“Two-zero, Six-two-zero. Go ahead, Pavel.”
“Six-two-zero. In position. Confirm two-zero ready, over.”
“Two-zero. They’re right behind you. Air defence has moved up with you. You know what you have to do.”
“Understood. Two-zero, out.”
There was nothing else he could do now, but wait. Looking left, he could see the odd light in Emmerstedt, a small conurbation north-west of Helmstedt, the population waking up to the thunderous uproar that was coming from the west as the shells continued to strike the British lines. Supplingenburg was about four kilometres half right, Supplingen about five kilometres straight ahead. They would strike south-west first, before turning west, advancing at speed straight between the two villages, heading flat out for Konigslutter, pushing deep into the NATO-covering force area, keeping the momentum of the division on track.
Senior Sergeant Barsukov popped his head out of the turret hatchway, tapping his watch.
“Tell Sergeant Kokorev to wind her up.”
“Two-two, Two-three, this is Two-zero. Move out, acknowledge the order, over.”
“Two-two, advancing now.”
“Two-three, moving now.”
“Two-one, Two-zero. One minute. Standby.”
“Two-one, acknowledged.”
More shells pounded the enemy lines, the rate of fire slowing, the Soviet artillery crew starting to run out of steam.
Time seemed to grind to a halt as Trusov kept checking the large hand on his luminous watch. It edged ever closer.
“Two-one, go!”
The tanks ahead had been ready, and the engines roared, rearing up at the front as they were powered forward, down the other side of the slope as fast as they could safely go. Trusov’s tank tore after them, keeping fifty metres behind the rearmost platoon. Although hedgerows often restricted their view, he occasionally picked out the two companies, one either side, slightly ahead. He rocked in the turret hatchway, bracing his waist against the edge, but flexing his body as the tank dipped on its suspension as it negotiated the dips, bumps and furrows of the farmer’s fields, crashing through hedges without stopping; weaving around any object that was seen as too tough a barrier to cross. They were racing across the partially open ground at fifty-kilometres an hour, using speed as protection, but also racing to get close to the enemy before the barrage ended; the sound growing louder and louder above the tank’s roaring engine, and the crunch as they yet again smashed through another hedgerow.
“Two-one, Two-zero. Stop, stop, stop.”
Kokorev, expecting the command, slowed his commander’s tank down, but lined them next to One Company’s command tank.
“Two-three, Two-zero. Initiate ‘springboard’ now.”
“Two-zero. On it.”
The four TMMs and two mine plough tanks raced forward to their allotted positions, two SZU-23/4s sticking close, to provide air cover, their four 23mm guns facing skyward, ready to blast any low-flying aircraft out of the sky. Further back, behind them, two SA-9s, four 9M31 surface-to-air missiles each, capable of reaching up to 4,000 metres; even further back, the army level SA-4s would cover up to an altitude of over 20,000 metres.
Trusov tapped the turret impatiently, willing the TMMs to move quickly and lay their ten-metre folded scissor-bridge, to cross the narrow waterway that lay across their path, used by the farmers to irrigate their fields. Major Mahayev had repositioned his company, a platoon covering the right, their turrets swinging their main tank guns left and right as the gunners sniffed out potential targets, and three on the left. The third platoon held back in reserve. His company would be the last to cross.
Trusov checked his watch. Five minutes and the barrage would cease. Come on, come on, he whispered under his breath.
“Two-zero. Recce have found a fordable stretch. They’re crossing now, over.”
“Two-zero. Acknowledged.”
“Two-zero, Six-two-zero.”
“Six-two-zero, go ahead, over.”
“One-zero will be up to your location soon, Pavel. You need to move out before they stick a barrel where it will hurt.”
“Standby.” He switched to the battalion net. “Two-three. Tell me you’re moving, over.”
“Two-zero. Engineers done, remaining recce crossing. We move in two minutes.”
“Understood. Six-two-zero. We move in two.”
“Good. Burn some fuel when you’re across. Out.”
Trusov couldn’t help but smile. He imagined Division would be on Pushkin’s back every five minutes. Three-Company confirmed they were crossing, as did Two further to the left. One-Company followed on behind them, clanking over the double-span TMM bridge, mine plough tanks following on behind, then the ZSUs followed by the SA-9s.
They were poised now, poised to attack and defeat the enemy. One-Battalion had split, one company moving south-east of the burning village of Supplingen, ready to keep the NATO forces occupied and pinned down; another company to the north-east of Supplingenburg, ready to carry out the same task. The third company, along with a mechanised infantry company from 248th GMRR, remained in reserve. They were also joined by BMPs carrying the man-portable surface-to-air missile SA-7 and the AGS-17, automatic grenade launcher.
Two battalions from the 248th were already attacking the high ground of der Elm, with elements pushing around the southern edge. The massive artillery strike that had bombarded the entire front allocated to 10th GTD had shattered NATO forces along it.
Trusov’s battalion pushed forward, two companies up front, one in reserve.
“Two-zero, two-two. Contact, contact.”
A T-80 from the left flank company had come across a fleeing Scimitar which was quickly dispatched by the gunner. Trusov dropped down into the tank. Time to batten down.
Chapter 34
The silence was unnerving. Through the drumming in his ears and the material of his Noddy suit hood, all Lieutenant Russell could hear were the muffled groans of the wounded. He extracted himself from the dead soldier entangled beneath him and raised his head slowly above the parapet. Black face masks stared back at him as he scanned the line of One-Section’s slit trenches. Behind them, buildings still burned, trails of smoke climbing upwards from numerous areas around their position. Craters pock-marked the landscape as far as the limit of his vision, restricted by the respirator and the explosive smog that hung in the air about them.
Suddenly, he switched into his platoon-leader mode, knowing what he needed to do if he and his men were to survive. He looked for the piece of standard issue ‘№ 2 detector paper’ on the front of his NBC suit: it was clear. Had there been dark blue stains plastered all over it then the indication would have been that chemical agents were present. Pulling off his helmet, then his hood, he eased off the black rubber respirator and took a shallow breath. He didn’t start twitching, or feel lethal blisters on his skin or inside his lungs, and he could breathe normally, although he was sucking in a film of dust and cordite. His soldiers, seeing he was still alive, followed suit. His ears rang and a buzzing inside his head continued to interfere with his hearing.
Looking for his SLR rifle, Russell picked it up from the bottom of the trench and was trying to clamber out to check on his platoon. When his boots caught on something. His rubber NBC overboots made it difficult to move his feet in the confined space of the trench. He trod on something soft and recoiled in horror when he realised it was Private Brook’s arm. The soldier’s respirator was missing, torn from his face; his mouth gaping open, blood oozing from his ears, and staring eyes, his chest exposed to the air showing cavernous wounds, one of his legs at an impossible angle, shattered.