Lion Resurgent (56 page)

Van Huis’s Platoon, Hills West of Mouth Kent, Falkland Islands.

“Now these are orders I like.” Captain Shumba Geldenhuys was almost chortling with delight. “I like Colonel Rigsby. ‘Pick your own ground and fight your own battle in support of the main column.’ A commander like him I can live with.”

As if in agreement with him, there was a hiss as the sleek Boomslang lowered itself on its suspension so that it was completely covered by the ridgeline in front. Then, its front elevated slightly so that its Mamba anti-tank missiles would clear the ridge when fired. It and the other three vehicles in the platoon commanded by Lieutenant Bastiaan van Huis were positioned so they could rake the Argentine advance with missile fire. The other two platoons and the headquarters section of two vehicles were also concealed in folds of the ground, waiting to take advantage of the Argentine moves as the battle developed.

Van Huis opened his commander’s hatch and looked carefully outside. His Boomslang had been positioned just so; far enough behind the ridge to make sure its concealment was as perfect as possible, far enough forward to allow the two missile gunners to see the battlefield with a minimum of dead ground. Behind him, he heard the whine as the two cylindrical missile launchers rotated, shifting the empty tube into the hull so that it could be loaded from the magazine beneath. The loaded tube rose from the hull into the ready-to-fire position. He swept his binoculars around him, checking out the two alternate positions he had scouted. One lay behind his present position, ready to be occupied if the Argentines advanced on the Boomslang. The other lay in front, ready to receive him if the Argentines fell back. He didn’t know, yet, which one he would use but he was aware that if he had the decision to make, he would have seconds only to make it. The answer to tank destroyers lurking in ambush was artillery fire on the positions they occupied.

“The observation positions on Mount Kent say the Argentine cavalry regiment is advancing on the British column’s position, broer.” Geldenhuys was on the radio again. “Estimated strength is fifty one M92 tanks in a single battalion and two battalions of infantry in armored carriers. Their artillery battery is moving to support the infantry attacking the Britse Mariniers so we will not have to worry overmuch about them. This will be a fight to tell your children about, broer.”

Headquarters Section, Mobile Column, West of Mount Kent

Fifty tanks.
The number rolled around Colonel Rigsby’s mind.
And I have fourteen in my main line plus another 14 in the ambush position. Plus the fourteen South African tank destroyers. Do they even things up a bit? And was I right to give that Griqua maniac his head?

“I hope the Afrikaaners come through Sir.” The comment from his aide echoed the thoughts running through Rigsby’s mind perfectly.

“You’ve talked to Shumba. He actually enjoys fighting; says it’s the only thing the Griqua do well. God knows, they have the experience we lack.”
Keen but green.
The words rolled through Rigsby’s mind in a dank echoing dirge.
We’ve never done anything like this before. At least, not since That Man took our honor away.

He had his own tanks arranged in a reverse L-shaped ambush. They would engage the Argentine M92s and then fall back. As they did, they would lure the enemy tanks into a fire trap made up from the flanking squadron that was angled off to his left. The Boomslangs were off to his right, he wasn’t quite sure where. That sounded strange, even to him, but Geldenhuys knew what the plan was and what his part in it had to be. How he did it was up to him. Off to his right and left were his two infantry companies, providing far-flank cover. Rigsby was gambling that the Argentine officer would make the standard mistake of all novices at warfare and load all his strength into a single punch.
Argentina hadn’t fought on the Russian Front and they wouldn’t have had the fundamental flaws in the ‘expanding torrent’ nonsense hammered home to them. God knows, the frozen hell of the Kola Front had to be worth something, didn’t it?

“First Troop reporting Argentine tanks in company strength with infantry support moving on them.”

Here we go.
Rigsby turned to his map and marked the position carefully. First Troop was out on the extreme right, its four Cavaliers dug in to cover the ground beyond with their long 20 pounders. To Rigsby’s eyes, despite claims that it was descended from pre-Second World War cruiser tanks, the Cavalier still bore marks of German heritage. It looked like a Panther and the 70-caliber 20-pounder reinforced the impression. The question was whether the gun would match up to the fast-firing semi-automatic 76mm guns on the American-made M92s. If it didn’t, then it would be up to the Boomslangs and their missiles.

First Troop, 14/20th King’s Hussars, West of Kent Mountain.

The five M92s were pushing forward towards his platoon positions with the rest of their company in overwatch. Captain Roland Stanford mentally wished himself the best of luck, recognizing that with four tanks against seventeen he was going to need it. “Open fire!”

The 20-pounders cracked. Their high velocity made the sound a high-pitched slap at the ears rather than the deeper rumble of artillery. The 84mm gun was small by the standards of the 120mm-armed Russian and American main battle tanks, but it was still adequate to deal with the light armor the Argentine Army deployed. His gunners had time to aim carefully and pick their shots. The results showed immediately. Three of the Argentine M92s stopped. Two belched black smoke as the crews bailed out; the third was left still and silent. The other two Argentine tanks had the muzzle flash from the 20-pounders to aim at. Their guns cracked rapidly. The barrage was joined by the tanks on overwatch. Stanford winced; a boiling cloud of black smoke told him that at least some of the rapid flurry of 76mm shots had struck home.

That was when something else also struck home. Stanford had the impression of something streaking across his vision, then a ripple of explosions along the Argentine overwatch positions. For a moment he thought he was getting unexpected air support. Then his mind clicked into gear and he realized what was happening. The Argentine overwatch position had been flanked by expertly-placed tank destroyers that were going about their business with grim efficiency. The first salvo of eight missiles had taken out five of the M92s and caused the rest to start firing smoke in an effort to avoid the destruction that was engulfing them. Perhaps the smoke had saved some. The second salvo of missiles took out only four of the survivors.

Up on the ridgeline used by the Argentine armor, the overwatch position was in utter chaos. Nine of the twelve tanks had been knocked out in a few seconds. Two of them were the company headquarters vehicles. Stanford watched with something close to glee as the two surviving tanks that had been probing his position backed up under cover of their smoke clouds and tried to rejoin their parent unit. They were finding that difficult. The shattered remnants of that unit were also retreating fast.

Van Huis’s Platoon, Hills West of Mouth Kent, Falkland Islands.

“Get out of there broer. Go to the forward position.” Geldenhuys’s voice over the radio was urgent.

“Ahead of you.” Van Huis was as good as his word. His Boomslangs were already accelerating backwards, sliding through the rocks as they abandoned their firing positions. The roar of the diesel engines and the whine of the missile launchers reloading was suddenly joined by the howl of inbound artillery fire. The positions they had just evacuated were swallowed up in a mass of white smoke, interlaced with the black clouds of shell bursts. Van Huis heard the rattling as fragments of rock and steel bounced off the Boomslang’s armor. “Artillery inbound.”

“Mortars, broer. If it was artillery you would have known it. Those are mortars from the infantry. That the crews are laying smoke to protect the tanks instead of supporting their infantrymen tells us much.”

The four Boomslangs moved off to the right, heading for their pre-scouted advanced position. From there, they would be able to fire into the rear of the Argentine attack force as it surged forward. Van Huis recognized the pattern that was developing as a classic encounter battle. British and Argentine forces, both moving forward, had collided. The honors would go to the force that could use the ground best. With their long-range anti-tank missiles, the company of tank destroyers were a vital part of the British battle plan. As befitted one of the heirs of South Africa’s largest arms producing conglomerate, van Huis felt quietly confident that his initial volley of missiles alone would guarantee a large follow-on order for his company. Of him actually living to see that order, he was far less confident.

Headquarters Section, Mobile Column, West of Mount Kent

“My God, our Griqua friend came through for us.” Rigsby was fascinated and a little appalled by the chaos caused by the missile volley. The Argentine tankers had been a bit too confident, a bit too convinced that infantry would not stand against their tanks.
Probably too many years of breaking up demonstrations and deposing governments. Internal security duties could be death on an Army’s ability to fight real wars.

“The Germans taught the world what a well-placed, well-commanded unit of tank destroyers could do to an armored force when the chips were down.” Major Albert Fitzgerald threw in the historical comment to cover his own shock at the devastation the South Africans had wrought on the lead company of the Argentine cavalry regiment.
The devastation we have wrought,
he corrected himself;
two thirds of the men in those Boomslangs are British.
Then he stopped and corrected himself again.
And not a few of the British are descendants of the Germans we took in after The Big One. Churchill was right when he called for magnanimity in victory. Now, that gesture is paying off.

“Stanford is falling back right now. If the Argies follow him in, we’ll have them in a pocket; under fire from both sides and the front.

Cross’s Platoon, Hills West of Mouth Kent, Falkland Islands.

“Make yourself calm.” Sergeant Anders Lehmkuhl spoke quietly to the young British officer. His grandfather had spoken of the bravery of young British officers who had fearlessly exposed themselves to fire in order to lead their men. And how those brave young officers had died from the fire of 7mm Mausers in the hands of expert shots. They had the time to do this thing right. Van Huis’s Platoon had drawn fire from the battalion mortars and it would take time for the battery to retarget. Behind them, the two missile gunners were using their electro-optical sights to try and pick out the command vehicles.

“Take them when you are ready, jongmens.” Geldenhuys’s voice over the radio was calmly reassuring. Cross’s Platoon had been almost back-to-back with van Huis’s. Together their missile salvoes would drive a wedge through the Argentine formation, splitting one of the Argentine infantry battalions away from the tanks in the center of their line.

“All vehicles, prepare to fire on three. One....two….three.” Despite being safely under cover, Cross ducked as the front of the Boomslang was covered in flame when the two missiles streaked out from their launchers. They dipped, then picked up speed as they crossed the two thousand yards of open ground towards their targets. Their targets were small four-wheeled armored personnel carriers. They were barely more than armored trucks armed only with a 7.65mm machine gun in a one-man turret. They had no real place on a battlefield dominated by tanks and missiles. The Mamba missiles tore them apart, sending them tumbling and burning into the rocks. Through his surveillance sight, Cross saw wheels detaching from the burning hulks and rolling down slopes until they tumbled and fell sideways into the rocks.

The second flash of flame made him duck again, causing him to forget that he was securely inside the Boomslang’s command cupola. “Back, let’s get out of here before the Argies do something we might regret.”

The Boomslangs backed away, spinning on their suspensions and heading forward. In front of them, the British infantry in their Bulldog armored personnel carriers were also moving forward into the gap carved by the Boomslang’s missile fire. The whole Argentine left wing was crumbling under the impact of the assault. The troops there were milling around helplessly. The destruction of their command facilities made any attempt to organize a defense against the British assault hopeless. In the encounter battle that was taking place, the British force was quickly moving to dominate the battlefield.

First Troop, 14/20th King’s Hussars, West of Kent Mountain.

The fast-firing 76mms were killing him. The Cavaliers would get off single shots and receive half a dozen in reply. That disparity had already cost him three of his four tanks. Stanford guessed that his own wagon would be next. After the probe by the first company of Argentine tanks had been pushed back, the other two companies had funneled into the gap and they’d made short work of his troop. There had been no repeat of the missile salvo that had crucified the first group of enemy tanks. Stanford guessed that the Boomslangs were repositioning. That was what tank destroyers did. They would fire from ambush and then slip away to repeat the dose at another time and place.

His own tank was also repositioning, driven out of its previous hull-down location by the advance of the Argentine M92s. He was running out of options. The ground behind him was open and if he fell back from here, he would be caught exposed and the M92s would make short work of him. And of the rest of A Squadron, what was left of it. They’d started with 14 tanks. Now they had five. Stanford took another quick look through his commander’s sight and slumped slightly with relief. B Squadron had entered the battle at last and its flanking fire was pouring into the Argentine tanks. Then he saw the thing he valued most of all, the salvo of more than a dozen missiles tearing across the ground and decimating the Argentine formation. Best of all, the missiles were coming from behind the Argentine formation, closing their tanks in a ring of fire.