They both turned as they heard the roar of diesel engines as four Saxon armoured personnel carriers of Two-Platoon passed them and swung off to the left onto the L442 and passed beneath the six-lane motorway above. Both officers’ heads jerked upwards as two Spartan CVRTs came to a halt on the southern part of the Autobahn, directly above the platoon, as the last of the Saxons passed beneath. British soldiers quickly debussed and moved into position. A third Spartan, carrying more Royal Engineers, although invisible from the ground below, could be heard racing past their comrades, heading towards the far end of the flyover.
The Royal Engineers had two tasks: The first was to lay mines further along the motorway directly in front of Two-Platoon. The intention was to bring the enemy to an abrupt halt, giving the soldiers from the 5th Battalion, Royal Anglians, an opportunity to open fire on a disrupted enemy force. It wouldn’t hold the enemy up for long as they would quickly attempt to outflank the defending force, calling in artillery and air strikes to dislodge them. The second task was to make life even more difficult for the enemy by blowing up the raised section of the Autobahn, forcing the Soviet army to bypass it, slowing down their advance. Any Soviet forces backing up as a consequence of this man-made traffic jam would then come to the attention of the NATO air forces and a battery of FH-70s, setting up further to the west to support the Royal Anglians.
The Territorial Army units, assigned to reinforce the British Army of the Rhine, and this particular battalion assigned to 2st Infantry Division, were being rushed to the front to help plug the gaps and slow the Warsaw Pact down, giving the retreating British Divisions some respite so they could recover, refuel, rearm and prepare themselves to be thrown back into the fight.
The 2nd Infantry Division, with the 15th (North-East) Brigade and the 49th (East) Brigade, along with additional Territorial Army battalions, were about to take the brunt of the massed army steamrollering towards them. Although well trained, they were not soldiers by profession. Only a week ago, their full-time profession was that of a clerk, bricklayer, accountant, hospital porter or a selection of many other trades and skills that provided them and their families with a living. Yes, they had all completed their annual two weeks of training for a small financial bounty, some of the exercises actually being held in Germany. The majority had also turned up regularly at the fortnightly weekend training sessions held at the various drill halls around the country, or weekends away on field training. But this was different; this was for real. Now they were full-time soldiers, about to come up against an aggressive, driven force of men and machines that had one purpose in mind: to crush them, destroy them, then pass through and continue with their relentless drive towards the English Channel.
“Who’s covering them, sir?” Gibson said, pointing to the engineers already unloading some of the equipment they would need to use in order to prepare the flyover for destruction.
“They’ll have to look after themselves, I’m afraid,” the Company Commander responded with a smile. “I believe they’ve been bolstered to ensure they can protect each other. Anyway, the Soviets will need to get past us first.”
They heard the roar of engines again. This time, it was Three-Platoon who passed them, to turn right and set up south of the quarry. They would drive southeast down Hamelner Strasse, turn left and dig in south of the quarry, protecting One-Platoon’s right flank.
The lead vehicle pulled over. The large wheels locked and slid over the loose grit, and Lieutenant Shaw dismounted.
“Any change, sir? Hi, Mike,” asked the officer, saluting, at the same time acknowledging his fellow platoon commander.
“No, Peter. As we discussed, we have no indication of their forward units. But get into position quickly. We’ve no idea how far away the Soviets are, or our friendly forces for that matter.”
“Will do, sir. Good luck. You too, Mike.”
“And you,” responded both Lieutenant Gibson and Major Dawson.
The lieutenant climbed back into the Saxon armoured vehicle and sped off, closely followed by the rest of his platoon.
“Sir, sir, you’re wanted,” called Company Sergeant Major Webb, who had been keeping radio watch in the FFR Land Rover, waving the handset in the OC’s direction.
“You had better be off as well, Michael. I’ll come and check on your positions once I’ve established some fire support for us.”
“Sir.” With that, Lieutenant Gibson also went to rejoin his unit, First-Platoon, and climbed into the Saxon parked close by, joining his platoon sergeant, informing them where they were headed for. Gibson indicated for the driver to pull off and pointed in the direction he wanted him to take. “Through there. Don’t stop. The gate looks flimsy enough.”
The driver accelerated, and the powerful engine drove the ten-ton armoured personnel carrier forward, the prominent front of the vehicle making short work of the wooden gate that was designed to control access to the quarry.
“Make it fast. No stopping.”
Once through, the driver, following the platoon commander’s orders, turned right, following a narrow track through the trees. After five minutes, they left the thin covering of trees and were out in the open, rough scrub-covered ground either side of them. They looped back, almost to where they had started, before turning right and heading east along the escarpment, a stepped slope dropping down where large excavators had slowly extracted the minerals they sought from the quarry. They tracked along the rim. At one point, the wheels were centimetres from the edge, chunks of earth and rock dropping down disturbed by the armoured vehicles. The driver nudged the vehicle over, keeping as far to the right as possible. The track slowly led them northeast until they arrived at the far end of the quarry.
Lieutenant Gibson ordered a halt, and he and the sergeant surveyed the ground in front of them.
“Corporal Fletcher.”
“Sir.”
“Place your section over there,” the Lieutenant ordered, pointing in the direction of the south-eastern edge of the slope. “Have your gun-group facing east, but have a couple of men watching south. You should be able to see Two-Platoon digging in below you any time soon.”
“What about the vehicles, sir?”
Gibson turned towards his sergeant. “What do you think, Sarn’t Newman?”
“Keep them within twenty metres, sir. That way, they can use the Gympy on top and make a quick getaway when needed.”
“Agreed. Keep them near the track. When we move, it’ll have to be quick. You sort them out. I’ll deal with the rest.”
“Roger that, sir.”
The two men separated just as another Saxon troop carrier turned up, carrying a Milan team with two Milan firing points.
Lieutenant Gibson took control of the remaining two sections, positioning one on the left flank with the Milan’s overlooking the Autobahn further down. The third section looked east, watching over the K-74 below. He wasn’t entirely happy. There were at least 100 metres between each section. He prayed silently that the enemy wouldn’t be coming this way.
Chapter 12
The Divisional Commander of the 12th Guards Tank Division threw the mug he had been holding across the other side of the farm building he was in. He lit one of his foul-smelling cigarettes directly from the one he had just smoked down to his fingertips. Frustration and anger were etched on his face. Even senior generals were suffering from the increasingly erratic logistical supplies getting through to the Soviet divisions on the front line. The Soviet air force was still holding its own, but that was all. As more and more American fighters arrived in theatre and with the floating airfield, the United Kingdom, far from subjugated, they were not getting it all their own way. But the Bear, Major-General Turbin, Commander of 12th Guards Tank Division, wasn’t just dissatisfied with the Soviet resupply battalions: he was also extremely dissatisfied with his troops. What made it worse was that his deputy commander and political officer, Colonel Yolkin, had been bleating most of the morning: reminding him of his duty to his senior commanders and the Motherland. Their first attempts to shatter the forces defending a line between the Mittellandkanal and Stadthagen, and fulfil his division’s role as an Operational Manoeuvre Group pushing deep into the enemy lines, had failed.