ARMAGEDDON'S SONG (Volume 3) 'Fight Through' (51 page)

Strong hands grabbed him and pulled him under the
cover of a slight overhang, Stef was looking into his face and he could see his
mouth working but either no
words
were coming out or
the shelling had deafened him. Eventually the ground stopped trembling and the
silence was replaced by a high-pitched tone in his ears.

Pat pulled himself to his feet, his head still
ringing, and with Bill and Stef assisting him he scrambled unsteadily up the
slope to where he had been previously. He gaped at the damage and destruction
that had been wrought in so short a time. Where 3 Company’s command post had
been was now just a hole in the ground, the logs that had helped support its
sandbag roof were now splinted and charred, scattered about the immediate area
along with shredded sandbags and remains that no longer resembled anything
human. Back along the track the Defence Platoons Warrior was lying on its side
and burning furiously but there was no sign of the men who had travelled here
with him. The two shell craters in which they had been taking cover were now joined
together into one elongated hole. All that remained was a Kevlar helmet hanging
by a strap from the only remaining limb attached to a still standing but
mortally wounded pine tree, a cloth name tape neatly sown to the DPM cover
identified the owner simply as ‘Higgins’. 

The noise in his ears rose in pitch so as to be
excruciatingly painful but then it faded, and he could hear the crackle of
flames nearby and the crack of tank guns beyond. He flinched at the sound of
shells passing overhead, and their detonations on the 8 Platoon positions,
which were now in the hands of the enemy.

Turning to the two snipers he gestured at the
tree-covered hillside.

“Perhaps we didn’t get all of those infiltrators of theirs,
I want you two to get up there and track them down…” his voiced petered out
because both the snipers were shaking their heads.

“That wasn’t Soviet artillery that did this sir, it
was our own.”

Pat looked confused; not quite grasping what was being
said.

“Someone fucked up sir…we got through to the battalion
CP and got the guns to adjust their fire, but it was our one five fives that
did this.”

There was nothing else really to say, except perhaps
that sometimes shit happens in war, so the snipers left him then, finding a
spot for themselves to the right of where the CP had been so that they could
engage anyone attempting to hinder the 3 Company platoons withdrawal.

Pat looked over at the remains of the CP, thinking
that whoever had been responsible had well and truly paid for that mistake, but
he was now without a company commander or a headquarters staff for 3 Company.
It was a cold and clinical way of regarding the death of six of his men in the
CP and the ten from Defence Platoon, but grief was an indulgence that must
wait.

4 Company were engaging the left flank of the Romanian
112
^th
MRR, the enemy had approached boldly enough up to the
point where the sunken lane cut across their axis of advance. The defile was
now cluttered with the wreckage of Czech armoured vehicles, many still burning,
and the Romanians found themselves in the same position as the 23
^rd
MRR had been at that point. Only a handful of places allowed the vehicles to
pass across to the fields on NATO’s side of the lane, and the smoke from the
Czech vehicles were proving a double-edged sword. It shielded the vehicles on
the eastern side from view, but command and control went out of the window. In
dribs and drabs the fighting vehicles negotiated the gaps in the lane and
attempted to reform in their original unit formations on the far side, where
there was no cover that would allow that to happen.

The Hussar’s 1 Troop, the helicopter gunships and the
Coldstreamers Milan crews selected, and then destroyed, targets with ease until
the Romanians in desperation renewed their charge.

4 Company’s lines weren’t penetrated, the last vehicle
of that particular wave was despatched at about the same time as half a dozen
152mm shells landed just west of the lane, delivering a smoke screen that was
too thin and too late.

Jim Popham had control of the battalion well in hand
and there were no problems on the left of the battalion, but command of 3
Company was another matter.

The young officers commanding the company’s three
platoons were unsuitable candidates for command of a company, two were too
inexperienced and the third was badly wounded. Pat called the battalion CP and
ordered his Adjutant to grab a competent radio operator and come forward in a
Warrior to take command of the company before changing to the 3 Company net.
According to 9 Platoons commander his sergeant was calling in adjustments to
the artillery fire and eleven survivors of 8 Platoon, four of them wounded, had
made it out and into his location. The seven able bodied had been amalgamated
into his call sign and the wounded were being evacuated uphill to where Pat now
was. That at least was good news, and he went on to report that although 7
Platoon had been pinned in their trenches, the properly adjusted fires had
allowed them time to booby-trap their trenches before withdrawing, and they
were now moving to the rear of 9 Platoon in preparation to dig in.

Pat made his way forward and met 7 Platoon; toiling
under the burden of not just their own personal kit but boxes of link and extra
grenades, 51mm rounds, spare Milan rounds and 94mm LAWs. It was the platoons
cache of spare ammunition and all too precious to be abandoned or destroyed in
place. The quarried obstacle was drawing curses and the heavy stores had to be
passed up, hand over hand, before they could negotiate it, but the men worked
together well as a team and it was soon accomplished.

A couple of months before Pat could never have
conceived of fully functioning platoons made up of his guardsmen and American
paratroopers, the mind sets for one thing were almost alien to one another, and
the basic tactics that were second nature to these men of different army’s had
seemed at odds. Yet here he was looking at Yorkshiremen and Texans, Geordies
and Californians who seemed joined at the hip.

Pat’s orders were simply for them to dig in, tie in
again with the Argyll’s platoon on their right and have it all completed ten
minutes ago, if not sooner. They got on with it, without undue questions and
the very minimum of fuss, which allowed Pat to tag on behind the wounded as he
made his way back up slope in the failing light to where Timothy had now
arrived to assume command. Below him the artillery fires shifted from the
overrun positions to further east, where the next formation of enemy vehicles
had appeared. Pat paused for a moment, watching the enemy tanks spilling over
the edge of the hill across the valley, driving hard for the valleys floor.
There were just so damn many of them that it seemed for every Soviet vehicle
they killed another ten appeared in its place. He thought briefly of the
battalion his son was attached to, and thanked God that the Soviet’s had forced
their crossing to the south of the Light Infantry positions. He had enough
concerns without having to worry about his son’s safety too.

The ex-Adjutant, and now OC 3 Company, extended a hand
and pulled Pat up the last couple of feet onto level ground.

“Thank you Timothy, and apology’s for dragging you out
here but I needed someone with more seasoning than the company subalterns.”

Tim had taken stock of the situation and his radio
operator was already ensconced in the remains of the CP.

“I’m using this sir.” Timothy told his CO.

“It may have no top cover but it is at least below
ground level, and of course one dearly hopes that lightning will not strike
twice.”

Pat nodded his acceptance.

“It’s your company now so you do what you must?” The
more junior officer shrugged and then after a moment he spoke.

“You realise sir that this is now the weak link in the
line, the Hussars can only support us for so long before Soviet infantry start
taking them out. I don’t have the manpower left to defend them, and we cannot
hope to hold out against anything larger than an APC company unsupported?”

“I know that Timothy, and I want you to consider
pulling 9 Platoon back level with 7 when their position becomes untenable…it
will mean abandoning everything except their personal weapons and fighting
order, they couldn’t possible pull out in time
and
haul all that stuff up
here.”

Timothy nodded his agreement and Pat indicated the
little spur of ridge they were on.

“Whatever happens, you have to hold here…no more
withdrawal beyond here or they will roll up 4 Company from the flank. I am
going to pull a couple of men from each section in 1 and 2 Company and form a
quick reaction force in Warriors. Jim Popham will command it and I will have
him work his way into the trees next to the perimeter with the Argyll’s, so
shout when you are being most closely pressed and he will hit them in their
flank, hopefully breaking their attack.” The location in question was on the
same contour as the CP and the flattish ground that connected the two places
should make for a quick passage along the side of the hill by the vehicles.

There was just enough light for Pat to see his former
adjutant grin.

“Don’t worry sir, we’ll play the anvil to Jim’s hammer
and kick the bastards back down the hill.” With that he hurried down the slope
to speak with his platoon commanders before the next enemy formation arrived,
pausing only to give a cheerful wave before disappearing into the shadows.

Pat did not know it, but it was the last time he would
ever see Timothy alive. 

To the rear of Vormundberg, the 8 and 16 tonne Bedford’s
of the Hussar’s logistical support packed up and left the copse, moving forward
to the reverse slopes on the orders of Major Venables. In the past two hours
the Hussar’s squadron had lost a third of their number which made the time
spent reloading, and therefore out of action, a critical factor in the defence.

Mark did not know what had happened to the Soviet
artillery, he was just glad that it had, because he could now risk moving the
pallet loads of main gun rounds into what had previously been one of the enemy
gunners main target areas.

On arriving back on the forward slopes he had
immediately amalgamated the remnants of No.2 and 3 Troop before sending One
Three Bravo to reload.

There was no shortage of prepared firing positions but
he preferred to stay as close as possible to the battalions centre, and so
chose to sit behind cover and wait for the Romanian 93
^rd
Tank Regiment to come within range. He sat on top of the turret where he could
look across the valley, and he tried to ignore the stink of burnt rubber from
the charred hulk of One Two Charlie, which sat off to his right with flames
still feeding upon it.

Colonel Lužar had received radio orders to disengage
all but two companies from the intermittent, yet ordnance-consuming contacts that
had begun in the late afternoon. He was to turn around the greater part of his
command, prepare to advance to contact back towards the bridgehead, and he had
to have it done within an hour. It seemed unreal at first and he had felt the
need to ask for clarification not once, but twice.

He had naturally requested an RV with his First
Battalion in order to reunite his regiment, along with yet another request for
fuel. The first request was rejected out of hand but the second was granted, so
he asked for an ammunition replen too, and that was also granted.

He worried for the men he had to leave behind but as
night had fallen and the regiment moved out he was consoled with the thought
that he had done what he could. He had deliberately selected one of the best
company’s in the regiment for the least defensible area of the perimeter and
had replaced the commander of the second company with his steadiest company
commander. It was rough on the replaced man but Lužar wasn’t running for the
title of ‘Most Popular’.

The location given for their rendezvous with the fuel
and ammunition trucks was a firebreak in a forestry block, which happened to be
half a kilometre from the regiment’s current gun line. The commander of the
regiment’s battery of Akatsia 152mm howitzers was there to meet the regimental
commanders’ call sign when it arrived. Lužar clambered down to greet the of
ficer but it had quickly become clear that it was not
a social call. They strolled to a place out of earshot of the rest of the
troops and his officer then gave the real reason for his presence.

“Colonel, my guns are down to their last forty rounds
per barrel and the fuel situation has become worrisome. I wouldn’t mind if I
could get a straight answer from the logisticians as to what the problem is,
but I either get bullshit or told it is none of my concern.” It was too dark to
see his officer’s face but fr
om his tone
Colonel Lužar assumed that he had been having a frustrating time of it.

“How the hell can they say it is none of my concern?
I’m telling you sir if I had the rounds to spare I’d lob a few in their
direction!”

The shortage of both fuel and ammunition for the
battery was a serious issue, as they were the primary source of artillery fire
support for not just the battalion and a half that he had now, but also for the
two companies attempting to cover a regimental sized frontage back on the
perimeter.