“Get going, Oliver.”
“Sir.”
He called to his men and they ran for the waiting vehicle. The last thing he saw as they pulled away was the positions they had just left enveloped by a storm of destruction as two Harriers, flying north to south, dropped eight bombs between them, each bomb containing over 100 sub munitions. Oliver knew, from his time at the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst, that a single cluster bomb would discharge more than 200,000 fragments. He and his men were leaving a cauldron behind them.
The driver took them beyond the Hulse, turning right to head north, then northeast along an avenue of trees where they would conduct the next phase of the battle. From here, they hoped to hit the enemy again. The OC had confirmed that their final defensive position would be behind the Holpe, another minor run of water that would act as a slight barrier to the enemy. He wouldn’t be sorry to get there, allowing the helicopters of the 24th Airmobile Brigade to pick them up and transport them to the rear where they could rest, regroup and rearm. A Lynx Mk 7 from the Aviation Regiment flew east, no doubt to cover the rest of the Aviation Company. The Land Rover ground to a halt and deposited its passengers before the driver returned to pick up more of the soldiers who were fighting a rearguard action. Now the lieutenant could be reunited with the rest of his platoon, the half section he had sent to prepare their defences for the next line of defence.
A Captain from the Support-Company called him over. “Oliver, you look like shit.”
His face stretched into a smile behind his respirator. “I feel like it, sir. Do you know where Two-Two-Alpha are?”
“I’m sorry, Oliver,” the Captain said, clasping the young officer’s arm. “They didn’t make it. We’ve had a pretty heavy artillery bombardment and some missile strikes. The area is heavily contaminated. We’re pulling out. A flight of helicopters will be here in the next ten minutes. Make sure you and your men are on it. The rest of your platoon is over there.” He pointed to the open ground. “Waiting for a lift. And I’m sorry about your men.”
The Captain left, leaving the young platoon commander with his thoughts. He would find out how many men he had left, soon. He doubted it was a number he would be comfortable with. He had just experienced his first blooding, and he was not sure he had learnt any lessons from it. He called his men over and they headed off to find the rest of the platoon.
Chapter 13
A technician, a Lance Bombardier serving with 73rd Locating Battery, 94th Locating Regiment, Royal Artillery, part of the British Army of the Rhine’s Artillery Division, checked the launch mechanism of the Midge-Drone mounted on the Bedford three-ton truck.
Bombardier Armstrong stood below at the side of the truck and looked across at the hydrogen generator where Met-Troop had just launched a meteorological balloon. “Are we done?”
“Just,” responded the technician who then climbed down off the platform of the Bedford truck.
“About bloody time.” The bombardier smiled.
They both headed over to where the troop commander was waiting in a trench close by.
“All set, Bombardier?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Met-Troop have just confirmed no change, sir,” added the troop sergeant. “Div have also been on.”
“Chasing again?”
“Yes, sir. Seems this is a pretty important flight.”
“Let’s get on with it then.”
Under the control of the Royal Artillery, the Midge-Drone was operated by a troop of the divisional locating battery. The drone carried a single camera, loaded with black and white film. Set on a pre-programmed flight, it would conduct aerial photographic reconnaissance of a particular area of interest to 1 British Corps. This troop had two launchers, along with the necessary facilities to process and analyse the imagery on the drone’s return. The artillery intelligence cell at Divisional HQ of 1st Armoured Division had tasked the troop. The primary use of this asset was to confirm suspected enemy locations, particularly enemy artillery. On this occasion, they had been given a task of extreme importance. The final preparations were made, and the group of four pulled their ear defenders down just before the booster rocket launched the drone. The turbojet then took over, and the reconnaissance drone started on its mission. Its target: the ground amid the gap between the town of Buckeberg and the high ground to the southeast. The two and a half metre rocket flew its course, a difficult target for the Soviets to see. Flying high, at subsonic speed and following its pre-programmed course, the camera switched on as it passed overhead a tank battalion, a line of T-80s camouflaged against the edge of a wooded area. Elsewhere, tanks and BMP-2s were secreted inside barns or spread through the outskirts of villages. Before the tank crews and motor rifle infantrymen had noticed the sound of the passing object, it had already done its job, photographing the positions of the enemy. It banked right, flew for a further three kilometres, banked right again, then flew towards its landing point. On reaching the recovery area, the drone’s engine cut out, the parachute was deployed, and it swung as it was gently lowered to the ground, large inflatable landing bags cushioning it from any impact. The crew, followed by a Land Rover, ran out to it to recover the camera. Once acquired, the vehicle would race with the film to the Photographic Interpretation tent where the film would be developed.
The Intelligence Corps Sergeant switched the light table on while the Corporal placed the recently developed roll of film on the glass surface. The lights flickered on, and the sergeant unravelled the first section, comparing each of the first few frames with the map until he got his bearings, matching up the black and white negative he was looking at with a map of the target area. He pulled the film across, frame by frame, until he found a good starting point. Then the analysis began. Using a loupe, he zoomed in to particular areas of interest.
“Got it. Alan, take a look at this.”
The corporal took the loupe out of the sergeant’s hand and stooped over the light table, studying the area pointed out. “I can’t see anything.”
“Look at those farm buildings, by the barn doors.”
“Tracks, tank tracks!”
“Now, look at the woods behind it.”
“I can see tracks, but they could be anything. Ah, I can see where the ground has been churned up. The tanks have spun round and reversed into the treeline.”
“Let’s try looking at it in stereo. I think we’ve found what HQ have been griping about.”
“The Soviet advance regiment?”
“Exactly.”
Chapter 14
Commander Walcott shifted in his seat, casting his eye over the repeater for the sonar systems before glancing towards the plotting table. Behind him were the two periscopes and mast of the nuclear-powered submarine, a Trafalgar Class SSN. It moved quietly as they barely made way. The submarine was coaxed along the bottom that was barely ten metres beneath the hull. The captain of the British SSN, HMS Turbulent, a nuclear-attack submarine that cost the taxpayer a quarter of a billion pounds, would rather have had a minimum of twenty metres beneath his submarine but, with potentially a Soviet fleet overhead, and only seventy metres above the sail, it was critical that they got close to their target without discovery.