' The Longest Night ' & ' Crossing the Rubicon ': The Original Map Illustrated and Uncut Final Volume (Armageddon's Song) (25 page)

The Warriors Rolls Royce Perkins V8 growled and the cannons thermal sight was powered up. Angelo allowed the grenadier to creep forward and attempt another throw; the second and third rounds were wasted.

“Where’s Corporal Holmes, sir?” Macky asked on the intercom.

“Dead, back us up!”

The hull down fighting position had been filling with rainwater for several hours, completely covering the Warrior’s tracks, and a mini tidal wave was sent to the rear as the IFV left the position. The Warrior took with it the camouflage net, and Arnie had to lower himself back inside and reach for his knife as the net was now stretched across the hatch opening.  The nets edges had become entangled in the tracks and it was clinging tightly to the vehicles body from front to rear. It would need to be cut completely free later.

Now clear of the waterlogged position Macky halted, engaged forward gear and began turning to the right, upslope, to take them back towards the centre of the battalion’s lines.

Arnie was about to begin cutting the netting away from the hatch when he was thrown off his feet, and a wave of heat washed over him. Thick, choking smoke filled the fighting vehicles interior and flames flickered at the front of the troop compartment. The Warrior rolled backwards into the stream and came up with a jolt against its opposite bank. Arnie’s ears rang from an explosion but he could still hear Guardsman McCardle who was screaming in the intercom.

Rodriguez was trying to open the rear troop door but it was jammed against the stream bank.

With each breath, soot was clogging the filter of his respirator. Rodriguez was frantically trying to force the troop door and the driver’s screams became more strident.

Arnie Moore pulled the jack plug from his helmets headset. He was damned if he was dying like this. He hacked and slashed at the net before grabbing the gunners arm, pulling him to the hatch and they struggled out, up onto the top of the turret.

Rounds cracked by his head, the paratroopers lunged over the turrets edge to lie behind it and Arnie lost his grip on his knife as he did so, but he was out of the line of fire. He couldn’t reach the pintle mounting, and both his M4 and Angelo’s were still in the weapons rack inside the IFV. Smoke was pouring out of the open hatch now and Arnie had only Colin Probert’s Yarin automatic.

The last RPG-26 had not been a wasted shot, and with a sense of satisfaction the Czech officer knelt beside a PK machine gun on top of the cutting, directing its fire and ordering two men forward with grenades to finish the crew of the British IFV while the PK kept them pinned down.

A half mile away, the T-90 leading the attack on 2LI’s flank was struck by a Hellfire missile and blew up. Its killer headed back uphill towards the safety of the reverse slopes before beginning a fresh stalk, this time on the enemy in 2CG’s 4 Company area. Its gunner saw the distinctive green tracer of Soviet small arms fire, just left of their line of flight. A one second burst from the Apache’s 30mm cleansed the top of the cutting of the last of the Czech 23
rd
infantry in 4 Company’s lines.

Macky was screaming shrilly now, the fire had reached the drivers compartment and was visible to the two Americans through the armoured glass of the hatch as if the driver had lit a candle inside, a flickering yellow light silhouetting the Guardsman’s head from behind. The camouflage net was pulled tight across his hatch; he could only open it a few inches despite the strength lent him by desperation, his gloved fingers visible as they gripped the hatches underside. They both pulled and heaved at the net but it required more than brute force.

Arnie tried to remember where the knife had fallen, splashing back through the stream and clambering once more atop of the vehicle, risking the cutting of his own NBC suit and gloves as he desperately groped about the netting on the roof. He couldn’t find it, couldn’t see a damned thing in the dark and the rain.

Flame, firelight reflecting off the streams waters revealed the knife’s location; its blade gleamed on the side of the bank. Arnie slowly climbed down and retrieved it before re-joining Rodriguez. The illumination was being provided by flames issuing through the narrow gap in the drivers hatch. Macky McCardle was no longer screaming but Arnie had to firmly grasp Rodriguez by the arm and lead him away, towards the sound of fighting on the battalions other flank.    

The 23
rd
’s armour was being reduced; just five T-90 and T-76 remained on the right whilst the six on the left flank were still awaiting the infantry on foot, unaware they had withdrawn back to the sunken lane having been caught in the open by the mortars. Counter battery fire had been requested, and promised, but it had not materialised, in fact the barrage was gradually falling silent for lack of ammunition once more. They moved left along the lane, scrambling over burnt out vehicles and detouring around freshly destroyed and still burning ones until they met up with the remaining trudging infantry from 23
rd
MRR and together they shook out into formation to begin the final stretch from the lane to the Vormundberg itself.

Gunfire support for the infantry attack on 3 Company was now a quarter of what it . The armour could not climb the slope 7 and 8 Platoons had withdrawn up earlier in the day thanks to the shovel and pick work that had increased the gradient, but they still tried.

The troops who had held the toehold in those platoons old trenches had gone up the slope instead, along with the infantry who had ridden upon the tank decks.

No more than fifty members of 3 Company remained combat effective. That was the estimate of regimental intelligence and the battalion political officer, which was the same thing. For once though, it was a pretty accurate assessment.

The Czech infantry hugged the slope as their own tanks attempted to suppress the enemy tank fire one last time. A British Chieftain exploded and apparently satisfied, they finally began firing high explosive fragmentation at the infantry dug in above them.

The British Challenger II was rotating its position between three firing points, but sensibly its commander was keeping quite random the spot where they would reappear. But three is three and not thirty, so it was not a great exercise in patience for the gunner of the Hind-D to hold a vacant position in his crosshairs and wait.

After three minutes, C Squadron of the Kings Royal Hussars lost its OC as Jimmy McAddam and his crew suffered a minute of unbelievable agony trapped in their
burning vehicle before the flames reached the main gun rounds.

A second lieutenant just two weeks out of training called up A Squadron’s OC, Major Mark Venables and identified himself as the new commander of C Squadron. Apart from acknowledging him and wishing him luck there was not much else Mark could do. One One Charlie was burning furiously, its chassis rocking with the internal explosions that were shaking it. The squadron commander’s tank passed it, and the next prepared position, as that was being illuminated by 11C.

His gunner suddenly slewed the turret to the right, away from the valley.

“Stop!” Major Venables saw what had attracted his attention, and grabbed the override, preventing him engaging a hovering Apache in the dead ground where the reverse slope began.

The Danish commander of Eskadrille 723 had spotted movement across the valley and had identified it as a target he was ill equipped to tackle. He summoned assistance but witnessed the destruction of a Chieftain before a Brit Apache arrived.

The Hind-D was stalking its next target, losing it in the smoke from the burning Chieftain and edging sideways to re-acquire, keeping behind cover.

The Danish Lynx had no communications with the British tank and neither had the Army Air Corps so they just used it as bait and waited for the Russian to show himself.

Completely unaware of the danger Mark Venables vehicle headed on for a new position, pulling into it slowly.

The Hind-D rose and fired a beam riding Atak-V anti-tank missile, the Apache locked on and fired a Hellfire anti-tank missile which would miss if the Russian made any radical manoeuvres. The Russian held steady, guiding the weapon unerringly towards the Challenger II. The Hellfire was faster and when it struck, the Hind swung left with the missile turning to follow the still active laser.

Mark saw something flit across his vision, but as it was not aimed at him he got on with the job at hand, but they would only fire once before relocating.

M203 Grenades began to land, fired by 9 Platoon, and this triggered the Czech’s advance. Rather than stay on the receiving end of random fire they closed in with the source, confident in their six-to-one advantage. 

The sole surviving section of 8 Platoon occupied shell scrapes at the nearest point of the advance and they threw smoke mixed with HE and withdrew with 7 and 9 Platoons providing covering fire.

Encouraged, the Soviet infantry forged forwards but 3 Company was not pulling back another inch, and the ground did not allow the full weight of the enemy to fall on them at once. Most of the infantry were still on the steep slope below the position.

The close quarter’s sound of steel upon steel rang out, and only the occasional shot told those who were only within earshot that it was not the ghosts of Germanic tribesmen battling the shades of Publius Quinctilius Varus’s legions.

“Hello 3, this is 9, fetch Sunray, over.”

“3, negative, Sunray 39 has gone forward to support 32, over.”
“Ops!” Pat Reed shouted, reaching for an SLR. This was the crunch, and his battalion would live or die depending on the events of the next half hour. He had been told to expect reinforcement from 44 Commando but they had not appeared, and had probably been isolated from the Guards position by the Soviet barrage.

There was nothing more he could do that the next most experienced officer present could not.

“Sir?”

“The battalion is yours for a while. I am going to take a stroll across to 3 Company.”

His driver, orderly and radio operator pulled on webbing and came across to join him.

His ‘Rover Group’ was a little on the light side now. Sergeant Higgins and the half section from Defence Platoon, aka the Corps of Drums in peacetime, were dead and Arnie Moore had been missing for several hours. 

The RSM and Rodriguez entered the CP at that moment and Pat paused to take in the muddy duo.

“I don’t know whether to quip ‘Look what the cat dragged in’ or ‘Someone has been in the wars’?” Pat grumbled as he had half expected to discover that the American paratrooper had become a casualty of the shelling. Despite his tone he was in fact warmed to see the RSM safe and well.

“Grab a rifle and bayonet sarn’t major, you too young man.” He added for PFC Rodriguez benefit

As Arnie crossed the bunker for one of the British rifles and bayonets he looked for new filters while he was at it.

“Any fresh respirator filters?” Arnie asked. “Mines about done in.”

The Operations officer held out two, one for Arnie and one for Rodriguez.

“Watch him carefully RSM.” The Ops officer said just loud enough not to be overheard, and nodding towards the commanding officer.

“His boy was killed.”

Arnie had met Julian Reed during the advance to contact with the Soviet airborne forces. A very likeable young man and one who was clearly respected by his troops. Arnie thanked God that he and his wife had started their family late, and all were well below military age.

The first hint of dawn, muted by the cloud and rain, an almost imperceptible lightening of the horizon at their backs as they headed toward 3 Company.

The sound of fighting came to the small group as they worked their way along the muddy tracks and Pat picked up the pace. The dark crater where the original 3 Company headquarters had died was on the right; Tim Gilchrist had first occupied it with a single radio operator for want of anything better being available when assuming command, but that was before the rain had come in earnest. It was more pond than protection now. They had co-located in the 9 Platoon HQ trench as the platoon commander had been a casualty earlier. The wrecked and burnt out Defence Platoon Warrior was on its side on the track beside another crater, where Sgt Higgins and the four Drummers had been killed.

The fighting masked their approach and Pat almost walked into a kneeling group of men at the side of the track preparing grenades. By the outline of their helmets they were Soviet, not British or American. They had managed to work their way around to the rear of 9 Platoon and were about to tilt the odds even more in the attackers favour.

Pat thumbed off the safety catch, and one head turned on hearing the metallic click. Lighting flashed and Pat looked upon his enemy, then shot the man in the face.

It was Arnie’s place to bring up the rear, to chivvy along and ensure the tail-end-Charlie’s kept up, but his offer to lead this time had been refused and so he had slotted himself behind the CO instead.

Lt Col Pat Reed shot the first man and then a second and third, but he had not moved his position, he was stood upright and illuminated by his own weapon’s muzzle flash.

A hand grasped the yoke at the back of the CO’s webbing, and yanked him roughly backwards, a burst of fire narrowly missing him. By the time Pat regained his feet the enemy squad, all six of them, were dead.