The section had lost four men in total. The gun-group of three men had been wiped out entirely. The youngest member of the unit, Ashley, had his body peppered with shrapnel from one of the Soviet grenades launched from a Plamya, an AGS-17 grenade launcher, by Soviet motor rifle troops. Many others on the front line with Corporal Carter’s section had also died: the forward observers spotting for the mortar section and a Milan-FP team. A German unit sent to reinforce them had also suffered horrendous casualties, many of them as a consequence of a chemical strike. Carter didn’t think he would ever be able to shake off the look of the German officer’s face as the chemical agent did its stuff. The blisters forming on the man’s face, thrashing his body from side to side, arms flailing as he tried to breathe, but his lungs continued to fill up with his own fluids, eventually killing him. Now, he had three new soldiers to look after. He’d decided to put Finch and Berry on the GPMG, under the command of Graham, and he would have the three new ones, along with Price, as the rifle-group.
“Sausages are ready.”
“About bloody time,” moaned Finch.
“Do you want yours, tosser?” responded Berry.
“Pack it in, both of you,” ordered Carter. “Right, lads, gather round while we eat. Kent, get out of your maggot and get over here.”
“Corporal.”
Two-Section gathered around their section commander, and a mess tin of hot, sweet tea was passed around while Finch forked sausages out of the two tins, slapping one in each mess tin that was wavering in front of him. They were using their mugs for soup, which was doled out by Graham, the section second-in-command.
After the tea did its first round, and the soup had been tasted, complained about and had burnt a few tongues, Graham talked to his men.
“You new boys, when we go into action tomorrow, you need to keep it tight. Listen for orders and, for God’s sake, keep your safeties on until I give the word.”
“Yeah, I don’t want a bullet up my arse,” moaned Finch through a mouthful of soup and sausage.
“Take your lead from Price and, if need be, I might assign one of you to support the Gympy team. Got it?”
They all responded positively, in awe of their section commander who was not only a regular but had seen some real action.
“We’ll be with the armour again.”
“At least we’ll have some muscle,” suggested Graham.
“And it’s with Bravo-Troop.”
“Good, that Lieutenant Wesley-Jones is alright for a Rupert,” added Finch.
“He lost a tank though, didn’t he?” Elaborated Price.
“If it had been one of the other Ruperts, he’d have probably lost all three,” grumbled Berry.
“Will we definitely get some real fighting in then?” blurted Jesson.
Finch and Berry looked at each other and smirked.
“It’s likely, but we won’t know that until it all kicks off. But don’t go wishing for it,” advised Carter.
“Final briefing, Corporal Carter?” interrupted Lieutenant Chandler, their platoon commander, who had appeared out of nowhere.
The section scrambled to get up.
“As you were,” ordered Chandler as he crouched down next to them. Platoon Sergeant Bob Thomas was next to him.
“Brew, sir?” Asked Corporal Graham. “I’ve just warmed up another full mess tin.”
“Why not.”
“You too, Sarge?”
“Sure.” The sergeant handed over his and the platoon commander’s mugs. Once filled they were handed back.
“Your section up to speed then, Corporal Carter?”
“Yes, sir. We’ve stowed the extra ammo and a couple of extra missiles for the Milan section.”
“Rations?”
“Yes, Sarge. The QM issued us with three days worth. Is that how long the op will last for, sir?”
“If successful, it should be less than that.”
“And if it goes to rat shit, sir?” Asked Graham.
“Then I’ll hold you personally responsible,” growled Thomas.
“The plan looks good. We’re rested and rearmed, our forces are in position, and the enemy have stretched their axis of attack. When they cross the Weser in the morning, we’ll make them pay for that overconfidence.”
“Sounds good to me, sir,” agreed Carter.
The lieutenant and sergeant stood up.
“We’ll have a five-minute briefing at 0200, just before we move off, so make sure your section is ready.”
“Sir,” responded Carter.
The sergeant looked at his watch. “You’ll need to provide two men on stag, between 2100 and 2200.”
“Jesson and Conroy, Sarge.”
The lieutenant and sergeant smiled at each other, both thinking the same: the new guys were at the bottom of the pecking order.
“Make sure they’re not late and know the password.”
“Sarge.”
“Let’s go and check on One-Section then, sir.”
The Scammell Commander tank transporters finally turned up, and not a moment too soon. The drivers manoeuvred the Scammells into position, and the crews of D-Squadron quickly got to work offloading the badly needed tanks. Out of a squadron of fourteen tanks, five from Delta-Squadron had survived the battles around the Rossing and later west of Pattensen: two from the squadron HQ, one damaged tank that had crossed the river early on in the battle, while three others had escaped, one being destroyed before the unit was able to make it to safety.
These replacements were badly needed. The regiment as a whole had lost over forty per cent of its strength, far more than high command had hoped. Along with fresh crews, D-Squadron was to receive nine of the replacement sixty-ton main battle tanks. This would take their total squadron numbers up to thirteen, nearly at full strength. The rest of the regiment had received twelve tanks to allocate to the remaining three squadrons. A-Squadron and B-Squadron now had a force of ten each, three troops of three and one for the squadron HQ. C-Squadron also had thirteen and, like D-Squadron, would field four troops of three and one for HQ. Some of the tanks brought across had been from repair shops in the UK, training tanks from regimental depots, and some direct from the Royal Ordnance factories. But these were the last. If lost, it would be a long time before there were anymore more replacements.
Once the Challengers were offloaded from the semi-trailers, the Scammells started on their 470-kilometre journey back to the coast. With two drivers, the vehicles would move almost non-stop, taking seriously damaged armoured vehicles to repair shops well to the rear. And, if any could be repaired, they could eventually find themselves back at the front. But then it would probably be too late. The new tanks were very much needed, as the Royal Hussars Battle Group was yet again to consist of all tanks, not being diluted with mechanised infantry. High manoeuvrability would be key if they were to hit an unsuspecting enemy hard.
Once the offloading of the new tanks was complete, Lieutenant Barrett gathered his men around his troop tank. “Well, first of all, welcome to the new members of our troop. Have the crews been assigned, Sarn’t Glover?”
The troop sergeant had been injured during their last fight at Ditterke, west of Pattensen, after they had escaped a trap forming in between the enemy crossing the Leine and airborne troops to their rear. Although his shoulder was still painful and there was a slight limp when he walked, he had insisted on remaining with the unit. They were so short of experienced tank crews, it was difficult for higher command not to approve it. “Yes, sir. Your crew will remain as is, with Corporal Farre as your gunner, Lance Corporal Coleman loader, and Trooper Field as your driver.”