The second missile went off target, hitting somewhere between the two villages, peppering the open ground with numerous craters two to three-metres wide.
Combat Team Bravo, deployed in Supplingen to the south, was not so lucky. Both R-17 missiles struck, wiping out a third of the platoon guarding the northern flank of the village. These two strikes alone gave an indication of the proposed strategy of the first echelon of the Soviet attack: immobilise the two edges of the village and drive straight through the centre.
Lieutenant Russell compressed his body as far down into the slit trench as he possibly could and then some more as the first of the BM-27 rockets rained down across the front of their position. His ears rang as rocket after rocket exploded around them. He felt a weight crash down on the front edge of the trench, a lacerated arm, the sleeve of the shirt and combat jacket ripped off, the NBC suit covering the body was in tatters. Dean’s helmet rattled as it was peppered with clods of earth and debris. He grabbed the arm and pulled the form down into the trench, covering the soldier as best he could with his own body. The hedgeline was torn apart behind them as three 122mm rockets shredded the shrubbery, splitting the trees and sending lethal splinters of wood whistling over the top of the cowering infantry.
Lieutenant Russell pressed his hands over his ears, his S6 respirator expanding and contracting as his rapid breathing sucked in air through the canister at the side. He was screaming inside his head, his eyes almost as wide as the oval lenses he was peering through, but seeing nothing. His ears hurt and he felt mucus oozing from his nose. Nausea plucked at his stomach but he bit it back, the bitter taste of bile on his tongue burning his throat. The noise, the shock waves, battered his body and senses as another round of shells straddled the village, but further back.
Suddenly, it was as if the entire sector was engulfed in a huge suffocating weight, a tremendous pressure wave followed by an intense heat, with a constant stream of debris, branches of trees, pieces of brick, masonry and other items one could only guess at.
Lieutenant Russell sucked hard, fighting for air that was no longer there, panic setting in as he couldn’t breathe no matter how hard he tried, resisting the drive to wrench his mask free and expose his lungs and skin to any nerve or blister agents that might be present. The pressure suddenly dissipating, he collapsed into the bottom of the trench, depleted. The level of noise rose higher and higher as more and more Soviet artillery joined in the bombardment of the NATO front line. The sounds of civilians screaming, wounded or dying in their beds, went unheard as the explosions reached a crescendo before stopping almost as quickly as they had started.
Thirty minutes of hell and the men of Combat Team Alpha felt that that was exactly where they were.
Chapter 32
The fifty-five-ton Leopard 2’s V-12 engine growled as the driver accelerated, the tank almost flying as it leapt over a brow of a hillock it had just crossed, the suspension squashed as it supported the machine’s weight, pushing back upwards. The commander gripped onto the turret for his life, his body flung from side to side. The loader was also topside with his commander, gripping onto the MG-3 7.62mm air-defence machine gun, using it to keep himself from being tossed out. Speed was of the essence. A small heliborne landing was threatening an engineer unit desperately trying to blow a bridge as the Russian forces battered them from the east. Their task was still to protect the Stecknitz Canal, south-east of the large town of Luneburg, but a troop had been dispatched to reinforce their kameraden who were in dire straits. Part of the 9th Panzer Brigade of the 1st Panzer Division, 1 German Corps’ covering force, their job had just started.
The lieutenant gritted his teeth, nearly biting his tongue as he was suddenly thrown violently sideways. But there would be no stopping, no slowing down. They had to get to grips with the enemy, slow them down, stop them, kill them before they could take an inch of German soil.
Private First Class Larry Poole closed his eyes, tensed his body as the trees above and around them were torn apart. The shock waves from the shells that missed, rocked the tank from side to side, even the throbbing of the tank’s gas turbine engine couldn’t be felt or heard. Staff Sergeant Kyle Lewis, the tank commander, stared through the visors, but dust was all he could see. Buttoned down, all he and his crew could do was sit out the storm of the Russian artillery barrage and wait until it ceased.
“Aaahh!” Larry Poole screamed as the front of the thirty-five-ton tank was lifted off the ground, slamming back down as a 150-millimetre shell exploded directly in front of them.
Clang…clang.
Straddled by two more smaller-calibre rounds, shrapnel struck at the tank’s armour, letting the crew know it wanted them and was going to do its level best to get them.
SSGT Lewis looked up at the inner top of the turret, praying that the armour would hold out. They had said it would; they had said it would be safe. His men were in their full NBC suit, in case the M-1 was punctured and any gas found its way in, killing them all. It wasn’t meant to be like this, he thought. They drive towards us and our superior tanks pick them off until they’ve had enough. It wasn’t meant to be like this.
Chapter 33
The thunderous roar built up behind them, streaks of light continued to pass overhead, hundreds of Soviet soldiers looking up into the sky, the view reminiscent of the Quadrantid meteor show in January and the Lyrid shower in April. Those were beautiful to watch, but caused no one any harm. The ones passing now were far more menacing. The repercussions from the artillery shells and rockets could be heard bracketing the British forces, less than six kilometres away to the west.
Crump, crump, crump, crump.
Shell after shell hit the front line of the NATO troops, pinning them down, numbing their senses, smashing their defences.
The Soviet radio nets were alive with chatter, units moving positions, preparations being made to advance and attack. Colonel Trusov received his orders to move out. He ordered Kokorev to move the T-80 forward slowly, the commander of the BMP-1 recce vehicle ahead acknowledging the order as well, leading the way. The colonel issued an order to his three companies, to take up their stage two positions, and the forest reverberated with the sound of slowly accelerating gas-turbine engines as the T-80 main battle tanks started their journey west. The battalion command vehicle’s engine whined as Kokorev placed it into the first of its five gears and increased power. The tracks gripped the earth, laying a continuous metallic carpet for the six dual rubber-tyre road wheels to pass over.