“Calling Hawk-One, Hawk-Two, this is Hawk-Three. We have troops dismounting with shoulder-launched missiles. Over.”
“Hawk-One. Roger that. Hawk-Two is down. Out.”
“Zero-Alpha, this is Zero-Echo. Zero-Bravo is pushing hard and is right behind you. You have to make headway. Over.”
“Understood, sir. Helicopters have withdrawn. But One-Zero has taken casualties. Over.”
“Just keep moving, Nikolay. I have ordered more air defence assets forward.”
“Understood, sir.”
“No stopping. Out.”
General Arsenyev, commander of the 47th Guards Tank Division had made it clear: Colonel Nikolay Barbolin had to keep his tanks moving before his regiment caused a roadblock, with tanks backing up making a perfect target for enemy air assets and artillery.
The order was passed down the line, and Kovrov continued to move his 1st Battalion forward. The 2nd and 3rd battalions close behind. And behind them another tank regiment was powering west.
“One-One-Zero. This is One-Zero. Leave any crippled vehicles and keep moving. Acknowledge.”
“One-One-Zero. Understood. Units advancing.”
“One-Four-Zero, support One-One-Zero. Out.”
The commander of 1st Company, the right flanking company, with his remaining eight tanks, continued across the fields heading for a position north of Lohfeld, the motor rifle company moving to join them.
“One-Three-Zero, left flank, take up position south of Lohfeld.”
“Moving now.”
3rd Company picked up speed, bypassing their battalion commander.
“One-Two-Zero, hold position. Move in two minutes. Out.”
The units of Kovrov’s 1st Battalion picked up speed again, and he could see his 1st Company off to the far right. 3rd Company started to pass to his left, two platoons up front and the third at the rear. On his orders, the driver drove the T-80K forward and he closed his eyes and mouth for a moment as they drove through a cloud of choking black smoke, flames still licking at the turret of the T-80. No surviving crew could be seen. There were two more burning hulks that 2nd Company, when it moved, would leave behind. He twisted in the turret, clouds of dust in the pale light indicating that 2nd and 3rd Battalion were joining the attack, making space for the regiment not far behind them.
“Hawk-One, this is Buzzard. Four Tango-Eight-Zeros and one Bravo-Mike-Papa-Two. Approaching your previous location. Moving your location now. Standby.”
“Roger that, Buzzard.”
“Hawk-One, this is Hawk-Three. Engaging.”
Another TOW anti-tank missile left its pod, streaking towards its target, this time a BMP-2, the gunner concerned that it could well be carrying Soviet troops from the anti-aircraft platoon and carrying shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles. If they managed to get close enough, the three launchers carried could prove deadly. There was a satisfying blast as the mechanised infantry combat vehicle was literally engulfed in an inferno. The turret was torn asunder, thrown up and sideways, and the ammunition ignited ensuring that not a living soul left the confines of its now flaming hull. For a fraction of a second, both the gunner and pilot felt some empathy towards the men who were experiencing a horrific death, but quickly focussed their thoughts back on the mission.
Another TOW missile left the rail, striking a T-80, but failing to cripple it. Again, they flew to an alternative position to start all over again. This time, a main battle tank was destroyed. Then the call came through.
“All Hawk and Buzzard call signs, this is Hotel-Zero. Romeo, Tango, Bravo. Acknowledge. Over.”
“Hawk-One. Romeo-Bravo-Tango.”
There was no call for Hawk-Two, who would not be responding to the call to return to base. The aircraft and its crew were still burning in a rapidly diminishing pyre on the ground. Two further Lynx helicopters did not respond to the call, but they had given the Soviet tank unit something to reflect on: nine T-80s had been destroyed, along with four damaged, and four BMP-2s, along with the troops that rode in them, had also been taken out of the fight. The Helarm had done what was asked of it.
The Soviets were adjusting their line, ready to push west again. The second tank regiment, still unable to push south-west, was going to ground until the traffic jam up ahead had cleared. The Soviet troops were about to feel the wrath of the retreating British Army for the second time that morning.
The three artillery batteries, now lined up in their appropriate formations, were taking up the positions allocated to them by their officers. They had plenty of room to manoeuvre. Pre-planned fire missions had been laid down, the location of the Soviet forces had been confirmed by the Midge drone and the Platypus’s SAR, updated by a recce flight earlier. The crews waited nervously, aware of the task they had been assigned, higher command wanting them to know how crucial their mission was if they were to give the retreating battalion a chance of survival and be available to continue the fight once they had rested and rearmed. On top of that, their mission was to cripple the advancing Soviet unit. Commands were given, and the first of the 155mm howitzers rocked back on their torsion-bar suspension.
The Vulcan pilots and their crews made their final checks. They were not afraid, but apprehensive, conscious that Soviet fighters could jump them at any minute.
Ten minutes out. Timing was crucial. They’d even been forced to do a circuit further back to ensure that they arrived exactly on the scheduled time. Too soon and they would have interfered with the Helarm and the artillery strike. Soon, they could deliver their bombs, and do their bit to contribute to the destruction of the enemy forces that seemed to have had it all their own way so far.
Lieutenant-Colonel Kovrov was still smarting from the comms he had just received. Colonel Barbolin, his regimental commander, normally of a calm disposition had actually ranted over the radio. Clearly, he had been berated by General Arsenyev. Soviet high command was impatient. The battle along the entire Soviet front had gone well so far, advancing around 150 kilometres in only five days. Stavka sensed victory, smelt the British army’s defeat and drove their soldiers to thrust the knife deep in a killing blow. Kovrov looked across to his right: a platoon of three T-80s, and behind those a platoon of BMPs. On his left was the same. The scenery changed slightly as his command tank crashed through a wire fence, and the force he was in line with moved from one cultivated field to another. Looking back, he could just make out a company of tanks from the 2nd Battalion rushing forward to take advantage of the ground taken. 3rd Battalion was moving up on the left, eventually taking over, allowing his battered unit to rest.