By rights he should have been exhilarated by the 5th Mechanized
Infantry’s successes, but von Brandis couldn’t help looking worriedly over his left shoulder-off into the vast emptiness to the north. General de Wet and his staff were fools if they thought the Angolans and Cubans were going to leave him alone. Luanda’s Marxists had too much to lose if
South Africa reoccupied its former colony. They were
bound to hit him soon. Even if there weren’t any major enemy units to the north, there certainly weren’t any South African units out there either.
The flat, and landscape stretched off to his left like an unknown world.
Von Brandis looked at his map. His supply lines also concerned him. He’d taken everything but a small security detachment with him when he left
Walvis Bay. Follow-up reinforcements were slated to garrison the port, but until they arrived, the place was almost defenseless. And any enemy who captured Walvis Bay would control his battalion’s only link with
South Africa.
Damn it. He crumpled the map and stuffed it into a pocket of his brown battle dress. Pretoria’s orders posed an un resolvable dilemma. He’d read the careful, staff-written phrases a hundred times, but being carefully crafted didn’t make them any clearer.
The 5th Mechanized Infantry had been ordered to push east toward Windhoek as rapidly as possible, maintaining constant pressure on Namibia’s defense forces. Von Brandis and his men were supposed to seize territory and pin the enemy units deployed around Windhoek, especially Namibia’s single motorized brigade. In a sense, they were supposed to draw the enemy’s eyes and firepower away from the far stronper SADF column advancing from Keetmanshoop.
No problem there. A clear, though somewhat dangerous, mission.
The trouble came in a last-minute addition tacked on when Pretoria realized its limited resources would not permit the swift reinforcement of Walvis Bay. So de Wet’s staff had “solved” its problem by ordering the 5th Mechanized Infantry to be everywhere at once. Advance aggressively on Windhoek, but ensure the security of Walvis Bay. Pin most of the enemy mobile force, but take no offensive actions that might expose the base to loss.
In other words, he was supposed to move fast and hard against the
Narnibians, while simultaneously covening hundreds of kilometers of exposed flank and keeping his rear secure. Right.
The colonel grimaced. They didn’t pay him to play safe,
or to avoid risks. The best way to keep his flanks safe was to keep moving so rapidly that the enemy never knew exactly where his flanks were.
Noises rising from the vehicles laagered all around his Ratel told him his battalion was waking up. He looked around the encampment. The 5this camouflaged armored cars and personnel carriers were vastly outnumbered by a fleet of canvas sided trucks, petrol tankers, and other supply vehicles bringing up the rear. A huge logistical tail was a necessary evil when fighting in Namibia’s and wastelands. Without large quantities of ammunition, fuel, food, and especially water, the battalion’s fighting vehicles would be helpless.
He yawned once and then again. It had taken all night to refuel and rearm the unit’s operational vehicles, and his maintenance crews were exhausted from recovering and repairing those that had broken down during the long, wearing advance. More than twenty Eland armored cars, Ratel personnel carriers, trucks, and towed artillery pieces had needed their foulmouthed swearing, sweating attention.
Now refitted, but hardly refreshed, his men were walking about the battalion laager in the predawn gray, starting engines, checking equipment, and brewing tea against the early morning chill. It was just bright enough to see the shadowy forms of the men and their vehicles as a blinding red bar of light edged over the hills on the eastern horizon.
Von Brandis squinted into the rising sun, looking for the enemy he planned to destroy before continuing his drive on Windhoek.
“The remnants of a
Namibian battalion were dug in on a line of low hills, really just rises, stretching from north to south. Remnants might even be too strong a word to describe what should be left of the Swapo unit, he thought. The 5th
Mechanized had already smashed one company strength force of Namibian infantry the day before, and a second that same afternoon.
Unfortunately, the battalion’s need to refuel, rearm, and repair its broken-down vehicles had prevented a full-scale exploitation of those victories. The night’s respite had given the Narnibians time to assemble a scratch force blocking the western route to their capital.
Von Brandis shrugged. One quick firefight should do the trick. He unfolded a battered, oil-stained map. It never hurt to reexamine an attack plan formulated late at night by lamp light.
” Morning, Kolonel. ” His driver, Johann, handed him a chipped china mug.
Sipping the strong, scalding-hot liquid, von Brandis studied the map and tried to ignore the Ratel’s bumpy, hard metal decking beneath him. He also tried to forget his rumpled appearance and barnyard smell after a week in the field. Some of his troops swore that the stink of unwashed clothing, dried sweat, and cordite made the best snake repellent known to man. He didn’t doubt it. No self-respecting reptile would dare come within half a klick of anyone who smelled so bad.
But despite all its drawbacks, the colonel had to admit that he enjoyed campaigning. He liked the hard, outdoor life, the rewards that came with higher rank, and the challenge of defeating his country’s enemies. He studied the map as if it were a chessboard, looking for a tactical solution that would spare his men any loss and crush the Narnibians completely.
Reality never quite measured up to paper expectations, but he was happy with his present plan. It should produce heavy enemy casualties with a minimal expenditure of ammunition, fuel, and friendly lives.
He was measuring distances when Major Hougaard’s voice crackled over his radio headset.
“All Foxtrot companies ready to go. Foxtrot Delta is already moving.”
The sound of engines roaring behind him confirmed his executive officer’s report.
Excellent.
Von Brandis traced the gully he’d found on the map. It paralleled Route 52 to the south, bypassing the low hills in front of them before winding north. On his orders, the battalion’s dismounted scouts had spent the night checking it and quietly clearing the depression of a few sleeping guards. They now watched the Narnibians from the gully’s edge and awaited
D Squadron’s Eland armored cars.
With infantry squads riding on top, the 90mm gun-armed
Elands would flank the Namibian entrenchments and flush the Swapo bastards out of their holes. Once that had happened, von Brandis planned to hit them with an HE barrage from his battery of towed mortars and then mop them up with a Ratel-mounted infantry assault. It was a bit of overkill, he thought, for a bunch of untrained kaffirs, but twenty-years of warfare in Angola and Namibia had taught him never to underestimate the fighting power of a dug-in enemy.
Also, he wanted to crush the enemy battalion-to so shatter the unit that the Narnibians would have to commit fresh reserves. Anything that drew
Swapo or Cuban troops away from the Auas Mountains would help revive
South Africa’s stalled southern attack. Von Brandis knew his force was supposed to be Nimrod’s secondary effort, but there were many ways to win a war.
He scanned the brown, treeless slopes about two and a half kilometers away, just outside heavy machinegun range. Nothing. No signs of life at all. The hills looked as barren as an arid, airless moonscape.
Von Brandis checked his watch and then his map-following D Squadron’s flank attack in his mind’s eye. Right now the company should be carefully picking its way along the rocky, waterless stream bed, thirteen armored cars with foot soldiers from C Company clinging to them as they bumped and swayed over uneven ground. The scouts were covering their approach, thank God.