ARMAGEDDON'S SONG (Volume 3) 'Fight Through' (52 page)

Something serious had gone awry, he was certain of
that now, but what he could not do was confide his opinions to his officers and
men.

The colonel was able only to promise that he would
speak with the commander of the supply unit that was serving them, and try to
extract a few gallons for the battery’s self-propelled guns and he took his
leaving of the artilleryman. It occurred to him that these supply troops may
well have information for him too, that they could indeed know the whereabouts
of First Battalion. They may be on detached duty but they were still his men
and he could at least find where they were operating, and perhaps even the radio
frequencies they were using in order to listen into their fortunes.

At the supply unit commander’s vehicle h
e found the officer constrained by the presence of a
colonel of field police who was there to thwart the unauthorised issue of fuel,
ammunition or the answers Lužar wanted, but his driver had been more
forthcoming. They had fuelled First Battalion after its detachment from the
rest of the regiment and the battalion was supposed to have RV’d with them
again two hours before, but had never shown up.

The driver confirmed that they had tried and failed to
make radio contact and he supplied the frequencies to Colonel Lužar who’d
uttered his thanks and left.

His own driver and his gunner were sat on top of the
turret looking grim, and as he climbed up to join them he found out why.

“You two look like you are about to open a vein
each…what is it now?”

The enlisted men exchanged glances and then his driver
spoke

“Fuel sir…”

“Ammunition sir.” his gunner interrupted, pausing only
to shrug an apology to his crewmate.

“We haven’t used that much in the way of main gun
rounds but others have, and they didn’t get full racks from the replen sir,
just four rounds each.”

Keeping his features neutral Lužar gestured to his
driver to speak, although he knew he wouldn’t like what he was about to be told.

“The fuel trucks aren’t topping anyone’s tanks off
sir, they didn’t fill us up they’re just ensuring we have three quarters
of a tank each. It’s like the bastards are paying for
the stuff out of their own pockets.”

It was worse than he’d thought if they hadn’t the
wherewithal to fully replenish the force they were counting on to put right the
wrongs. It had to be the logistics, he reasoned, somehow NATO had compromised
the supply lines.

It took time for the ammunition and fuel trucks to
visit every remaining vehicle in the regiment. In daylight it was a time
consuming business, but at night under tactical conditions of absolutely no
naked light to assist the process it was a drawn out process. Eventually of
course the replenishment was completed and they moved out of the woods and into
open countryside.

According to Colonel Lužar’s reckoning they had
eighteen miles to cover befor
e reaching
the bridgehead, and a tank could drink a lot of fuel covering that distance, so
it came as something of a surprise to his battalion and company commanders when
he did not choose to rely on a flank guard and forward screen to provide
security for the bulk of the regiment so it could use the more fuel economical
roads. 

43
^rd
MRR moved off the road and into arrowhead formation
behind a screen of reconnaissance vehicles and before long everyone from
Lieutenant Colonels to lowly private soldiers had caught on to their regimental
commanders’ mood. They moved in expectation of making contact with the enemy at
any time, be it in the shape of a meeting engagement or a prepared defence.

The first indication of what they were up against came
half an hour la
ter, the recce screen
called up with a sitrep and a map reference that Lužar ordered his driver to
make for.

The dark shapes on fire damaged tarmac were all that
remained of a convoy of over forty vehicles and Lužar dismounted in order to
better investigat
e. There were no signs
of the myriad cratering that would have accompanied an attack using cluster
bomb units; a force had ambushed these vehicles on the ground he concluded.

He returned to his vehicle and they continued onwards
until coming upon another convoy to have fallen to direct fire from the ground.
The vehicles were all burnt out, carrying the scars of bullet and shell but not
of the artillery or aerial variety. Shell craters were few. It was the first of
many such scenes. More convoys, artillery gun lines, logistics dumps and AAA
sites had also fallen victim and the 43
^rd
MRR passed them all.

At ten miles back from the bridgehead they found the
first signs of enemy casualties, a burnt out Leopard tank stood at the edge of
a turnip field whilst extending away from it into the distance were its
killers. They were also dead, killed by the Canadians heavier main gun that
would have sent projectiles through their light armour with ease.

Weight of numbers had given the Soviet’s a costly
victory; accounting for that Leopard, one other and also a trio of TOW equipped
vehicles.

It was difficult for Colonel Lužar to describe the
emotions he was feeling as he regarded the corpses of BTRs, their crews, and
the light tanks that were so easily recognisable due to their flat-topped
turrets.

43
^rd
Motor Rifle Regiment had found its missing battalion.

Regimental reconnaissance elements had crossed through
the field several minutes before Colonel Lužar and his command group arrived.
The armoured recce vehicles leapfrogged forward, moving quickly and efficiently
to the next piece of cover, to await the command to resume the advance.

In perfect cover, the Canadian’s of the 2
^nd
Mechanised Brigade watched the specialist reconnaissance BTRs cautious
movements, and in particular they noted where they disappeared into cover upon
crossing the turnip field.

Several minutes went by without further movement. Five
minutes became twenty.

“Hello Six Nine, this is Nine, radio check, over?”

2Lt Ferguson was peering down a Swiftscope, a scope
previously sited by his platoon sergeant who had ensured the lens was in deep
shadow before he had allowed the officer to use it.

The call was repeated twice before a slightly testy
note appeared in the voice.

“Hello Six Nine, this is
Nine
, radio
check, over?”

A lance corporal nudged the young officer.

“That means you, sir!” he hissed.

“Er, Six Nine okay thanks…over.” 2Lt Ferguson saw the
NCO shake his head in disbelief, and he cringed inwardly at having screwed up
basic voice procedure, and to the commanding officer, of all people.

There was a pause at the other end as the CO wished down
a plague of boils upon all ‘subbies’.

“Nine okay, sitrep over?”

“Six Nine, no movement, no movement at all, over…oh
hang on, I can see someone.”

A single figure had appeared, striding across the
field. He was wearing camouflage clothing just as soiled and muddy as the
concealed Canadians wore, but his steel helmet and uniform was that of the
enemy.

Young Ferguson could see him in quite sharp detail
through the scope. He walked unconcernedly, empty handed, apparently unarmed,
and also in need of a shave and a few square meals.

Six hundred metres distant from Ferguson, the enemy
soldier stopped walking but did not take cover; he instead extracted cigarettes
from a breast pocket and lit up, staring across at the woodland where the
hidden Canadians waited.

With his attention on the lone soldier, Lt Ferguson
all but missed the objects flying outwards from the same cover the BTRs had
moved into. Smoke belched out, creating a dense screen that hid the enemy
vehicles and the lone soldier. The Canadians heard the sound of the eight
wheelers reversing.

A breeze carried away the smoke to reveal the enemy
soldier once more, and behind him could be glimpsed one of the BTRs, still
backing away.

Colonel Lužar finished his cigarette and sent it spinning
away with a flick of a finger. He unzipped his smock, pulling out a soft,
cloth, uniform cap bearing his regiments badge proudly, at which point he
removed his helmet.

Ferguson watched the hatless s
oldier regard it for a moment, and then to his surprise
toss it casually aside.

Pulling the old uniform cap into place, Leo Lužar
turned his back on an enemy he knew was out there somewhere, and walked back
the way he had come.

Arkansas Valley, Nebraska, USA.

Henry Shaw had become the sounding board for a fair
percentage of those in the situation room, as the battle for Germany developed.
He maintained a poker face as events across the Atlantic were depicted on the
big screen, yet still there were those who would look from the screen to his
face to try and divine from his expression how good or bad things were
going.  Surely they couldn’t have thought everything was rosy, when air
raids got through and dropped two of the main road bridges across the Rhine and
the Weser that 4 Corps was reliant upon to get to the front?

It wasn’t all bad news; the data stream from JSTARS
was showing a comprehensively beaten Romanian battalion backing away from the
British 2
^nd
Battalion Light Infantry, thanks to damn good liaison
and teamwork between all the Arms involved, not just that battalion of
infantry.

Initially the artillery, tanks, and the attached Lynx
and Apache helicopters had allowed the Romanians of the 112
^th
Motor Rifle Regiments tank battalion to cross the valley floor unhindered by
themselves, whilst the battered but still defiant parachute companies of the
French 2REP, who were dug in to the front of the Brits, had held the enemy’s
attention. 112
^th
MRR thought they were about to bulldozer the thin
line of legionnaires that had been stinging them ever since they had crossed
the crest of the east side of the valley. However, at 2000m the British had
unleashed a textbook perfect TOT, with every weapon they possessed which had
the range. The Romanians ran into a wall of fire from Milan, Hellfire, TOW, 120mm
sabot and 155mm improved munitions.

The Legions parachute companies had successfully
withdrawn through the Light Infantry and sixty percent of 112
^th
’s
tank company had been destroyed, the remainder were fleeing and had become
entangled with the battalion following on, spoiling the momentum of that units
attack and providing the defenders with a target rich environment of armoured
fighting vehicles milling about in confusion.

Further east the Canadian and French brigades had done
well too, despite some of the critical comments coming from armchair warriors
in this very room.

It was perfectly true that looking at the information
currently available they could indeed have ranged further west towards the
front and destroyed more artillery lines, fuel and ammunition dumps. However,
the commanders of those two units did not have the benefit of digitally
enhanced hindsight that their critics enjoyed. The commanders on the ground had
to take a decision on how far their raiding parties could stretch their luck, before
they ran into an armoured force and not just middle aged reservists doling out
rations and rounds.

Henry’s job today, when he wasn’t answering questions
from the President, was not to look concerned.

“General Shaw?”

Henry turned from the board and saw that the President
was stood away from the main knot of onlookers and had a coffee mug in both
hands. There was presently no sign of his physician.

He apparently wanted a word, and in comparative
privacy too.

“Mr President?”

“It’s looking better, don’t you think
?…
I mean those divisions are totally cut off, boxed in on
two sides and 4 Corps was been slowed but not stopped?”

“They can still win, sir.”

The President was silent and in thought for a long
moment, but he made no attempt to offer the spare mug to Henry.

“By this time tomorrow sir our airborne operation will
have begun to degenerate into guerrilla warfare as the paratroops run short of
ammunition and anti-tank weapons in particular.”

The President winced and Henry was unsure whether it
was his words as much as the heat of the coffee mugs burning the President’s
hand. He relieved the President of one mug and smiled when he saw the printing
and logo on the side. However, after taking a sip he continued.

“The French and Canadians at the river have only a
small ammunition and fuel reserve. The Soviet’s won’t have to get creative when
they attack them either, there will be no elaborate pincer moves to pin them in
place because there is no need, the Elbe is doing that for them anyway. So you
see Mr President, it all comes down to Vormundberg and how long they can hold
because the centre of that line is creaking under the strain.”