First-Platoon, deployed close to the canal by Niedernholz had been hit particularly hard. The Soviet troops had attacked in force, hoping to pry the canal away from the defending soldiers, allowing them to push their BMPs through and roll up the flank of the company. It was only because of the machine-gun section that had been deployed with them that they had been able to hold their position. The enemy paid a heavy price: three extra general-purpose machine guns, in the sustained-fire role, had been able to put down an overwhelming wall of fire. Soviet airborne troops, pushed into the attack by the 12th Guards Tank Division’s commander, had lost over thirty men, killed or injured. Third-Platoon, defending Ludersfeld itself had got off lightly with two wounded men. One-Platoon, though, was down to seventy-five per cent of its strength, losing six men. The MG section was filling the gaps.
With his radio operator, Pritchard, and his runner, Barnes, behind him, Oliver made his way to the position, which held one of his three Milan anti-tank posts. Slinging his SLR over his shoulder, he dropped down into the firing position.
“Sir.”
“See any movement?”
“No, sir,” responded Corporal Gleeson. “We gave em a bit of a hiding, didn’t we, sir?”
“We did that, Corporal. But they’ll be back, so keep your men keen.”
“The lads from Three-Queen’s were in shit state, sir, and the TA lads didn’t look any better.”
“They’ve been fighting for a couple of days, Corporal. Most of 1st Armoured have been on the run since yesterday, in a fighting retreat. So, it’s our turn now.”
“Sir.”
“Let’s go.”
All three clambered out of the position and moved back then north along the trees that lined the road, before going forward again to find the next firing position. The commander of Two-Section, Corporal Prentice, manned this.
“Any news, sir?”
“Nothing yet. But they’re going to hit us hard. I want you to take your half-section to our fallback position, but leave your gun-group here.”
“Still taking both Milan posts?”
The lieutenant thought for a moment before answering. “Yes, I think it will be the Gympy’s that will be needed.”
“When shall I move, sir?”
“Five minutes, make it five minutes. I’ll be sending Sarn’t Cohen back with you. We’ll need you to cover us when we pull back, or they’ll be all over us.”
“Sir, incoming message,” informed Partridge.
“Alpha-Two, this is Zero-Alpha. There is movement to your front. Watch out for returning air asset. Over.”
“Roger that, sir. Moving elements of Alpha-Two-Two to Black-Jack-Two now. Over.”
“Good move, Alpha-Two. They’re going to hit us hard again. On the order ‘Black-Jack fold’, move the rest of your unit. Over.”
“Wilco, sir.”
“Good luck, Oliver. Out.”
Oliver, along with his two shadows, moved further along the line, joining the second-in-command of Two-Section.
Lance Corporal Jeffries greeted his platoon commander. “Just heard from Two-Two, sir. They’re in the Land Rover and on the way.”
“Good. Is Sarn’t Cohen with them?”
“Yes, sir. He said he’d radio in once in position.”
“Right, you’re down to just the gun-group, Corporal Jeffries, and one Milan, so watch yourselves.”
“We likely to fall back pretty soon then, sir?”
“Wait one. Barnes.”
“Sir.”
“Get two men from Three-Section. I want them here.”
“Will do, sir.” Lieutenant Thorpe’s runner left the firing-position and ran, at a crouch, back into the treeline before heading to find Three-Section.
“We’ll wait for the order before we do, but I would expect it to be soon after the next attack.”
“The OC, sir,” informed Pritchard passing him the handset.
“Alpha-Two, go ahead. Over.”
“Air-recce reporting movement, Oliver, so make sure your men are ready.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Zero-Alpha, out.”
Two soldiers crashed down next to their platoon commander. “Where do you want us, sir?”
“Right of the Gympy, Two-Two-Alpha’s old position. You join them, Barnes.”
The three soldiers moved along the line and jumped into the vacated firing position previously occupied by the other half of Two-Section.
“Sir, radio.”
Oliver took the handset from Pritchard again.
“Alpha-Two, this is Two-One-Alpha. Over.”
“Alpha-Two. Go ahead.”
The Observation Post, two men from One-Section he had earlier ordered to set up in the second storey of a house, reported in. “We have movement, sir. Not sure, but it looks like an armoured unit, bit like one of our AVLBs. Over.”
“What’s their location? Over.”
“Two hundred metres west of the 445. Over.”
“Roger that. As soon as it kicks off, you two get out of there. Out to you. Hello Zero-Alpha, this is Alpha-Two. Over.”
“Go ahead.”
“Definite movement Grid One-Seven-Eight-Zero-Three-Zero, probable MT-55.”
A Gazelle helicopter sped overhead, drowning out the response from the Company OC.
“Zero-Alpha, say again. Over.”
“Airborne recce has reported half a dozen TMMs. They’ll be crossing the Ziegenbach at multiple locations. Over.”
“Understood. Out.”
Thud, thud, thud… thud, thud, thud.
“Smoke,” yelled Jeffries.
All along the western bank of the Ziegenbach, clouds of smoke mushroomed, concealing the area from the British troops.
“Stand to! Stand to! Gas! Gas! Gas!” bellowed Lieutenant Thorpe, peeling his helmet off and exchanging it for his respirator. Hood of his NBC smock pulled over, helmet back on, he pressed down into the trench. He compressed his body as close to the floor of the trench as he was able, clutching his SLR to his chest. He knew what was coming next. And it arrived five seconds later.
The Bear had kept his promise. Over 1,000, 122mm rockets from 3rd Shock Army’s BM-21 Brigade pounded the British lines from the canal north of Niedernholz to south of Ludersfeld. Lieutenant Thorpe felt thick clumps of earth hammering down onto his head and shoulders, and he had to clear it away from his face if he was to continuing breathing through his claustrophobic mask. The noise was incessant, thump after thump, the ground shaking with the violence of the bombardment.
To the rear of the main force of the RRF troops, four Elbrus surface-to-surface missiles (SSMs), from 12th Guards Tank Division’s SCUD-B missile battalion, struck with deadly force. Preceded by a number of salvos from the divisional artillery group, the thickened VX nerve agent, odourless and tasteless, dispersed by the SSMs, carried out its deadly undertaking. Sergeant Cohen, and the section sent to act as a covering force for the rest of the platoon when it withdrew, were caught unawares prioritising the search for cover rather than NBC protection, paid the price in full. Sergeant Cohen was already slipping into a coma while other members of the section were in various stages, some with chests tightening and losing muscle control, others vomiting and defecating uncontrollably as they edged closer to death. Corporal Prentice, disorientated, his body suffering from myoclonic jerks, had crawled out of his trench only to be killed by a further salvo of 122mm shells.
Lieutenant Thorpe, forcing his body even lower as the Soviet Divisional Artillery Group switched its attention to the forward line of troops, wasn’t to know that more of his men were dying behind him. Masonry clanged off his helmet as the last of the standing houses was demolished, and he prayed that the OP had made it to cover in time. He desperately needed to know the status of his small force, but the din was deafening and his head was pounded constantly by shock wave after shock wave as the Soviets maintained the pressure. Inside, he was worried. Worried for his men, but also worried how close the enemy were. He could hear the occasional whine of shells passing overhead, fired by his own supporting artillery, making life difficult for the motor rifle troops crossing the water to his east. As for his men, the one Milan FP left with them, had been completely destroyed. The OP team had made it back to their positions but their foxhole, with them in it, had been wiped out by a direct hit from a 152mm shell. Three-Section had been all but decimated. Of the gun-group, the gunner and assistant gunner were dead, and the rifle-group had one dead and two wounded, one of which was the young second-in-command, promoted to second-in-command only four weeks before the start of the war.