was blunt the attack, force the Soviet units to move from line of march and deploy. Report what they saw then pull back, leapfrogging their comrades behind before digging in for the next round. There had been groans from the men at having to dig so deep, but the platoon commander and platoon sergeant had been relentless in the pursuit of their soldiers, urging them on to dig deep, build solid berms in front, and camouflage their positions well. There was still radio silence, but runners had informed the lieutenant that all his men were in position. Will it be today? he thought.
His thoughts were interrupted by Sergeant Rose as he dropped down into the slit trench.
“Bloody hell, sir, if you’d dug any deeper you’d have struck oil.”
“Maybe I can sell it after this blows over.” Russell laughed.
“Twenty minutes?”
“Yes, then release one in three to get some breakfast inside them.”
“In the meantime, how about some of this?” The sergeant pulled out a flask of freshly brewed tea, hot and sweet.
“You’re a lifesaver, Sergeant Rose.” Russell unclipped the black mug from his water bottle and handed it to the sergeant, and the NCO topped up two cups until a cough either side prompted him to look over to the other slit trenches.
“Bring your bloody mugs over, one of you.”
Corporal Martin Wood, the commander of One-Section sent one of his men to gather mugs. The contents of the flask would be stretched extremely thinly, but at least the boys would get a hot drink inside them. The ones close by, anyway. The corporal had two men forward on the left, about fifty metres away in a group of four trees. They would provide cover for two Milan firing posts. The rest of his section were in a line forward of the hedgeline. The gun group with the Gympy were in a slit trench on the far right, a gunner plus two, and, on the left, himself plus the driver he had called forward from the 432 and one other. One soldier was with the lieutenant; the tenth soldier would join them on his return from an errand. The lieutenant, in his trench, had his own runner and a signaler, plus one. The runner was also out, passing on some last-minute messages for his platoon commander. Two-Section covered a hedgeline to the north, perpendicular to One Section’s main position, running west. Two Section covered a further two Milan firing posts. Armour that tried to flank Combat Team Alpha would have Milan missiles to contend with.
They shared their unexpected bounty, sipping on the hot sweet liquid as if it were a champagne cocktail, Lieutenant Russell scanning the horizon with his binoculars. He wasn’t necessarily watching for the enemy, although that was always a consideration, but for the reconnaissance CVR(T)s out there. They were the furthest edge of the FLOT. The forward line of own troops, they would be watching and waiting for the enemy, should they come.
Russell still wasn’t certain, but hoped it was just hot air on both sides of the fence, and eventually someone would back down. He couldn’t see much; there still wasn’t enough light. All he could hope for was to pick out movement: the dark shadows of small or large armoured vehicles racing towards them. Friend or enemy.
“Which way then, sir?”
“What?”
“Which way do you think they’ll come?”
He looked at his sergeant’s blackened face, barely able to pick out much more than a silhouette, an arm rising and falling as he sipped his drink. There was no chance of a second mug from the flask as a consequence of it being drained, filling all the other mugs that had suddenly presented themselves.
The lieutenant thought for a moment. He had tried to put his mind inside the head of an enemy commander. What would he do if he had a tank regiment at his disposal?
“Straight between here and Supplingen to the south.”
“Suicide?”
The young officer gave a small chortle. “I can understand why you’d think that, Sergeant Rose. Come down the centre and they get hit from both flanks. Mines across their path, although we don’t have that many. But what other options do they have?” He pointed his arm to his right and slightly back, in the direction of where Combat Team Delta were deployed. “There’s the huge stretch of high ground of the der Elm Forest to the south-west of here. They would probably target that with motor rifle troops.” He remained silent for a few moments before continuing. “To be honest, I haven’t got a clue. Just know that when they hit us, it’s going to be bloody hard.”
A pair of boots dropped down into the trench, followed by the body of Infantryman Stewart Barker, the platoon runner, knocking Sergeant Rose aside as he stumbled in. Before the sergeant could chastise him for being so clumsy, they heard the Clansman radio crackle in the headphones of the signaller’s radio set.
The signaller held one earpiece to his ear, leaving the other one exposed so his platoon commander and sergeant could hear it.
“All call signs, this is Zero-Alpha. We have movement on the Inner German Border. Contact likely. Acknowledge, over.”
The signaller pressed the mike switch. “Zero-alpha, zero-one, roger, out.”
They were listening in to the other platoons reporting in when Sergeant Rose screamed, “Gas, gas, gas. Gas, gas, gas.” The call was taken up by the rest of the section
Lieutenant Russell held his breath; dropped his SLR rifle on the edge of the slit trench; ripped off his helmet; fumbled with the green respirator sack, the rubber NBC gloves making it awkward; yanked out his rubber S6 respirator; and, pulling the elasticated straps away from the back, tucked his chin into the mouthpiece area, pulling the top and sides up over his head. Checking the seal, tightening all six of the straps to the rear, he shouted, “Gas! Gas! Gas!” expelling the air to clear his mask of any contaminants that may have got inside. Tugging the green hood of his Noddy suit over his head and pulling the drawstring tight, replacing his helmet, his nuclear, biological and chemical immediate actions were complete.
He picked up his rifle and look ahead. With the picture that confronted him, he could see why his platoon sergeant had made the call. The horizon beyond the town of Helmstedt was lit up like a fiery dawn mixed in with a multi-coloured aurora borealis, the flashes constant. “Take cover!” He screamed. “Take cover!” The sound was muffled through the mouthpiece of the respirator.
One last quick look round; one last check on the soldiers of his platoon that he could see; then he scrunched down. Pulling his head low, he waited. Having no experience of what was to come, he assumed it would be worst-case. He’d read about it in books, listened to lectures at Sandhurst, but knew deep down that no amount of preparation could prepare him for what was to come.
The two R-17 missiles struck first. One dispersed its forty-two submunitions over an area half a kilometre square, along the edge of the village. Each 122mm submunition exploded violently, thousands of fragments from each one ripping into buildings, shattering windows and smashing down doors. The Company HQ Bedford lorry and one of the Land Rovers, cammed up against the side of one of the larger village buildings, were completely shredded. Little differentiation could be seen between the shredded cam-netting and the vehicles themselves; the destruction permanent. Three-Platoon took the brunt of the strike, the platoon lieutenant, his signaller and runner unrecognisable as three of the cluster munitions straddled the foxholes they were in, dug along the periphery to protect the southern end of the village and the right flank of Combat Team Alpha. The Milan firing post was completely destroyed along with its two crew and the two soldiers watching over them. Not only did they have to overcome the swathe of shrapnel, with a kill and injury radius of over twenty metres, but they took a direct hit from the missile body itself. Others were crying out, screaming for a medic, the FV432 ambulance prevented from going to their aid, the Company Sergeant Major knowing it was far from over.