“Gun-group, controlled bursts, 300 metres, open fire.”
The Lance Corporal in command of the gun-group didn’t need telling twice. He had been holding back Jenkins, the gunner, who was gripping the GPMG so hard his knuckles were white. But now, released, he pulled the trigger, the belt of 7.62mm rounds flying through the assistant gunner’s fingers as he guided the belt into the breech mechanism. Firing controlled bursts of roughly five to ten rounds, every fifth round a tracer, bullets thudded into the ground close to the nearest Soviet paratroopers, particles of dirt propelled up in front of them. A slight adjustment of his aim and Jenkins was on target: the enemy started to fall as round after round tore into their ranks. More and more parachutes fluttered to the ground: 200 metres, 150 metres, and 100 metres.
“Rifle-group, 100 metres, ten rounds, rapid fire!”
The SLR rifles cracked as 7.62mm bullets were launched at the enemy. The thuds as they penetrated flesh and bone of those nearest could almost be heard as they hit the soldiers, piercing their fragile bodies. One airborne soldier literally had his arm ripped from his shoulder, only sinews and his uniform keeping it attached. Another was hit in the hip; the bullet deflected vertically, travelling almost the full length of his body, exiting at his shoulder blade. Both men went down and didn’t get up again.
Some returned fire with their AKS-74 assault rifles, and bullets zipped past Corporal Barker and his men. Barker snapped off two rounds himself before checking on his men.
“Fire at will, fire at will,” ordered Barker.
A billowing white cloud of a parachute suddenly impeded his view as a paratrooper landed less than fifty metres away. He fired off a shot into the mass, hoping to hit the hidden enemy. Luck was with his adversary that day: the round winging overhead as the soldier dropped to the ground. The airborne warrior recovered quickly, pushing the parachute silk aside, releasing the harness, and firing off a burst that flew over the heads of the dug in soldiers.
Crack. A shot from Ripper hit the soldier full on in the chest as he raised his body to return fire again, knocking him back, his AKS dropping from his grip. He was still alive when he slumped to the floor. But, without treatment, he would be dead within the hour.
“They’re fucking behind us!” screamed a soldier off to the right. Coming from Three-Section.
Corporal Barker called out, “Ripper, Miller, watch our backs, watch our backs!”
Bullet strikes flicked up bits of debris and some of the sandbags shook as more and more rounds came their way. The Soviets were starting to regroup, a light machine gun, a PKM, was putting down fire. Bullets stitched a line along the top of the sandbags making it more difficult for the TA soldiers to respond.
Lieutenant Cox crashed down into the trench. “Corporal Barker, One-Section is about to be overrun. You and two men, with me. Let’s go.”
Without waiting for a response, the young lieutenant clambered out of the hole and ran towards One-Section’s position.
“Ripper, Miller, with me! Let’s go. Now!” yelled Barker as he too clambered out of the trench, his SLR held out in front of him. “Woody, enemy to our rear. We have it. Watch your front,” the section commander yelled to his second-in-command. He heard pounding boots behind him: Ripper and Miller were following.
He reached around behind him and pulled out his bayonet, fumbling slightly as he fixed it to his rifle. “Fix bayonets!”
Within another twenty strides, he was at the nearest edge of One-Section’s trench, partially obscured by smoke drifting across it from the bombs exploding to the rear, grenades thrown by the Soviets, and small arms fire.
A soldier, wearing a Soviet airborne smock, the blue and white striped T-shirt barely visible beneath, fired a burst of automatic fire into the trench, two rounds killing the lance corporal who was already wounded from grenade shrapnel.
Barker swung his SLR left and fired a round into the enemy. Struck in his right shoulder, the soldier was spun round, his AK flying from his hand. Before the paratrooper could recover, Barker had leapt across the width of the trench and thrust the steel bayonet into his guts with such force that the NCO almost lost his balance. Driven half mad by fear, anger and frustration, Barker was nearly pulled down on top of the Soviet as the man collapsed, but the Corporal quickly recovered. With a boot on the body, he withdrew the bayonet just as Ripper ran past firing round after round into three more airborne soldiers who had just appeared. To his left, he saw the Browning pistol jump in the lieutenant’s hand as he emptied a magazine into the advancing enemy soldiers. Suddenly, half a dozen soldiers came from the left: more reinforcements, led by Sergeant Fox, screaming, firing wildly into the paratroopers who fell back, many of them wounded or dying.
“Get the Gympy on line,” ordered Sergeant Fox.
He had brought the gun-group from One-Section, who was on the right flank of the platoon’s line, just in time. Within a matter of seconds, the Gympy was firing and, along with fire from SLRs, heavy fire was sent down range, decimating the dozen airborne soldiers that had been about to join their comrades in attacking the rear of One-Section, who were in turn responsible for protecting the platoon’s rear.
“Corporal Barker.”
“Sir.”
“Get your men back. We’ll hold here now.”
“Sir. Ripper, Miller. On me.”
The two men rejoined their section commander and sprinted back to their own trenches, and not a moment too soon. Fear crawled up Corporal Barker’s spine as the ominous silence of the Gympy boded ill. Kennedy lay dead in the bottom of the slit trench as Barnes, standing over him, threw a grenade into the midst of the Soviet airborne troops who were skirmishing towards them.
“Thank God, Corp, I thought we were fucked.”
“Go right,” Barker ordered Miller and Barnes as he made his way, with Ripper, along to the location of the gun-group.
“What the fuck, Woody?”
“Stoppage… ” The working parts of Lance Corporal Wood’s SLR clattered in between each word as he maintained a steady rate of fire towards the enemy who seemed to be growing in strength as more and more paratroopers descended. “Jenks… ” clunk “…is….” clunk “…sorting it… ” clunk.
Corporal Barker also opened fire, as did the two soldiers manning the Milan firing post.
Brrrrrp… Brrrrrp… Br. “Shit!” Jenkins cursed as the Gympy jammed for a second time.
“For fuck’s sake, get it sorted, Jenks. We’re dead men walking here.”
“Take it easy, Woody. Don’t panic him. He’ll sort it.”
Ripper, his lungs heaving, came alongside the two NCOs. “Look,” he said, pointing at another flight of aircraft flying low towards them. About 700 metres away, six large aircraft flew in formation, large packages being pulled out of the rear of the planes by a drogue chute. Once clear of the aircraft, the armoured vehicles, mounted on large wooden platforms, started to drop towards the ground, half a dozen smaller parachutes forming above them, in turn drawing out much larger parachutes, controlling the descent of the BMD MICVs as they were delivered to the troops waiting on the ground below.
“Oh Christ,” Barker groaned. “Your radio.”
Woody passed the handset across. “Hello, Whiskey-Two. This is Whiskey-Two-Two. Over.”
“Whiskey-Two… go ahead.”
“Whiskey-Two-Two. We have armour dropping to our front. Seven hundred metres approx. Over.”
There was a pause as Lieutenant Cox took in the information passed to him. “Understood. We are secure here. Sitrep. Over.”
“Whiskey-Two-Two. One dead and one wounded.” Brrrrrp…. Brrrrrp. “Problem with the Gympy, but up and running now.”