Soldiers and Marines Saga, page 46
Sieman joined us. He says he has sixty-two men left with thirteen TOWs and four SAMs. The trucks that dropped him off a couple of days ago were supposed to bring back reinforcements and supplies but haven’t been heard from since.
With a lot of shouting and arm waving and roaring motorcycles Feucht’s skirmishers spread out all along Delta’s line of Pattons. The grenadiers were already feverishly digging two man positions every forty or so yards just inside the tree line. If we have time we’re going to have to send a couple of men out to get water from the creek. It’ll probably be full of cow shit and cause a lot of stomach aches and the shits but we’re all starting to get really thirsty.
******
This appears to be a pretty good location to make a stand. It’s obviously some kind of tree farm since it’s full of half-grown trees set in orderly rows. According to my map the tree farm itself is almost exactly a kilometer wide and a kilometer deep. On one side of the trees are a couple of old stone farm houses similar to the one in the field in front of us, on the other side there is a flowing creek with muddy banks that looks like it might bog down a tank trying to cross it. I sure hope so because it might help keep those Russian motherfuckers off our flank.
A narrow bridge crosses the creek, probably for the farmers’ tractors and shit, but I’d sure be worried about driving a car over it, let alone a tank or loaded truck. Best of all, except for where the farm houses and their out buildings block our view it’s far enough from here to the trees in front; the muthas shootin Saggers will have to get their asses out in the open to shoot at us.
About five kilometers of open farm land and then another kilometer of trees are behind the forest of trees where we’re hiding. There are a couple more farm houses and barns in the open area. From looking at the map it appears that we have backed up smack dab into the middle of the best route for the Russians to take to break into the open. No wonder the Russians are trying to come this way.
Feucht is digging in with us. He is going to send a few of his men at a time to leave their motorcycles at the edge of the open area behind us. He’ll leave a couple of his guys back there to watch the open area to our left where the two farm houses are.
I sure wish I had some kind of bulldozer to dig some holes for my tanks so they can be hull down when the shooting starts. But I don’t and that’s that.
The Russians showed up less than an hour after the skirmishers rumbled into our positions. A T-62 popped out of trees on the other side of the field, and then hurriedly backed up to get out of sight. We weren’t ready so we didn’t fire; besides it would have been a pretty long shot. So far no Russian helicopters have shown up. Maybe theirs, like ours, are up north supporting the new invasion.
I sure hope they’re all up north. We’re sitting ducks here if their goddamn attack helicopters come after us; we’re wolves if they don’t. All I can do is tell the two tank commanders that still have SAMs to keep theirs ready and pray they know how to use them. Why the fuck did I ever join the army?
About twenty minutes later, while we’re still trying to rig our camouflage nets and waiting for the last of Feucht’s men to return, there was a lot of tank noise to our front. A couple of minutes later Russian tanks, mostly T-62s and a few T-72s, and other armor began streaming out of the trees across the way. Each of the tanks had infantry walking behind them. There were still no helicopters and the Russians did not stop to soften us up with mortars or artillery. Maybe they don’t know we are here.
“T-62s coming out of the trees in front,” is the first report I put out over the battalion net. A few seconds later I watched half a dozen or more move into the open area in front of us and so did everyone else. It’s the lead elements of what is obviously a major attack. Holy shit.
We’re far enough back in the trees far that each of our tanks can only see the Russian armor directly in front of it. The Germans were still feverishly digging in about fifty yards in front of us even after the Russians started coming out of the trees.
“Take the fuckers in front,” I yelled into my radio mike on the company net. “Fire.”
It’s chaos. I’m back far enough into the trees that I can see only a couple of tanks and armored vehicles with a bunch of infantry right behind them. Probably BTRs, Russian armored troop carriers. Almost instantly Freddy fired and the closest Russian tank, a T-62, slewed to one side, as if it was pulled by a giant hand, and began spewing black smoke rings.
“Good going, Freddy, you got the fucker.”
I’m keeping the hatch open and working the fifty whenever I see someone. The noise around us was overwhelming by the time, a few seconds later, Freddy gets off another shot. Nothing. Damn. Then there is a whooshing roar right past my fucking ear as the T-62 behind the smoker gets off a miss. Close, but no cigar. Motherfucker. Then Freddy shoots again. This time it’s a hit and the T-62 goes up in a catastrophic explosion.
“Back up fifty,” I scream.
A second later I almost lose my balance as we lurched backwards. Now my vision is really narrowed because we are deeper in the trees. But then another Russian armored vehicle came into view through the narrowing corridor between the trees we’ve pushed over. This time it’s a BTR. Once again we lurch as Freddy fires and once again he misses. It’s still coming.
“Goddamn your white ass, Freddy, aim the goddamn thing.”
This time he does and the BTR grinds to a halt. I could see men attempting to escape out the rear of the BTR so I tried to hose them off with the fifty, at least those I can see through the trees. Most of the motherfuckers stayed behind the BTR and I couldn’t reach them. I doubt I got any of them.
Then nothing. I can’t see enough of the open area in front. We moved too far back.
“Move up thirty.” I screamed into my mike.
Once again I almost lost my balance as we lurched forward. Seconds later I could see much more of the open field and again started in with the fifty at some guys I saw dive behind a bump in the field. Then Freddy rotates the turret toward another target. Another BTR. Missed. Seconds later he got it with his second shot.
“Move up another twenty.” I shout. Back to where we started with the grenadiers. Should’a stayed there.
We’re still in the woods behind the infantry but now, at least, I can see what’s shaking. The grenadiers and skirmishers obviously waited until the Russians were well within range before they began firing. There are destroyed T-62s and Russian motherfuckers running everywhere. And the T-62s that aren’t destroyed are moving back and sending up smoke to cover their retreat. The din of the grenadiers’ small arms firing is overwhelming. It’s a turkey shoot. Damn, this is fun.
The last thing I heard was the first microsecond of a tremendous clanging “Wham.”
******
Owens and Muller were both active on the early pre-dawn morning of the fourth day. Owens lifte off at 0515 with the Green Giants’ seven remaining F-15s and Muller came off at 0522 with his squadron’s six surviving Typhoons. They all headed north: The Eurofighter Typhoons to attack Russian and East German armor; the F-15s to protect the Typhoons from being jumped while they work them over.
Some of the pilots are hoping their AWACS controllers will vector them to pick off SU-27s as they rush northward. The rest have already had enough excitement. They just want to go home.
The Typhoons and F-15s are headed north as dawn breaks because, according to the Green Giant’s mission briefer, an all-out fight is raging up there for daytime air supremacy and to provide ground support for our troops being hit by a new enemy offensive. Unlike the hours of darkness when NATO planes control the skies, no one is in total control of the daytime skies. Aerial fights are constant and everywhere—and we have a huge advantage because we’ve got AWACS and they don’t.
“Big eye. Jolly One with six.”
“Jolly element, I have trade for you.”
“Jolly One.” I acknowledge. Hey, it’s our limey lady friend in the AWACS.
“Steer one oh five maintain six zero.”
“One oh five and sixty.” Wonder what’s up? Don’t normally head this way.
“Multiple targets lifting off Warsaw military. Ident unknown.”
“Jolly One” uh oh. Hope not too many?
“Jolly Element steer three three zero. Thirty plus targets. Distance two two zero. Recommend Buster. Expect links in one six two.” Thirty plus?
Owens clicks his mike to acknowledge and glues his eyes to his green display.
“Jolly Element, Targets now forty plus. Some targets turning towards you and accelerating. Possible SU-27s. Recommend you shoot at maximum distance, then continue to primary objective without engaging. Links in twenty-three.”
Owens clicked again. Then he spoke very calmly in a matter of fact voice. “Jolly Element shoot spread when link. Then proceed buster to primary. Stay in your pairs.”
Twenty-three seconds later the screens of the six Green Giants lit up with firing links. Owens instantly fired his two sparrows at the two on-rushing SU-27 blips on the far left. The other Green Giants fired almost simultaneously. Then Owen’s plane automatically began evasive maneuvers and popping chaff and flares as his “vampires in the air” threat warning began beeping and flashing.
The other Green Giants’ planes all did the same thing as they too fired at their assigned targets.
Twelve Sparrows and numerous Russian missiles are in the air. Ten seconds later Owens sees only sees the blip of his wing man on his monitor and an empty sky as he rushes north. Then he saw the blips of three more Green Giants on his screen.
“Christ, I lost two. Who?
“Chuckie is hit…Chuckie punching..,” was suddenly shouted into his ears. Behind him, unseen, parts of seven Russian and American planes are dropping towards the ground. There were only two parachutes. Then another Green Giant blip drops off his area display.
“Jolly Element turn zero two zero. Multiple targets at four five and descending. Links coming. There they are.
Owens responded in a stable and assured voice.
“Jolly Element. Pattern Three.” That means spread out and get as many as you can any way you can and then disengage and break for home without waiting to reform.
Everything seems to be happening in slow motion as Owens, with his threat warning screaming rapid beeps, fires one and then another of his four remaining Sidewinders and then begins firing his guns at a Sukhoi making a climbing turn in front of him. Missed.
Owens grunted and his pressure suit tightened as he reefed around to come back through and head for home. He completed his turn just in time to collide with one of the Sukhoi Su-27s coming the other way.
****** General Roberts
NSA reports the Warsaw Pact has already lost almost twenty-nine hundred of its frontal aviation planes, including more than twelve hundred in the disastrous first twenty-four hours alone. To the extent they are available replacements are now coming in from bases all over the Soviet Union. Tellingly, the Russian pilots are only flying during the day. NATO totally owns the night.
Jim Macefield says we’ve lost just over four hundred planes, four hundred and twelve according to his latest tally, of which just over three hundred and fifty are fighters, fighter-bombers, and ground support A10s. And we’ve got a problem according to Jim—our surviving planes are beginning to go out of service for repairs as a result of being flow around the clock for four straight days.
On the plus side, a steady stream of fighter and fighter bombers squadrons and replacement planes is flowing out of New England bound for Iceland and then on to our fields in Germany. Over six hundred additional planes, including America’s newest, have arrived since the war began four days ago.
That’s really good news. It means the number of NATO planes and squadrons in West Germany has actually increased since the war started. Moreover, the first fighters, Tomcats from an American carrier, the Enterprise, are expected to reach Scotland tonight. Sometime tomorrow the first carrier-based navy and Marine pilots will reach airbases in Germany and get their first taste of the air war. The Pacific Fleet carriers and their planes are only now just passing Cuba.
Chapter Nine
By early afternoon it was clear that the Warsaw Pact’s northern invasion had two distinct parts and they are each heading in a different direction. One was headed almost straight north: The Russians were attacking out of East Germany and moving up the Elbe valley towards Hamburg on the north side of the Elbe; the East Germans are attacking north towards Hamburg on the west side of the river.
All five of the Russian and East German columns attacking up the Elbe valley towards Hamburg made some progress in the first few hours. But then they meet strong resistance on both sides of the Elbe and their advances fizzled out before they got very far. Little wonder in that—strong German and British forces are in good positions in front of Hamburg on both sides of the Elbe. Klausen and I expect them to hold their ground.
It is too early to be absolutely certain about the direction and intentions of the other Warsaw Pact forces involved in the northern invasion. So far they seem to be heading southwest towards Hannover and Frankfurt—and they increasingly appear to be the Warsaw Pact’s main thrust in the north.
At least it feels that way to me since the heaviest fighting seems to be occurring as the bulk of the East German divisions attack southwest towards Hannover and Frankfurt instead of moving northwest towards Hamburg in support of the columns moving north on both sides of the Elbe.
It is there in the northern part of West Germany, not the Fulda Pass or the Danube Valley, where Klausen and I increasingly expect the Warsaw Pact armies to ultimately concentrate their efforts and forces. Spelling and the Pentagon staff are still not so sure. They’ve been listening to the senior armor guys and still like the Fulda Pass for the Warsaw Pact’s main effort. They think the fighting in the north is a diversion. I can only hope they are wrong—we need the fighting in the north to be important and successful so it draws the Warsaw Pact's reserves away from the Baltic coast.
East German forces moving southwest towards Hannover and Frankfurt means the heaviest and deepest attacks are falling on the relatively small French-led portion of the NATO line.
The French-commanded Northern Army Group is not just French, of course. It also contains troops from NATO countries such as Britain, Canada, Belgium, and the Netherlands. There is even a strong contingent of superb Australians.
Our allies are in the thick of it and, if the initial reports are correct, under great pressure and already giving ground.
In reality, however, the main defenders in this part of the north, as is the case everywhere on the ground, are the West Germans. More specifically, the key defenders against a southwesterly push towards Hannover and Frankfurt are three superbly equipped and led German armored infantry divisions and their new Marine brigades. Marines are also embedded as brigades with the British and French-led divisions.
It’s not an accident that the German divisions and the Australians have been carefully placed so they can fill any gaps that develop if, as I expect, the main Warsaw Pact onslaught falls on their French-speaking allies.
****** Stabstfeldwebel Peter Scheck
Sixty-seven year old Peter Scheck is a seriously overweight farmer from a small village near the Austrian border. He spent twenty-two years in the Bundeswehr, rising to the rank of stabstfeldwebel in the supply service before finally retiring to take over his family’s small farm when his father died.
Scheck’s old comrade, and secret one-time lover when they were much younger, sixty-five year old Ernst Dollmunder, spent years as a civilian cook in the kaserne near Munchen, the very same kaserne where Peter spent almost all his military career. They first met as teenage soldiers. It’s an intimate personal history neither of them has mentioned to the other for years.
When the war threatened Ernst called Peter from Mannheim and shamed him into volunteering to rejoin. Actually, he probably would have volunteered anyhow. Life as a farmer in a small village is boring. Truth be told, I’m almost glad there is a war. At least I’m away from Hilde.
The two old comrades are sitting at the edge of the “forest fortress” on the trunk of a recently cut tree that is being used to block one of the narrow dirt walking paths that run through the forest. At the moment they are looking in quiet contentment at two deer, probably does they agree, who are slowly crossing the little grassy open space in front of them. All in all, they agree as they sit and smoke and watch the deer in the meadow, it is a beautiful pastoral scene.
They are sitting on an unusually big tree for Germany. That’s because the forest is a nature preserve whose relatively rocky mountain land has, for the past twenty years or more, been left to regain its natural state. With only a few dirt roads through it, the nature preserve is one of the few such “wild” areas in West Germany. It is also near the border with East Germany and the new home of a “forest fortress” staffed by old soldiers and civilian volunteers.
This is so peaceful. I wonder if I can get a job here as a forstmeister or something when the war is over and never go back to that damned farm.
Peter and Ernst, like the other volunteers, have each been issued an old American rifle, an M1, and told they will get uniforms soon. Their rifles, unloaded and not even cleaned yet because there are no cleaning supplies, are leaning against an even older and rustier deserted tank that had been towed in and placed about thirty yards away at the edge of the meadow. So is the old American bazooka that Karl Moritz, the third member of their sentry post, left propped up against the tank when he wandered off to take a shit in the woods and get some lunch.
The two old comrades are discussing politics as they often do, Peter being a sometime Christian Democrat and Ernst a staunch socialist. As always, they agree on the German basics: Foreigners are trouble, taxes are too high, and all politicians are useless and self-serving crooks.
They are supposed to be sentries and use the old field telephone by the tank to report if they see anything. Unfortunately they are so busy talking and smoking and watching the deer that they never hear a thing until a voice behind them says “Hande Hoch.”
