“Two-Zero, Two-Two. Minefield! Minefield!”
“All Two-Zero call signs, stop, stop, stop. Two-Three take left flanking position, Two-One right.”
“Two-Two, understood.”
“Two-One, right flank. Flossgreben water feature, 100 ahead.”
“Two-Three, covering left.”
“Two-One, move up and cover mine clearing and crossing.”
“Two-Zero, Two-One, acknowledged.”
“All units, Two-Zero. Make smoke.”
Kokorev, the driver, called out. “Us too, sir?”
“No, just a platoon per company. That will be enough.”
Three tanks per company moved into position and drove in a predetermined pattern, injecting diesel onto their exhaust manifold creating clouds of white smoke, engulfing the rest of the tanks in the unit in a fume-laden screen, but providing them with cover from any enemy tanks targeting them. The 62nd Regiment’s artillery unit had also been tasked with dropping smoke shells ahead of the advance, on the western side of the Flossgreben, a four-metre wide watercourse, one of many scattered around the area, to enable a safer crossing.
Trusov took stock of the battle so far. He had lost six of his tanks, far less than he had expected. At least two could be recovered: one had hit a minefield and was repairable, and the second had just thrown a track. Four though, along with their crews, had been completely destroyed. He still had twenty-five tanks left. With the tank battalion behind ready to cross the Flossgreben, immediately after his battalion had crossed, both had been instructed to race for Konigsburg.
The mine-clearing tanks advanced. The tank-mounted device, attached either side at the front, was lowered, the blades digging deep into the ground as the tanks powered forward, ploughing up and pushing the mines aside, outside the tank’s path. The mines, now upside down, would be relatively ineffective, the force of any blast going down rather than upwards. Two safe corridors cleared, the TMM Scissor-bridges moved forward to set up crossing points, to enable the advance to reconvene. Close by, Boyevaya Mashina Pekhoty’s, (BMP-Mechanised Infantry Combat Vehicles) disgorged their crews, and the Soviet soldiers prepared their SA-14 Gremlins, shoulder-launched, ground-to-air missiles pointed forwards and up at the ready. The tracked, self-propelled-anti-aircraft-gun, the ZSU 23-4s, Shilkas, fanned out, their four 23mm barrels swivelling left and right, aimed up into the air. Each water-cooled auto-cannon, with a cyclic rate of up to 1,000 rounds per minute, guided by the onboard J-band radar, would provide a destructive barrier, out to two kilometres, against any aircraft daring enough to come in low to prevent the crossing. Further back, SA-9s, SA-6s and SA-4s waited, missiles loaded ready to shoot the enemy out of the sky.
The Combat Team Bravo tank commander, Sergeant King, called to his driver to halt the tank as he peered through the vision blocks, rotating his cupola a few degrees, seeking out any enemy activity ahead of him. The length of the Flossgreben ahead was blanketed in smoke and, as there were no targets visible to him, his only task now was to report the fall of shot when the divisional artillery bracketed the area with high explosives in an attempt to disrupt, or prevent, the Soviet forces from crossing the water barrier. King tried to peer deep into the smoke, but could see nothing, although he could hear enemy tanks on the move across the other side.
He reflected on one of the many intelligence briefings he had received as part of his military training. Under the heading of the capabilities of the Soviet army, he had been told that the Soviets didn’t even consider the River Weser as a barrier, such was their river-crossing capability. All he had to do now was report the fall of shot; then, along with the remaining tank in the troop, he could pull back. He would not be sorry. The Hind-Ds had been hunting them relentlessly; the Blowpipe shoulder-launched missiles despatching only one, they appeared invincible. The Combat Team and even Brigade seemed to be able to do very little about it. The precious Rapier missile batteries were being kept further to the rear to protect the main force digging in. Without warning, the smoke-filled area suddenly erupted into swirling eddies as the first 155mm ranging round from an M109 self-propelled gun struck. It was bang on.
“Zero-Alpha, this is Alpha-Two-Zero. On target, fire for effect. Over.”
“Alpha-Two-Zero, this is Zero-Alpha. Roger, on way. Job done. Get out now. Over.”
“Alpha-Two-Zero moving out now. Out.”
The rest of M109 battery, belonging to 40th Field Regiment, Royal Artillery, launched their barrage in earnest, the large calibre shells peppering the river-crossing area with hot lethal fragments, killing one of the air-defence units on the ground, knocking out a Shilka and destroying two of the TMMs.
Looking back, the village of Supplingenburg was not only obscured by a shroud of smoke from a second Soviet artillery bombardment but also from the many burning buildings; pillars of black smoke dominating the skyline. Although the shelling had shattered the British forces using the village as a defensive position, the fug from it now provided them with cover as the Combat Team retreated.
Lieutenant Dean Russell rocked from side to side as the FV432 armoured personnel carrier weaved around the ruts and dips of the narrow track that snaked through the Dorm Forest, taking them west, away from the devastation behind them. Beneath the black camouflage cream plastered to his features, now sweat-streaked and covered in a layer of dust, his face was pale as a ghost. Dug in on the eastern outskirts of the village of Supplingenburg, one of the many British units positioned along the frontline to blunt the initial attack by the Soviet forces, he and his men had been confident that they would give a good account of themselves. Now? He didn’t know what to think. He had been proud of the way his platoon had conducted themselves during the attack. But the thirty-minute Soviet artillery and missile bombardment had made it a one-sided battle. After a seemingly endless deluge of explosives smashed into Combat Team Alpha and Combat Team Bravo and the other units of the Royal Green Jackets Battlegroup, followed by an assault consisting of the latest Soviet T-80 tanks and more of the dreaded Hind-D attack helicopters, they experienced a short but decisive defeat, having no option but to withdraw. Yes, they had held up the enemy for short period of time, which was their aim. However, their first encounter had not been a good one, and he, like his men, felt adrift and dispirited. The engine of the 432 growled as the driver pushed the battle-taxi hard as they came out of a dip, the driver careering sideways as he barely missed a felled tree that partially blocked the track. Russell looked back, hanging onto the General-Purpose-Machine-Gun (GPMG) pintle; the next 432 in his platoon was following behind, the third further back again. The fourth had been abandoned back in the village, wrecked and on fire after being hit by a 122mm artillery shell. It wasn’t just the destroyed vehicles that had been left back at the village. The wounded had been loaded onto any vehicle that could accommodate them, but the dead had been left behind. There just hadn’t been enough time if they were to keep ahead of the Soviet advance and escape being cut off from the rest of the army. That bothered the young lieutenant the most: having to leave some of his men behind, their dog tags and memories the only evidence he had of their existence. His commander of one-section, Corporal Wood, along with two other soldiers and the crews of the two Milan firing posts they were covering, had been lost. The rest of the company had also fared badly. His opposite number, and friend, in command of two-platoon, Lieutenant Ward, had been killed, along with men from his platoon, when his position had been struck by a Scud-B missile. He turned to face forwards again. A 432 from second-platoon was ahead of him, his driver sticking to it like glue, not wanting to be left behind. There was a sense of urgency, a need to get away, find some time and space to reflect on what they had just experienced, a time for the unit to reform. Or was it panic and the desire to escape and lick their wounds? He rose above it, believing that they had blunted the attack and were now withdrawing in good order to dig in further back, allowing other units to take their turn in despatching the advancing enemy forces.