“That’ll give their HQ a headache, sir, no doubt about that,” someone piped up.
“Button it,” ordered Sergeant Simpson. “We’ll know sod all if you lot keep interrupting the captain.”
There was a red face in the group, but lots of smiles from the rest.
“Thank you, Sarn’t, you saved me the trouble. With 4-Div hitting them hard from the south, Special Forces sabotaging the enemy, and airborne troops acting as a blocking force from Bad Nenndorf to Wunstorf, here,” he pointed at the map. “The enemy will be unable for a short period of time to move either east or west easily.”
He tapped the map around Minden. “Now, to our role. We’re going to allow the enemy to cross the Weser.”
There were lots of passing looks amongst the men. A mixture of concern and puzzlement.
“It’s in our best interests. With some resistance, we allow the enemy to form a bridgehead, and knowing their desire to get as deep into our rear area as possible, let a bulge form, drawing their forces from the river. Then we strike. 12th Brigade will come in from the north and a US Brigade from the south.”
“Thank God for the Spams,” someone muttered.
“7th Armoured will blunt the attack from the west. Our Regiment will be the first to exploit any weakness and push through to the river. Our troop will be first across the bridge.”
“Christ, sir,” uttered Acting-Sergeant Simpson. “Into the mouth of the lion.”
Alex laughed. “A bit like that, Sarn’t Simpson. But, there will be some prepping before that. There will be arty strikes on the eastern bank, followed by air strikes. The west bank of the Weser will also receive some attention. Then arty will drop FASCAM mines behind the enemy, preventing them from pulling back to the river.”
“We’ll need to pass through those mines, sir,” added Corporal Patterson.
“They will be laid in such a way that there will be a passage for us to pass through. We’ll have some engineers leading the way.”
“It’s going to be mayhem out there, sir. So many units in such a small area. It’ll be Christmas for the Sov air force,” suggested Corporal Moore.
“It will, but most of NORTHAG’s air assets will be in support.”
“Grunts, sir?”
“Yes, Sarn’t. We’ll have infantry with us again.”
“Good, they put up quite a fight at Gronau.”
“They did that. They’ve received some replacements as well.”
“Kick-off time the same, sir?”
“Yes. So, I want everyone to go over his vehicle one more time. Mackinson, you need to test the new engine on Two-Alpha.”
“Sir.”
“I want tank commanders and Corporal Patterson to remain behind so we can go through the movements for tonight and tomorrow.”
This time when the captain examined their faces, he was sure he saw an element of excitement. His men were ready. He just hoped the rest were.
Lieutenant Baty was crouched on top of the front deck of his Scorpion; Sergeant Gough sat on the edge of the tank. They were going over the route the troop would need to take only hours from now. A sheet of canvas had been pinned down along the side of the small reconnaissance tank, then pegged to the ground below, acting as a tent to cover the two sleeping crewmen, Thomas, his driver, and Lance Corporal Alan Reid, his gunner. He’d managed to catch a couple of hours himself, but his two crewmen had been working like Trojans getting their vehicle fit for battle. Maintenance, refuelling, rearming — it was never-ending. Once finished, and only then, did they manage to get some food down them and a hot drink, but their eyes were closing even as the last dry Tac biscuit made its way down. They had even turned down the offer of some fruit cake, generously offered by a local who had stumbled into the British camp, past the sentries unseen, suddenly to appear alongside the lieutenant’s tank with his offering. After thanking him graciously and ordering Thomas to guide the civilian back out of the camp, Baty proceeded to track down the sentries on duty and gave them the bollocking of their lives.
“It’s our bloody minefields that worry me, sir.” Gough pointed at the 1:50,000 map, barely legible under the pale glow of the last fading light. “They’ve marked where the two routes through the mines will be, but all it takes is a couple of those bloody sub munitions to go astray and we’re fucked. The planks can’t map read to save their lives.”
“That’s why we’ve got some engineers with us. They will be call sign Two-One-Golf.”
“Is that their Spartan at the entrance to the Laager?”
“Yes, we’ll go and have a chat with them shortly.”
“Scrounge a brew, eh, sir? My driver makes shit tea.”
They both chuckled.
“This is the route I think is best.” The lieutenant got back on track. “We’re forming up north of Mindenerwald. Then its east along the 770, turning north as we get to the outskirts of Petershagen. Then we go where we’re advised.”
“I concur with that, sir. When will we know our final objective?”
“Last minute, I would imagine. If air recce can give us a steer, that would be good. Otherwise, they will be depending on us to tell them if any of the Soviet bridges are still intact.”
“So, we either find a ready-made crossing point, or move to where we will be preparing our own.”
“That about sums it up.”
“It could be a complete fuck-up, sir.”
“Why so negative, Sergeant?”
“Look, sir. Going up against the river, finding a ready-made bridge, calling the combat team forward to secure it. It is still Bravo with the grunts from RGJ, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all fine. But if that is a no-go and we head north or south to link up with our own engineers throwing a bridge across, we will probably be coming up against retreating Soviets and then into the guns of our own tanks. You know what trigger-happy bastards 12th Brigade are.”
“It’s a dilemma, that’s for certain. They know they have to look out for us.”
“That’s even worse, sir.” The sergeant laughed. “They’ll be gunning for us.”
“We’ll be fine. Let’s go and scrounge a brew from our engineer friends.”
“Aren’t those sausages ready yet, Finch?” complained Corporal Carter to Rifleman Michael Finch who was hovering over a hexe-burner, warming up a tin of compo sausages. Next to him, Conroy was warming soup over a home-made stove: two large stones with burning diesel mixed in with churned-up soil, and a waterproof propped up with a stick at an angle over the top to hide the flicker of the flames.
“Two ticks, Corp, this bloody hexe’s gone out.”
“Well, stick another one on then, you prat,” demanded Alan Berry.
“You focus on the tea. Leave me to do my bit.”
“Do you two buggers ever stop fighting?” Chided Lance Corporal William Graham, the section second-in-command.
“Hey, Conroy, stick a bit of Marmite in that soup and tart it up, will you?”
“Yes, Corporal,” replied one of the new recruits to the section.
The section had three new faces in total. Conroy, Jesson and Kent had been flown over from the UK by Hercules along with other reinforcements, and then driven in convoy to the front. Up until two days ago, they were part of 5th Battalion (V) Royal Green Jackets, a battalion that had been assigned a Home Defence role. But, such was the need for reinforcements; some of the Home Defence battalions were being stripped of soldiers to reinforce the regular infantry units in 1 Br Corps. Conroy and Jesson had come from A-Company, whose recruitment patch was High Wycombe, whereas Kent was from E-Company based in Milton Keynes.