“Delta-Three-Two, Delta-Three-Zero. Report. Over.”
After a delay of five or ten seconds, a muffled response came back. “This is Delta-Three-Two… Hit hard… one killed… two… injured… ”
“Are you functional? Over.”
“…Gympy intact. Over.”
“Roger that. Hang in there. Will get you medical assistance soonest. Out to you. Hello, Zero-Delta, Delta-Three-Zero. Contact. Mortar fire. Two firing points. Need medical assistance to my location ASAP. Over.”
“Zero-Delta. Acknowledged. Help on way. Pull your reserve section forward when needed, One-Platoon will plug the gap. Over.”
Reynolds peeled his respirator off. “Can’t communicate with this damn thing on. Roger that, sir. Standby for fire mission. Out.”
“There, sir,” called the GPMG gunner excitedly as he pulled the butt into his shoulder, straining to pick out the target through the round eyepieces of his S-6 respirator, and opened fire.
Sergeant Mason, on seeing his platoon commander mask less, pulled his own off and was quickly followed by the rest of the platoon who were in sight of him.
“Remember your training,” responded Lance Corporal Marsh quite calmly as he stuffed his mask back in its haversack. A welder in Civvy Street, a section second-in-command in wartime. “Enemy contact, 500 metres, left of prominent tree.” He then placed his cheek on the butt of his SLR, sighted an enemy soldier just as he dropped into position, and fired two rounds.
Brrrrrp… brrrrp… brrrrp. The Gympy gunner fired controlled bursts, dust kicking up in and around the enemy, one soldier thrown sideways like a rag doll as two bullets smashed into him. The enemy returned fire. Flashes from AKs could be seen all along the line of trees opposite. The airborne troops were good, firing short, well-aimed bursts, unlike some of the TA soldiers who were firing wildly, an element of panic as they experienced their first action.
“All Delta-Three call signs. Place your shots, place your shots. Delta-Three-One, standby to come forward. Over.”
“Delta-Three-One, roger. Ready to move.”
Zero-Delta, this is Delta-Three-Zero. Fire Mission. Over.”
“Send. Over.”
“X-Ray-One, X-Ray-One. Enemy in treeline. Over.”
“Roger that. Standby for ranging shot. Out.”
“Standby for outgoing,” Reynolds shouted to his platoon.
Zip… zip. Two rounds passed his face, so close he felt the draught on his skin.
“Get your bloody head down, sir, or you’ll lose it,” yelled Sergeant Mason.
Reynolds placed his helmet back on and called back. “I’m going to check on Three-Two. Keep me posted.”
“Run low, sir, run low.”
Reynolds nodded then shuffled back before getting up and sprinting north, his runner and radio operator close behind, dropping down the bank and passing behind the rifle-group and Milan FP, checking in on them as he passed. One soldier had a minor shrapnel wound, but all five soldiers were returning fire at the enemy. The Milan team waited patiently.
He ran round to the front of the concrete tunnel mouth and dropped down next to Two-Section. A medic was patching up the two wounded soldiers. Private Bailey lay still; a combat jacket had been thrown over his face. The cause of his death was obvious: the mangled lower part of his body, one leg missing, a bloody stump for the other, death would have come very quickly. The blood loss had been quick, his punctured abdomen adding to the steady loss of his life-giving fluids.
Corporal Walker, his wide eyes staring through his mask, looked at his platoon commander, almost pleading with him to help. But Reynolds was pleased with what he saw. The NCO had placed his men well, and they were returning fire, following his orders whenever he spotted a target. Once this was over, if they get through it, thought Oliver, the NCO would be the better for it.
Brrrrrp… brrrrp… brrrrp. The Gympy put rounds down on the enemy, and there was no sign of an assault yet. Two-Section was hurt, but OK. Three-One wasn’t needed, just yet.
“You’re doing a good job, Corporal Walker. Your section can remove their masks. If you see the Sovs putting their NBC kit on then get them back on quick.”
The NCO peeled the mask off, and a deep breath of fresh air filled his lungs. “That feels better, sir.”
“Good. I’m going back to Three-Three. Let me know the minute there’s any change here. You’re doing well. Just keep some steady fire going, but watch your ammunition. OK?”
“OK, sir.”
“Sir, outgoing,” informed his radio operator Simmons.
The mortar bomb travelled overhead, and they watched the trees part and splinter as the detonation tore a small section of the treeline apart.
The handset was quickly passed to Reynolds. “Zero-Delta, Delta-Three-Zero. Fire for effect, fire for effect. Over.”
“On way. Out.”
They only had to wait a mere five seconds before six more explosions erupted along the treeline as all three of the mortar sections opened fire. Then another six bombs battered the Soviet airborne troops who were on the verge of putting in an assault on the defenders. The Soviet mortar teams weren’t left out either. A mortar-locating battery, using a Mark-1 mortar-locating radar, Cymbeline, had identified their location and long-range artillery was already pounding them into submission.
Corporal Walker smiled for the first time since the attack had started. “We’re not on our own then, sir.”
“No, we’re not, Corporal, we’re not.”
More explosions burst deeper into the trees, pounding the airborne troops mercilessly.
“Zero-Delta, Delta-Three-Zero. On target. Adjust fifty metres right. Acknowledge. Over.”
“Zero-Delta. Understood. Out.”
“That should keep them quiet for a while. Keep me posted.”
“Sir.”
Reynolds and his small entourage returned by the same route, rejoining Three-Section.
“Just in time, sir,” informed Sergeant Mason. “We have some definite movement out there. Once we stop the bombing, I reckon they’ll come for us.”
Reynolds turned to his signaller. “Warn the platoon and let Company HQ know.”
He lifted the binoculars that were slung around his neck and surveyed the ground in front of him. It was suddenly quiet as the friendly mortar fire ceased. “What did you see?”
“It was Corporal Marsh; swears he saw a vehicle. He just had a glimpse, so it could be nothing.”
Before they could debate the ifs and buts any further, the entire line of the Rodenberger Aue was engulfed in a hail of fiery, searing blasts and burning shrapnel. 122mm shells, fired by an artillery battery of the advance elements of a Regiment from 12th GTD or from the Soviet Airborne’s D-30s, ripped up the meagre defences of Three-Platoon. 120mm mortar bombs were also lobbed onto the British troops from one of the surviving Soviet units. Even with decent foxholes or trenches, survival of the bombardment would have been difficult but, with shell-scrapes, they were at the mercy of the shelling.
“Gas, gas, gas,” Reynolds yelled, hoping his men would follow suit all along the line as he refitted his respirator just in case.
“Delta-Three-Zero, Zero-Delta. Major push to our north. Bundeswehr report major assault coming in. Expect strong push your sector. Over.”
“Roger that, sir. Under heavy shelling.”
Crump… crump… crump. Clouds of smoke enveloped the already battered, thin British line.
“Smoke, smoke.” Yelled a soldier.
“Wait, Delta-Three-Zero.” There was a pause on the airwaves. “It’s a big push. The line north of you has been penetrated. You have friendlies coming to you. They will cover your withdrawal. We’ve been ordered back. Soon as they arrive, pull back to Purple-One. Acknowledge. Over.”