“It’s Powell, Corp, he’s a mess,” shouted Miller through his mask.
Barker saw the infantryman slumped on the firing step, mask off, his face white even through his cam cream, rivulets of sweat leaving streaks down his blackened face. Another green-smocked soldier tore at Powell’s NBC suit, cutting it away as best he could.
Barker knelt down. “Easy, easy. Slow down, Dan. Cut it straight down the front, and we can peel it apart.”
The soldier calmed down and complied, and after making a jagged cut down the centre of the front of the chemical smock, they could get to his combat jacket.
Corporal Barker could see quite clearly that the dark pattern on the combat jacket beneath was not only the disruptive pattern of his camouflage jacket but also a large black patch that covered the entire front of the casualty’s chest.
Powell’s body started to jerk violently, blood ejecting from his mouth, spraying them all in a frothy pink cloud. He screamed as they lay him down. Someone was yelling for a medic for a second and third time. The call went unheard above the din of rockets and bombs that continued to rain down around them.
“Get on the radio, Woody, but keep your bloody head down. It’s not over yet.”
Lance Corporal Woods, the section second-in-command, keyed the radio and called for assistance. It would be some time before they got help. The medical resources of the Company, and Battalion for that matter were sorely stretched as the casualty rate mounted. Whiskey Company, 6th Battalion Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, 6RRF, was receiving their first taste of battle. It was unpleasant and bitter. The soldiers would have to do the best they could in the meantime.
Once they had cleared Powell’s jacket and cut away his shirt, the extent of his injury became apparent. A large fragment from a 30mm shell, from the cannon of a Soviet Frogfoot, a ground-attack aircraft, had plunged straight through his upper left chest, leaving a five-centimetre hole at the front and a mangled mess at the rear. One lung had more than likely been severely lacerated; the second, punctured in places, was far from adequate to do its job. Powell’s gasps got louder and more violent as Dan placed a first-aid dressing on the wound covering the ragged bloody hole. Corporal Barker pushed a bandage beneath the casualty’s upper back, Powell spitting blood as he panted trying to get the oxygen his body demanded. He cried out as Corporal Barker lifted the bandage at the front, placing a piece of plastic carrier bag, he had used to wrap some food in to keep it dry, over the wound. It was far from perfect, but it might at least seal the sucking wound until they could get him some more professional help. The bandage was placed back on the wound, and ties were passed under the soldier’s body until they were in a position so it could be secured tightly.
Powell’s cry of pain was suddenly very loud, the silence around them ominous now that the Soviet ground-attack aircraft had fled, one shot down by a Rapier missile, a second and third destroyed by German and British Phantoms. The rest had bolted for home, back to their base, where they could refuel, rearm and come back to hammer the British again.
Corporal Barker peeled his S-6 respirator off his head and face and called out for his radio operator. “Get onto platoon again. We need a bloody medic here now!”
He took one last look at Powell, before he left to check on the rest of his section. Powell’s breathing was becoming more laboured. He didn’t hold out much hope.
“Corp, platoon for you.”
He grabbed the handset. “Whiskey-Two, this is Whiskey-Two-Two. Over.”
“Whiskey-Two. Sitrep. Over.”
“One man badly injured. Powell. The rest shaken, but OK. Over.”
“Roger Whiskey-Two-Two. Stretcher party on way to you. We have reports of slow-moving aircraft heading our direction. Over.”
“Do we know what they are, sir? Over.”
“Negative. Keep your heads down and I’ll keep you posted. Oh, and, Corporal Barker, check all your firing positions. I’ll be with you as soon as I can. Out.”
Barker handed the handset back. “Ripper, pass the word: slow-moving aircraft heading our way. Make sure the lads keep their heads down and get their NBC kit sorted in case we need it. We had a lucky break last time.”
“Apart from Powell.”
“I know. But we ain’t finished yet, so get on with it.”
“Will do, Corp.”
It suddenly dawned on him that he was no longer just a part-time NCO; someone who went away for the occasional weekend to practise soldierly skills and have a laugh and a joke with his mates. He was in charge. In charge of these men, and they were looking to him to lead the way. The responsibility thrust upon him suddenly felt heavy on his shoulders. He shook himself metaphorically and moved back down the trench just as the stretcher party turned up to take Powell away. Eight of them now left.
“Corp, Corp, its HQ again.”
“Whiskey-Two, this is Whiskey-Two-Two. Over.”
Before his platoon commander could respond, he saw the reason for the call. White fluttering packages were falling from either side of a large aircraft. He could now hear the drone of their engines. Three of the large transport planes were coming directly for him, a trail of parachutes leaving the three troop carriers as they lumbered closer and closer.
“Stand to! Stand to! Soviet airborne. Stand to!” Barker yelled.
“Whiskey-Two. You’ve got company, over.”
“I see them, sir.”
“Hold your fire until your men have a clear target, understood?”
“Roger, sir.”
“Good luck. Whiskey-Two out.”
“Stand to, stand to!” Barker yelled again, more out of a need to do something than giving any clear orders.
He darted along the firing points, checking on his men. As he stuffed his respirator back into its bag, he doubted it would be needed now with Soviet paratroopers about to descend.
“Get ready. Check your arcs. Hold your fire.”
He, along with the rest of his men, watched as the three aircraft passed overhead, paratroopers still leaving. Further back, Soviet airborne soldiers were swaying from their parachute harnesses, the canopies above billowing, catching the flow of air, slowing them down, lowering them to the earth and into battle.
Barker laid his SLR on top of the sandbags that lined the front of the trench. There hadn’t been time to sort out top cover. The priority had been to provide one for the gun-group and the attached Milan FP.
He zeroed in on the nearest paratrooper, probably 500 metres away, and seconds away from hitting the deck. But the closer the planes travelled towards them, the closer the enemy, tumbling out of their transports, would land near to the British positions. “Standby, standby. Gun-group, only when I give the order.”
The first of the enemy hit the deck. Some of them fired a few rounds, but knew they were too far away to have much of an impact. But, as more of the Soviet airborne troops, those that had jumped later in the stick, started to land, the closer they were to the soldiers waiting for them.
“Corp.”
Barker grabbed the handset from Ripper.
“Go ahead.”
“Whiskey-Two. Outgoing. Out.”
“Mortar fire on its way,” he hollered to his men.
Crump… crump… crump.
Crump… crump… crump.
Small mushroom clouds erupted amongst the Soviet soldiers, killing several as they tried to shake off their harnesses. Others threw themselves to the ground with their parachutes still attached to their bodies, but too late for some as bomb after bomb tore into the assembling paratroopers. Parachutes fluttered 300 metres away as more of the enemy airborne touched down.