They could hear the sound of fighting dying down below them but they did not know who the victors were, was it the US Paratroopers or the Soviets? If it were the Yanks then they would know all about it the very next day, the abuse would be heaped on with remarks about playing with aeroplanes instead of doing real soldiering.
“”What the fuck are you wearing them things for? You can’t shoot for shit with them on!”
“I can’t shoot for shit at the best of times.” Andy replied. “I’ve never passed an annual personal weapons test in me life.”
“How come you’re a Band 1, Class 1 then?”
“I normally pay you to fire on me target on range days, remember?”
“Oh? Oh yeah, right.” Steve replied.
They stood silently in the fire bay, with the rain falling on them as they listened for tell-tale sounds in the night.
The charcoal impregnated hoods were not made with stereophonic clarity in mind but after five minutes a faint sound of metal upon metal was followed by other noises of human origin. The squelching sound of boots in soft mud, and an oath as someone slipped. Then of course there was the sound of something landing in the mud by their own feet.
There was no thought involved, simply reflex as each man scrambled from the from the trench with his rifle and rolled clear.
The grenade went off harmlessly but scattered their spare magazines and their own grenades too.
Mud and earth were landing wetly, and thick black smoke, the residue of high explosive, still hung over the damaged fire bay as they re-entered, rolling back in immediately, knowing they would now be rushed.
They came out of the darkness from directly in front, shouting their hatred even though the effect was muffled.
The Coldstreamers fired, and fired again, but then they were parrying away the stabbing bayonets and thrusting upwards with their own. Their breath and that of their attackers came in gasps, laced with fear and desperation. Outnumbered but fighting all the more desperately because of that.
A bayonet thrust down and pierced Andy Tropers left ammunition pouch, and he let go his own weapon and grabbed the AKM by its hot barrel, tugging its owner off balance and head first into the fire bay. He crouched over the man, punching hard with the brass knuckles, smashing the Soviet soldiers jaw in order to reach what he really wanted to hit, the throat.
Steve had killed the last man, bayoneting him in the visor, the blade penetrating the brain via the eye socket.
Andy stood, gasping for breath, the Soviet soldier making gurgling sounds and thrashing about for a moment before becoming still.
Together they hoisted the body, evicting it from the trench and stacked the dead men’s weapons against the trench wall.
They had killed six, a squads worth. How many were they likely to send against a single trench?
Adrenaline and effort, and of course NBC suits inability to let excess body heat dissipate, was making them both gasp for breath as if they had run a race.
“Do you think that’s all of them?”
An RPK machine gun opened fire pinning them down in the trench so that more troops could close in on them.
There were no grenades coming at them this time, the RPK kept firing until the riflemen were almost on the trench.
There were seven of them this time, firing wildly as they charged the last few yards. Steve shot two and Andy managed to get one also before the rest closed. Again it was vicious and bloody work, but they won through, justifying all the bayonet practice over the years they had served. One man retreated, but not far. He was inside grenade range as the Guardsmen cleaned house again, rolling the dead over the parapet and policing up the weapons.
The grenade could have gone unnoticed but for it striking Steve Veneer’s helmet before dropping into the fire bay. Again they rolled clear but Andy was empty handed, his SLR was now destroyed along with their cache of captured weaponry.
Steve heard, rather than saw the grenadier and one of the three rounds he fired left the man screaming from his wounds until the VX claimed him.
Again the RPK opened fire, but there was a second parapet to the trench now, a soft one, and not much of a muchness as regards its bullet catchment qualities. It did however provide cover from view for L/Cpl Veneer to put some well aim shots down, using the muzzle flash of the RPK as his aiming marker.
The gun stopped firing but Steve had no way of knowing if he had hit its gunner or merely scared him off.
He crawled backwards into the trench to find Andy Troper groping about in the mud.
“You got any more rounds mate? That grenade blew everything to shit ‘n gone.”
Steve checked his magazine.”
“I’ve got two rounds and then I’m out?”
They both heard the sound of more of the enemy approaching, and on the left flank as well as straight ahead this time.
Andy lifted the damaged Stinger’s launcher from out of the mud. The hand-guard he been blown off along with the battery coolant unit and he held it by the Venturi end. The sight unit’s forward hinge was smashed and it lolled drunkenly on the back one until Andy pulled it off and tossed it away. He gave the launch tube a trial swing, and apparently satisfied he rested it on his left shoulder, bearing it casually as if it were a cricket bat and he had the measure of the bowler before even reaching the crease.
“It’s been an honour mate.” He said, holding out his hand to Steve.
Keeping close to the sides of the streambed, a huddled mass of infantry from the 23rd Motor Rifle Regiment crouched in the mud, waiting for the signal to split up, to head for their next objectives. The company headquarters CP of the British Light Infantry battalion to the north of the stream, the Guards 1 Company CP, and its regimental quarter masters ammunition stores, they had all been identified by radio intercepts, ‘SigInt’, and aerial photographs. Antiquated though it may seem, and arduous is the task of laying D10 field telephone cable, but it will always remain more secure than radio and microwave communications. As far as the aerial photographs are concerned, well that is what track plans are supposed to prevent.
Sustained fire from GPMGs to the north, south and west began to fall further down the hill, landing on the company headquarters that had been their first objective. Mortar rounds followed, destroying the CP and twelve Soviet infantrymen in and around it, including the killers of Sean O’Regan.
The plan had originally been conceived when they still had fuel for their infantry fighting vehicles and the entire battalion would have been here now. The remainder of the battalion was still making its way on foot from the sunken lane. The tank support had made it though, at least some of it anyway.
Grinding up the hillside behind them came a pair of T-90s, not the two troops worth that they had been assured would be there for them.
The company commander assigned both tanks to the attack on the Light Infantry, reasoning that there was a known enemy company position standing in the way and he and the company political officer took their place behind the second of those comfortingly bullet-proof pieces of machinery.
The remainder split up and headed uphill in different directions.
“Why has the shelling stopped, sir?”
Oz answered his stores assistant with a question of his own.
“If someone gave you a horse as a gift bonny lad, would you count its teeth before accepting it?”
They slipped and slithered here and there on the muddy path, the cumbersome NBC overshoes lacking the traction of proper boots soles. It was steep here on this part of the path leading from their CP to the vehicle track some distance away. The vehicle track led to various rear locations, including the path to the RQ’s ammunition store.