Trusov ducked involuntarily as more flashes of light shot overhead, heading to batter the NATO defences even further as his battalion crept forward. He looked over the rear of the tank and could make out the dark shapes of the lead tanks of One Company who were following. After about 100 metres, he commanded Kokorev to pull off to the left and then stop. As agreed earlier, the lead tank of the company following, commanded by Major Mahayev, moved up, the officer acknowledging his battalion commander with a wave as he passed, the tank’s engine growling as it picked up speed, the recognisable rattle of tracks added to as the rest of the company’s ten tanks continued forward. Following behind was an MTLB-RkhM-K, one of his two battalion command vehicles, that would assist him in keeping in touch with both the regiment and division. Following on, about 500 metres behind, would be his battalion transport and supply sections, carrying the fuel, ammunition and food supplies they would need to keep the battle momentum going. A maintenance section was available to help repair broken down tanks and recover those that had suffered serious damage. And, amongst all of those, UAZ-452 ambulances should the worst happen. Even though he felt supremely confident about his equipment and his men, Trusov knew that casualties were inevitable before the day was out.
Ahead of them, on the left and right, the second battalion would have started to move forward, getting into position, ready to break out into the open where they could protect Trusov’s flanks as he thrust down the centre, pushing deep into the defences of the British Army’s covering force — and, if needed, to come to his aid. Further to the south, two of the 248th Guards Motor Rifle Regiment’s mechanised infantry battalions would be pressing forward.
Trusov ordered the driver forward, following on after the company ahead, the ground now rutted and churned by the heavy battle tanks as they worked their way through to the edge of the forest. The tank picked up speed and, within minutes, they were out of the confines of the forest, the slowly lightening sky revealing more and more of the terrain around them. At the hard shoulder of the autobahn, part of the recce company kept watch over the gap in the barriers that would be used to pass through. Soldiers from the regiment’s engineer company had sneaked forwards earlier to deal with any barriers making sure the crossing was passable for the tanks.
They rattled over the tarmac road of the dual carriageway, the rear of a tank from the lead company just disappearing over the other side and back into the trees. Across the road, into the forest again for a few moments, then out into the open. Now, without any doubt, they were interlopers on West German territory. The plan was simple, or so Trusov and Pushkin hoped. One Company would head for the bare piece of high ground, Bruchteich, at 140 metres in height, and park up in line acting as a covering force to overwatch the rest of the battalion as it advanced. Two Company would track left through the trees and Three Company to the right.
They broke out into the open. Kokorev increased speed, the engine growling as they made the 600-metre dash, the heavy tank starting to dip and bounce as its torsion-bar suspension matched the undulating ground. The engine then screamed as Kokorev changed down, the tank rearing up and making easy meat of the slope ahead.
“Forward, forward, forward,” guided Trusov, head still out of the turret. In front, two platoons of T-80s were lined up, in a hull-down position at the far side of the shallow hill, to the left and, behind them, the remaining troop of three in reserve. Kokorev slowed the tank to a crawl.
“Alongside, alongside,” he called to Kokorev.
“Stop.”
The tank rocked to a halt next to the command tank of the company commander, the major looking at the scene ahead through his binoculars. The rest of his forward unit had been ordered to button down. Hatches closed, ready to fight.
Trusov got his first glimpse of the ground they would have to cross: open fields. Ideal tank country, but also an ideal tank killing zone. Dawn was finally showing its face, its hue leeching into the countryside. Vivid flashes of red and yellow erupted along the line of British troops dug in to protect the two villages and the routes around them, adding to the colour.
Trusov checked his watch. Two and Three Company would be in position now, awaiting his order to move. He shifted higher in the turret to get a better view, bringing his binoculars up to his eyes to zoom in.
Crump, crump, crump, crump.
Clouds of white and grey smoke, like puffs of cotton wool, but yanked at the edges, spiking outwards, burst into life; some with yellow-orange hot cores at the centre, the expanding gases forcing lethal shrapnel in all directions. Suddenly the entire area flared up, swamped with a staccato of hundreds of small explosions, rippling across the entire front, enveloping the village on the right, Supplingenburg, in a blanket of death, blotting it completely from view. The BM-21s had struck, eighteen delivering over 700 122mm rockets onto the target.
Crump…crump, crump…crump.
More artillery bombarded the area, pounding the soldiers incessantly. No let up as the regiment’s 2S1s joined in, followed by the 12th Guards Tank Division artillery group. The Division, as the second echelon of 3rd Shock Army, was patiently waiting for its turn to join in the battle but, in the meantime, its artillery assets didn’t stand idle.
Crump…crump, crump, crump…crump.
Whoosh! Whoosh!
Two low-flying aircraft shot by above their heads, at treetop height, their engines spouting flames as the afterburners kicked in, the pilots banking left, then right, taking them around the higher ground of der Elm, their target NATO troops further to the rear; attacking the rear of the covering force or even the main force, hoping to disrupt defence preparations, or interdict reinforcements on the move.
Whoosh! Whoosh!
Another two Sukhoi Su-25 ‘Frogfoot’ close-support aircraft shot past, their deadly loads carried on the five hard-points beneath each wing.
Crump, crump…crump…crump…crump, crump, crump.
The barrage continued without let-up, cleaving into the British defences, punching through the armour of some the 432s, shredding soft-skinned vehicles, destroying some of the well placed minefields, killing civilians as well as soldiers.
Crump, crump.
Trusov was mesmerised, the crackling radio bringing him back to earth.
“Two-zero, this is Two-three over.”
“Two-three, go ahead, over.”
“TMMs and mine ploughs with us, over.”
He looked at his watch, for probably the tenth time in the last twenty minutes. The barrage had been going for over ten minutes; it was time for them to pull out; to get close to the enemy before the barrage ceased.
“Understood. Two-three, Two-two, move in five minutes. Acknowledge, over.”
“Two-zero, Two-two, understood, over.”
“Two-zero, Two-three, ready, over.”
“Two-three, keep the engineers back until called forward. Two-zero, out.”
There was nothing else he could do now but check in with his commander.
“Six-two-zero, Two-zero over. Six-two-zero, Two-zero, over.”