“Target,” yelled Patsy.
A yellow flash erupted from the end of Two-Two-Alpha’s barrel as the tank gun fired, followed by a pale grey plume of smoke. A controlled explosion accelerated the round, a short flight at 1,000 metres per second, and it rocketed the projectile towards its victim, a surviving Soviet MICV. The BMP-2 lurched on its tracks as a yellow cloud encased the armoured troop carrier. The wading plate, attached to the front for use during a river crossing, shot forward as the yellow blast turned to orange. On hitting the front of the vehicle it was immediately ricocheted back, slamming against the engine cover before repeating the cycle all over again. Black and orange plumes swamped the stricken vehicle. The infantry carrier had been torn apart, along with the troops within.
“Two-Two-Alpha, Zero Bravo. Go left, go left. Tango-One will lead. Over.”
“Roger that. All Two-Two call signs. Left, left, left. Form up left flanking. Over.”
“Two-Bravo. Roger.”
“Two-Charlie, on your left.”
“Left stick,” he called to Mackey down in the fridge, although his Noddy suit and the fear of battle were keeping him well and truly warm.
The Chieftain turned on its tracks, and Alex pushed his way through the hatch, turning the cupola left as Patsy swung the turret right. He looked across as the rest of his troop caught up and drew alongside. Behind them, the four 432s of Two-Delta followed.
“Zero-Bravo, Two-Two-Alpha. In position. Over.”
“Charlie will be on your right, Delta your left and Alpha in reserve. Out.”
That’s a relief, he thought. Although the artillery attack had been devastating, there were always survivors. More and more of 1 Div troops would be crossing. 12th Brigade and the US Brigade would secure the area west of the river where a battle with the Soviet Division was still in progress. Battered by ceaseless artillery and air strikes, the Bear had pulled some of his forces back to attempt to form a line and get control of the situation, only to have his tanks run into the last of the British FASCAM reserves. Seven tanks had been crippled, along with five BMPs. His force was slowly being whittled down. A counter-attack would have been the right move. Split the two British Brigades to his front and left flank; let the 20th worry about the Americans. But one of his officers, in a panic, had sent his forward battalion, down to fourteen tanks, in the wrong direction, straight into 7th Armoured Brigade’s Challenger tanks. Fourteen quickly became seven. He would now have to hold, consolidate and wait.
Alex’s troop continued to advance, accelerating up the banks of the 482 Autobahn, through a thick layer of trees running along it, crashing through half a dozen soft-skinned resupply vehicles, Patsy spraying the panicking Soviet soldiers with the coaxial machine gun. They crossed the central reservation, brushing aside two more Zil trucks. Ellis loaded a HESH round, and Patsy put it to good use, as an ammunition carrier ripped itself apart.
“Two-Two-Alpha, Tango-One. Platoon, Tango-Eight-Zeros, 2,000 metres west of 482. Sitting ducks. Over.”
“Roger. Out to you. Two-Delta, watch our six. Over.”
“Two-Two-Delta. We have it. Over.”
“Out to you. Two-Bravo, Two-Charlie. Three targets, twelve o’clock, 2,000 metres. Forward slowly.”
“Roger.”
“Roger.”
“Watch the bank, Mackinson.”
“Got it, sir.”
Mackey manoeuvred the tank through the trees on the other side of the dual carriageway, stopping just before the bank dropped down on the other side.
The 432s of Two-Two-Delta climbed to the top of the bank, the drivers halting while still in the trees on the hard shoulder of the road. Infantry piled out of the back and ran forward while the two battle taxis with their peak engineering turrets opened fire on the milling Soviet drivers and soldiers that had been sent along with the convoy to defend it.
This is a turkey shoot, thought Corporal Graham as he threw himself down alongside his section.
Finch and Berry knew what they were doing and soon had rounds going out, punching through cab doors, piercing the canvas sides of the trucks and mowing down soldiers who were leaping down from trucks just arriving, or backing up in the melee.
After assessing the situation, Lieutenant Chandler knew what he needed to do: cover the back of Bravo-Troop and clear a safe passage for the rest of the squadron that would not be far behind. His turreted 432s and gun-groups received their orders, and he took the rest of his platoon, fourteen men, through the trees, just below the bank, until he was opposite the latest Soviet arrivals. The fire-support team let rip, spraying round after round into the still bewildered enemy who thought their Army was across the other side of the Weser and winning. The last thing they expected was to be facing NATO soldiers on this side of the river.
“Go! Go! Go!” Chandler bellowed.
The infantry soldiers rose up as one, skirmishing forwards. Their NBC roll packs, water bottles and kidney pouches bouncing on their hips, the 58-pattern ammunition pouches bulging with loaded spare magazines for their SLR rifles, they closed in on the enemy’s position. Three Gympys poured hundreds of rounds into the Soviet infantry right up until the last minute. A BMP suddenly appeared out of the smoke of the burning trucks, its 30mm gun blasting one of the gun-groups, killing all three men.
“Two-Alpha, Two-Delta. BMP right behind you!”
“Roger Two-Delta. Heads down.”
“Hit the deck!” Chandler yelled to his men as the BMP spun round to face him, disgorging soldiers from its troop compartment at the rear.
But that was all it did. It lifted off the ground and flipped onto its side as a HESH destroyed it and the troops with it. The fuel tanks in the rear doors fuelled the flames, and a black plume of smoke quickly formed as the BMP was engulfed in a conflagration, the popping of burning ammunition even putting New Year’s Eve fireworks to shame.
The lieutenant didn’t waste a moment and, leaving the burning BMP behind them, now of little use to the enemy, his platoon quickly routed the opponent in their immediate vicinity.
Alex and Patsy peered through their scopes: their view out of the front was clear. Open fields were laid out in front of them as far as the eye could see. The only object blocking their vision to the southeast was the heavily forested high ground north of the Mittellandkanal. But, directly in front, a trail of dust following behind, a second platoon of Soviet T-80s headed their way. Directly behind them were another two tanks. Off to the left, they could see two more, being reported by Lieutenant Baty’s troop, as a full tank company, no doubt stragglers from 12th Guards Tank Division rushing to the rescue of their parent unit.
Alex passed his orders to his troop; then to Corporal Patterson who was more than happy to oblige.
“T-80, 1,500 metres, sabot.”
“Up,” shouted Ellis.
“Fire,” Alex ordered.
Patsy pressed the firing button, and the deadly package left the barrel of the tank.
“T-80, one o’clock, 1,500 metres, sabot.”
The first round struck the far front right T-80, catching it on its front right guard, smashing through the front road wheel and dislodging the track, forcing it to slew to the left.
“Up.”
“Fire. First target. Damaged T-80, 1,500 metres, sabot.”
“Up.”
“Fire.”
“T-80, second line, twelve o’clock, 1,600 metres, sabot.”
“Up.”
“Fire.”
“Zero-Bravo, Tango-One. Tango-Eight-Zeros, company strength, 2,000 metres east my location. Over.”