Trooper three, suspended beneath the bridge by his arms and legs, looked down at the black surface of the Mittellandkanal, the weight of the charges in his bag, over nine kilograms each, pulling him down. He turned his head upwards as he heard the footsteps of the sentry clattering overhead. They had considered removing the sentries to enable them to work faster, but that would have just created an additional problem once their comrades missed them. This way was best. He continued his task, setting up a Charge Demolition Necklace. The № 14 Mark 1s, were wedge-shaped hollow charges and he placed two, one each side of a selected girder, and clipped them together. A third and fourth were placed by the side of the first two. Now, four shaped-charges faced the girder. The five other troopers were going through the same process, placing more of the ‘Hayrick’ charges on selected girders of the Soviet bridge. Trooper four had completed his set of charges, and now started to attach the detonation cord to the housing at the top.
Even working as quickly, and as quietly, as possible, and taking risks at times as they clambered like monkeys in between the supporting girders, it took the six men two hours to finish the job. They were exhausted, but they still had to extract themselves from the bridge, taking the linked detonation cord with them. Just as the six men reached the southern end of the bridge, they froze as the roar of tracked vehicles came out of the blue, the bridge playing its own tune as the armoured vehicles, MTLBs towing T-12 anti-tank guns, rattled across. The SAS troopers looked at the shaking charges, and secretly prayed that they had secured them well.
The column seemed endless as eighteen sets crossed over, led by a BRDM2 and followed by a BRDM1. Eventually, the crossing was completed, and relative silence returned as the troopers lowered themselves to the ground, trailing the det-cord behind them. Troopers One and Two covered their fellow soldiers while they moved through the long grass to the area they had chosen as the firing point. They needn’t have worried about the sentries. Once the convoy had gone, they reverted to type. Two of the four sentries, as agreed amongst themselves, went back to a small hut on the northern end of the bridge and went back to sleep. The sergeant-in-command hadn’t even bothered to leave the building, kicking the two sleeping sentries out when the convoy had turned up. After another ten minutes, the full SAS patrol was reunited and, as agreed, the six grabbed some kip while two kept watch. All they had to do now was wait.
Chapter 32
The clamshell doors of the IL-76 transport opened slowly; ready to allow the waiting paratroopers to board. The airborne soldiers were in two lines outside, and turned to the left and right on the orders of their officers. On a second order, the two lines of men shuffled forward, the dark interior of the transport aircraft eventually swallowing up the 125 heavily armed paratroopers. These were part of the Soviet Union’s elite, the Vozdushno-Desantnaya Voyska, the Soviet’s air assault force. Behind them, Gaz-66 utility trucks pulled D-30 122mm howitzers, preparing to be dropped as part of a second wave. Further afield, BMD-1s, the paratroopers’ Airborne Mechanised Infantry Combat Vehicles, were either going through a final check or through the last stages of being loaded onto a transport aircraft. The AIMCV, once on the ground, would be the regiment’s primary mobile weapon: a weapon that was not only capable of carrying the troops into battle, but also packing a punch with its 30mm gun when the soldiers came up against their enemy, the soldiers of NATO. The Soviet army were pioneers in the use of heavy platforms for dropping equipment. The majority of the equipment for this airborne regiment had already been placed on-board the aircraft that would deliver them to the drop zone. An aircraft roared down the runway as the first of the troops headed west, to pile on the pressure on the beleaguered British forces.
The air was forced from his lungs as he struck the ground hard, jarring his shoulder badly, the explosion having flung his body violently sideways. His ears buzzed, and he urgently tried to focus his mind as other explosions erupted nearby, showering his helmet with a deluge of earth and debris. Corporal Barker panicked suddenly, scrabbling for his respirator, the warnings from the platoon commander just before they disembarked from the private roll-on/roll-off ferry, seconded to the military, ringing in his ears. Remember, if you get shelled or attacked from the air, it could be a gas attack. Hold your breath and get your respirator on quickly. He yanked it out of the square green case, holding his breath, but letting it out again realising he had been panting and breathing air in and out of his lungs for at least a minute. He pulled it over his face, emitting a cry as he jerked his injured shoulder. The respirator was adjusted until comfortable and he had a good seal. Too late, he thought, too fucking late. But better safe than sorry if the gas is still heading my way.
Realising he was still exposed as more rockets landed less than 100 metres away, he scrambled on all fours, throwing himself into the trench head first, his boots kicking his masked comrade in the face.
“For fuck’s sake, Kev,” a muffled voice cried out. “You nearly took my bloody head off then.”
“Yeah, yeah. We’re under fire, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Corporal Kevin Barker peered over the trench, seeing his SLR less than ten metres away. He left his shelter again and quickly retrieved it, dropping back down to the bottom of the trench as two bombs bracketed their position, lifting one end of their defensive position and almost engulfing them in a heap of earth.
“God, Corp, what the hell’s going on? Where’s it coming from? We’re not at the front, for God’s sake!”
“Keep your bloody head down, Parr. It’ll be over soon.”
They stared at each other through the goggle eyes of their gas masks, eyes almost as wide as the lens in the rubber. Two jets, one after the other, flew low overhead, and a furrow appeared along the front of the trench as 30mm-calibre shells tore up the ground.
Corporal Barker heard an unmuffled shriek from someone in severe pain to his left. Pushing his way past Parr, he made his way to the second slit trench, his heart pumping as a second scream, unblocked by the confines of a respirator, let rip. The screams were getting louder and more panicky the closer he got to the source of the sound.