The Corporal sat perched on the metal fold-down seat in the back of the FV105 Sultan artillery command vehicle, his headphones pulled over his beret, listening intently to the message being received. He tapped on the numerical keys of the Field Artillery Computer Equipment (FACE) console, entering the setting up data for the gun positions. The Command Post Officer (CPO) was watching over him, clutching the remote enter button. The CPO was also checking that the correct data had been entered, comparing it and the target location against his check map, also confirming their own British unit locations. The meteorological and gun muzzle velocity data had been entered earlier via the punched tape reader. Satisfied the data entered was correct and that he was sure of the target location and the location of friendly forces, the CPO depressed the enter button. The counter-penetration fire mission was now ready. The officer gave the NCO the nod and the Corporal started to transmit.
“Zulu, this is Romeo, fire mission.”
“Zulu. Send, over.”
“Sierra, Zero, Three, Two. Bearing Two-Six-Five, angle of sight one-oh-five. At my command, elevation Three-Eight-Nine mill, three rounds, fire for effect.”
There was a pause while the gun battery finalised their own procedures.
“Roger.”
“Fire.”
The entire battery of eight M109s opened fire, the chassis’ rocked violently on their tracks and suspension as the barrels jumped upwards, the barrel and breech forced backwards as the shell exited the barrel, a blast of hot gases bursting out from the muzzle brake. The barrels lowered and, inside the turret, the breech was raised, presenting itself to the crew for reloading. One of the crew pushed the shell into the breech; another gunner pushed a red bag charge after it. The breech was secured, the gunner yanked on the lanyard, and the breech rocked back a second time.
Two-One and Two-One-Charlie watched the first salvo land directly on top of the rapidly growing force of armoured vehicles advancing towards their respective positions. One Royal Artillery battery was targeting the area directly where elements of a Soviet tank battalion, at least company strength so far, was advancing on a broad front towards Barfelde. A second battery targeted the road between Barfelde and Eitzum, and a third battery pounded the road that led from Eberholzen to Heinum, about two to three kilometres south of Barfelde. Lieutenant Baty watched incredulously as the first rounds struck the advancing T-80s and BMP-2s. Above the targets, the eight dual-purpose, Improved Conventional Munitions descended on their unsuspecting victims. A fraction of a second before they hit the ground, the thin-walled cargo rounds disgorged their sub munitions; the small burster charge ejecting them, scattering the lethal charges over a wide area. A small ribbon unfurled behind each grenade, stabilising their flight as over 700 plummeted towards their targets. Baty watched as some of the grenades struck the tops of the BMPs, the one-kilogram shaped charges detonating, penetrating the thinner top armour.
At least two of the mechanised infantry combat vehicles ground to a halt as a lethal charge punched through the thin upper layer, causing devastation inside. One went up on its back end as it ground to a halt violently, the driver’s body torn apart by molten metal and shrapnel. Further back, one tank was hit three times; initially protected by its reactive armour, but only to be struck again and again as the next salvo of over 700 grenades arrived, two punching through the areas recently stripped of the reactive armour blocks. Fifteen seconds later, a third swarm of munitions blanketed the battlefield in a lethal rain of death. Soviet soldiers, fleeing their stricken armoured vehicles, ran into a rain of metal shards as those grenades that struck the ground detonated in a lethal shower of hot fragments. The Soviet advance was stopped dead in its tracks. But they would be back. Baty knew it was time to move out. They would travel, at speed, back to Gronau and the relatively safe western bank of the River-Leine. But the Soviet armour would be hot on their tail.
“Is everyone OK?” called Lieutenant Wesley-Jones, his voice muffled by the black respirator.
“Ellis and me are OK, sir,” Patsy responded.
“Trooper Mackinson?”
“Apart from a ringing in my ears, sir, I’m still alive.”
“Good, good. Standby. They’re bound to be close behind their artillery.” Wesley-Jones released the hatch cover, pushing it up and out of the way as he gingerly climbed up, taking a tentative look over the edge of the hatch. The immediate surrounding area was completely churned up, and he was amazed they had come through relatively unscathed. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the whites of splintered trees and branches, shredded by the myriad of explosions that had gutted the area. The berm, a key part of their defensive location providing them with a defilade position, had, in the main, survived, although to the rear of the tank there were two craters they would have to negotiate when they pulled out. The Chieftain hadn’t come through it completely unscathed though. Numerous scorch marks and gouges covered the glacis, and the left-hand set of smoke dischargers had completely vanished. Further out, the view of the horizon was blocked by a swirling fog of smoke, dust and fume, the air still full of dust and debris as it slowly settled back down to the ground. The turret jerked slightly and the barrel moved a fraction as Patsy checked that the tools of his trade were in working order. Alex checked the detector paper on his Noddy suit. It was clear; no evidence that there were chemical substances in the air. He took a chance, pulled up the front of his respirator and did a quick sniff test before pulling it back down. If his memory served him right, some smelled of garden plants whereas some smelled of almonds. But, he knew that the highly toxic Sarin and VX nerve agents had no smell. The wind was easterly, so any residue would be blowing to the west. But, to be safe, he would keep his gloves on just in case there was a residue on the surface of the tank. He tugged at the NBC hood and pulled his sweat-soaked respirator up over his face and off, taking shallow breaths to start with.
Crump, crump, crump… crump… crump, crump… crump, crump… crump.
The barrage continued behind him, not letting up on its pounding of the British defenders. He grabbed his bone-dome from inside the turret and settled it on his head, blocking out the sound of the explosions.
“All Two-Two call signs, radio check. All Two-Two call signs, this is Two-Two-Alpha. Over.”
“Two-Two-Alpha, this is Two-Two-Charlie. Crew OK, engine deck partially buried, but should be clear to move. Recce element through our location. Over.”
“Roger. Two-Two-Charlie, out to you. Two-Two-Bravo, this is Two-Two-Alpha, acknowledge. Over.”
Apart from a slight trace of white noise, the network was silent.
“Two-Two-Alpha, shall I check them out? Over.”
“Negative. Watch your front.”
“Two-Two-Alpha, this Two-Two-Delta.”