Rinaldi

Not dead, just busy. Sorry all. Had some trouble storyboarding this one too. Let's continue.
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Rally Point Zulu, 1600 hours, July 16th. Southwest of Schlüchtern.
CPT Sharp watched the vehicles enter the clearing in the woods. They came in at first in drips and drabs, waved in by MPs to camouflaged positions beneath the trees. He had already been at the rally point for about an hour, the result of hurried orders the night before to take his Company across the divisional boundary line. His triangular “SPEARHEAD” insignia made it obvious he was not where he normally should be, to be sure, but it was the presence of 11 squat, evil-looking tanks with their angular cheek plates that truly made his command stand out. For the tired GIs rolling in, it was the first sign that something was up. The next indication that the game was afoot was the image of the COL, their Brigade commander, standing on the engine deck of one of the tanks. Fists balled on his hips, he stood like a statute as his battalion coiled into the perimeter, eyes following one vehicle at a time. 

Sharp had initially thought the unit had been truly roughly handled, given how the initial men coming in had looked extremely disorganised and spread out. By 1630 however, entire platoons, and then companies, were rolling into the rally point. He made a quick count of the companies. The Alpha and Bravo callsigns looked to be down about a platoon of vehicles but clearly remained combat effective. Charlie and Delta looked a bit worse for wear, with several of the platoons down to only two vehicles each, one M113 coming in with an entire squad riding on top of it, Soviet style. Overall, 2-8 INF looked to have weathered the first 48 hours of fighting phenomenally well. A CPT of similar shape and build to himself was moving between the companies, hurriedly organising cross-munitions loading and refuelling, sharing a quiet word with the company leaders. Sharp was watching the man intently when he sensed, more than saw, the COL approach him.
“There’s your man. CPT Booth. We’ll speak to him.” the COL spoke in practical monosyllables. His stern countenance and greying side-hair did nothing to mask the obvious fatigue and strain.
“Where’s the LT COL, sir?”
“There is none.” A tightening of the jaw. Clearly a sore subject.
“Further, you are to take a platoon equivalent of your tanks and have them liaise with the C Company commander. They are to escort the unit to The Citadel.”
Escort? The CPT was about to inquire but the COL, sensing the question, pre-empted him.
“Soviets scattered company sized air assault units to hell and back all over the MSR. Once your detached tanks have reached the Citadel, they are to refuel, and begin running ROADRUNNERs of Brigade trains forward. Now, come with me…”
What followed was the most “fragmentary” FRAGO Sharp had ever received. All semblance of good order and TOC-based SOP clearly thrown away by the expedients and urgency of the situation. The orders were entirely verbal, and CPT Booth received them almost without emotion, utterly passive. A few quiet questions from him, and in less than 3 minutes, the briefing was complete. It took another 5 minutes to organise a quick movement-to-contact, hashing out a map-based scheme with an overlay draped across the hood of a jeep. It was all so insanely hurried, that Sharp could feel a building pressure in his sinuses. It was insane, but it was nevertheless a scene being repeated all over the FRG, from the Baltic coast to the Alps.
Their orders were simple: NLT 1700 hours, 2-8 INF (-) to move towards Schlüchtern and ascertain the goals and strength of the Soviet second echelon. If possible, fix and destroy the lead elements, observe, report, retreat. Destroy key communications infrastructure.
A raid, a classic counterpunch. Unsurprisingly, Sharp’s unit would form the main punching power of the ad-hoc force, right in the centre of the line. CPT Booth organised his unit into three rough company teams. 

1LT Noonan would lead B Team essentially unchanged, but newly reinforced by two replacement M60A1s and crews. Their objective was to probe towards Elm, on the right flank, secure it and shoot up the lead elements of any force that approached it. CPT Sharp, with a platoon of infantry cross attached from A/2-8 INF would advance through the village of Drasenberg to secure the hamlet of Gromfritz. This would secure a massive central ridge that dominated Route 66. They were to form BPs and engage by fire any lead Soviet elements they encountered.  CPT Guidry would lead A team; his own company less a platoon of tanks and infantry, and establish an ambush at an underpass, securing the TF's right flank.  The scheme was, in all reality, a guessing game. Sharp also noticed with trepidation that it left a massive gap in a forest series of side roads that could squeeze an enemy unit between his team and Noonan’s. Booth was banking on the Soviets sticking to doctrine. It made him uneasy; he would absolutely try to squeeze part of his own unit through there. He knew, though, that Booth’s assumption of risk made absolute sense. The Soviets were fighting and thinking in SOPs and frontages, and nothing suggested that was going to change. The plan, of course, was set to parry what was the presumed Soviet objectives.

Successfully parrying their attempt to regain momentum after Neuhof could create opportunities for further exploit. Delay, delay, delay the COL had stressed in his brief talk. The Soviets couldn’t afford it. Their mission was to create one.
1700 Hours, July 16th. Route 66, Forward Edge of the Battle Area, near Elm.  
They were shortly to be in sight of their objectives, free from the claustrophobic environs of the tree-lined roads they were marching up in extended columns. The first sign that the enemy was near were the sign of Hinds, flitting just above the canopies in the distance. Whatever they were looking for, they were not particularly vigilant. Though .50 cals and Vulcans tracked the targets, they passed on without incident. 2-8 INF fanned out as they exited from the treelines, the individual companies heading for their targets.

Radio silence lifted, as planned, and Sharp ensured one of his radios was monitoring the Battalion net. He was immediately greeted by a clearly frustrated Noonan trying to prevent his company from fragmenting in the difficult terrain. The inexperienced company leader was clearly suffering from the pressure. Sharp just prayed he would settle down before any contact, which was so clearly imminent. He didn’t want his flank twisting in the wind.

More satisfactorily, at 1706 the reports came in from Guidry that his unit was at their destination and deploying in ambush. That’s one flank secured, at least. A small sense of relief. The slow winding-up of tension briefly paused. Sharp continued to scan from his cupola, straining every nerve as his unit wound its way up towards their first checkpoint. Adding to the pressure was the knowledge that the ersatz-CO was riding with him. The battalion net continued to squawk with terse reports and replies, 2LT Clausen, from Noonan’s team, was in position in the high ground to the left of Elm. The pieces were falling into place.

In his own sector, things were going equally well. They had passed through Drasenberg without incident, slowly leapfrogging in sections of tanks and APCs through it. They had won the race for the high ground.

Then, a burst of chatter:
“Bravo Two Tango reports contact with enemy BMP. Am engaging”
“Roger Bravo Two. Continue to report. Bravo Two push your tracks into Elm, hustle” came Booth’s response.
Contact! Sharp looked down at his wristwatch, a modern digital watch his old man had bought him a year before, its chunky plastic band being perfect for the hazardous interior of a M1 tank. It was 1708 hours.  He looked over, his right-flanking callsign oriented its turret ever so slightly more to the right, but otherwise, the fight was Noonan’s concern.


“One times BMP destroyed. Visual on platoon sized element of enemy tangoes. Continuing to engage” calm and collected, Bravo team’s tank platoon leader continued to narrate the battle. Sharp listened intently, as was everyone else on the net. 

By 1711 enough information had come in for Booth to issue orders. Largely superfluous as they were, they reconfirmed the initial scheme. B Team were to put up a shield at Elm, where they had clearly hit the enemy CRP, and therefore the likely main enemy axes of advance. Guidry was to stay firm with A team.

Sharp, for his part, had slowly been leapfrogging his company team; three Abrams moving near-silently along the reverse slope of the hill whilst the rest of the company waited just behind Drasenberg. His lead platoon leader, 1LT Rose, had already reported a good approach route. He quickly issued hurried orders via the company net; confident Booth’s command track would have the wherewithal to follow his lead. With a defensive fight developing in front of Elm, it was clear that his Company team was going to remain the main offensive element for the battle. 

The attack on Gomfritz was to be a straightforward matter of fire and movement. With a platoon grouping of Abrams in overwatch, an infantry platoon was to push through the forest to determine if the village was devoid of the enemy. The remaining four Abrams would push around the “blind corner” on signal of the infantry. It was a good plan for something come up on the spot. It never got put to the test. Just as the first group of Abrams nosed into their BP, the company team net exploded with simultaneous contact reports from the callsigns. 

Then came the reports that the enemy was burning. First it was one T-64, then another. Sharp moves himself and a wingman up, cognizant that the enemy would try to push through the fire if they could not identify the source of it.

 A handful of contacts quickly matures into an entire tank company. Sharp, peering “eyes down” out of his cupola spots a trio of BMP-2s flitting out of sight, working his flank. He knows the BP covering the right flank should be able to pick them up and doesn’t even bother handing off the contacts. “Gunner: Sabot, tank” he roars into the internal communications set, slewing the turret with override.
“Identified!” his gunner confirms. He lets go of the controls. A blinding flash from the muzzle. 

“Target!”
His gunner, dependably, starts identifying targets on his own and “fighting the turret”, leaving Sharp freedom to command his abbreviated group of Abrams. The T-64s, belatedly, begin to slew their turrets. They were aware. Sharp begins to micromanage the jockeying of his individual callsigns.
Even as Sharp is fighting the lead elements of the T-64s, the dismounted infantry had begun pushing through to Gomfritz. They hear the roar of enemy engines even over the sound of battle and duly report it to Booth, who passes it back down to Sharp. More enemy armour was clearly heading their way. It was time to press the attack.

Sure enough, another platoon of Soviet tanks appear and, skirting slightly to their left, continue to try and gun around Sharp’s flank. They dip out of sight, but not before another T-64 is turned into an inferno.

Sharp had no intention of letting any enemy armour through. Four Abrams push up, line abreast, and catch the remaining Soviet tanks in the flank at alarmingly close range. 


Even as Sharp is savaging the enemy armour, 1LT Rose reports three BMPs destroyed. The enemy motor rifle platoon had carefully attempted to work its away through dead ground but, as it exited a draw on the far right flank, was quickly picked up by Rose’s tank section. They were all knocked out in a single volley, a frightening testament to the new tanks fire control system. 

Immediate exploitation was out of the question, however. Sharp and his three wingmen were looking over their handiwork, when he suddenly saw a green dot in the distance. It hung, lazily, in front of his eyes. He was confused for a moment too long – what was he looking at? Then, a wave of heat, a bright flash, and a mild-rash-like pain on his left cheek as he turned instinctually to avoid the projectile.
An ATGM. They had just been hit!
He was alive. Was the tank operable? He didn’t bother to check first, instead ducked inside the turret and fired off his defensive smoke mortars while roaring into the internal comms for his driver to reverse. The tank moved, evidently none the worse for wear. Even as Sharp moved to preserve his mount and its crew, a wingman identified the source of fire and knocked it out. A query came in from Rose; was all well? 

Sharp peered over the cupola. His face still stung, but it didn’t seem particularly bad. What the hell had happened? He soon had his answer: the .50 calibre was gone. Eviscerated by a direct hit. He decided not to question how the chemical jet from the missile did not kill him. It would be the closest call he would have in this terrible conflict, though of course he would not know it at that time.
What the close call did signal for the immediate time was a halt to Sharp’s advance. Until the infantry had secured Gomfritz and established an artillery observation post, he could not risk exposure to other ATGMs with his precious MBTs.      ***
Sharp’s focus is entirely on Gomfritz and the targets to his front. As his tanks’ cannons bark, the background noise of the Battalion net fades into the distance. He does not hear the rising crescendo of battle near Elm, illustrated by the increasing strain evident in the voices of B Team’s callsigns. Elm has become a raging inferno. The Soviets FSE have arrived and, turrets oriented towards the threat, try to pass through the survivors of their CPR. The Tank section appears to be excellently positioned, able to enfilade their targets sky lined on the hill. Another T-64 burns. All appears well.

Then from the dust and fury comes a booming report. A M60A1 burns, shuddering from the impact. No hatches open. Alarmed, the section leader (the Platoon NCO) jockeys out of position. The Soviets roar on, now no longer under fire from their flank. 

They remain under fire, however, from the front. ITOWs deployed in exposed hasty positions nevertheless possessed dominating fields of fire and make the most of it. Burning enemy bonfires begin to build up on the high ground to the right flank of Elm.

Sensing danger, 1LT Menard roars out of his hide with his wingman tank under the cover of the ITOWs to try and blunt the Soviet advance at close range. Taking positions on the fly in his jolting cupola he directs his section to a low hedge separating cabbage fields; they do not have long to wait. T-64s come over the slope and are hit at “cannot miss” range. Menard’s knees sag slightly from this hair-raising encounter. If he had more time to ponder what he had just ordered and executed, he would’ve bailed out of his vehicle and never looked back. The line between courage under fire and irrationality was a fine one. 

Ensconced and hidden in a hedge near the ITOWs was B Team’s FIST. In alarm, he sees what appears to be the main body appear along the road running directly into Elm.


It is not long before 155mms are working overtime to pummel the approaches to Elm. The Soviets, as always, push through it with determination. The FIST can hear over the dull crumps the hiss-pop of the ITVs continuing to engage. Quite a number of the BMPs that push through the indirect fire are knocked out by this re-engagement.

The next set of BMPs try to follow in the footsteps of the CRP, perhaps believing the way remains open. By this point Menard’s PNCO has taken a new, hasty, battle position and is once again able to enfilade them. Another pair of BMPs is flamed between the tank fire and the ITVs. 

Noonan’s team is giving the Soviet tank battalion a destructive beating, but it’s not enough. The Soviets continue to push simultaneously towards the high ground to the northeast and down the centre road. B Team simply cannot keep up the rate of fire necessary to stop the Soviets cold. The ITVs are forced to pop defensive smoke as the BMP-2s begin to identify and fire back with their 30mms at their assailants.

With the high ground finally under Soviet control, things begin to unravel quickly. Menard’s PNCO and another member of his crew are wounded heavily when his vehicle is struck by return fire, even as they attempt to jockey out of position. 

Driven by outrage more than courage, Menard attempts to repeat his previous feet, waving SGT Marx forward with him into a counterattack. All goes well initially, with Menard’s gunner destroying a T-64 from the gallop. Marx then identifies a T-64 to the northwest, across the valley. Slewing the turret on override, he knocks it out as well. Even as Marx’s loader hefts another sabot into the breech, he could see for himself the turrets of several other T-64s slewing in his direction. 

“How did –“ he doesn’t have time to finish the thought before a Soviet round slams into the turret of his tank. The resulting pressure blows him out of the turret where he shortly regains consciousness. Marx’s legs are spattered with shrapnel and all he can focus on is crawling. One arm over another. He does not notice the rest of his crew following his lead, nor his new platoon leader and his crew also crawling, dragging a loader whose face was reduced to a bloody pulp, from their own tank. 

***   Noonan had heard enough. One by one his call signs had either dropped off the air suddenly or reported they were retreating. The pressure was on. It was going to have to come to close quarters. He grabbed his M16 and ordered the ramp down on his M113. He waved at his RTO to grab a few LAWs for good measure before they departed.   The Soviets were breaking in. 1st Platoon’s first squad had been wiped out, dying in place from a lethal combination of shrapnel, high explosives and machinegun fire which tore their fighting positions apart. The first Soviet BMPs had practically driven right up to the buildings and, when a LAW fired too hastily missed, had ripped into the buildings with everything they had.     2LT Leblanc had arrayed his squads in depth, mutually supporting one another. As quick as the 1st Squad’s end had come, revenge was not long in waiting. 2nd Squad opened fire with its Dragon and LAWs. Soviet riflemen came out of the lead BMP, even as it burned, the last four all human candles doing a grotesque dance. By the time the surviving Soviet infantry had organised themselves, their assailants had disappeared, falling back past the 3rd squad to a new position.      So it went. The Soviet infantry were simply nut numerous enough to effect more than a break in. It appeared to Leblanc and Noonan that the situation might have been finally stabilised when the unmistakeable squeal of tracks against pavement began to compete with the crescendo of battle. The Soviet armour was going right into Elm! Noonan knew he needed more bayonet strength if he was going to hold against rampaging armour.
“Bravo Two to Bravo Two-Two”
“Bravo Two-Two, send it.” 2LT Clausen’s voice responded immediately.
“Enemy MBTs have entered our BP. Punch out to your north and hit them in the flank.”
A pause, this time.
“Bravo Two-Two acknowledges. Out.”
Noonan knew it was a tall order. He was out of options that he could directly select. His next call was to Booth. There was a promise of an Abrams section – but would they arrive in time? 


Clausen had been posted in ambush covering the forested route that could see a Soviet unit deploy in the gap between Sharp and Noonan’s company team. They had passed the minutes in unease, listening to the sounds of battle travel up the ridge to their left, roaring in the valley to their right. Privates gripped their rifles tight and fidgeted with the undergrowth. The whispered orders to remount came as a relief; action meant agency. Soon the M113s were cautiously groping their way along a rail line, riflemen and Dragon gunners hanging out the cargo hatches, straining every nerve.
In Elm, things were falling apart. LeBlanc’s careful to-and-fro with the enemy could not keep up with the Soviets reckless urgency. The junior officer had just personally stalked and disabled a T-64 with part of his 3rd Squad, volleying LAWs into the vehicles side and rear, and spraying down nearby Soviet infantry, when he saw yet another tank roar through an allotment, crushing forgotten vegetables and crashing through a fence. They were being flanked. The M113 was just around the corner. There was time. They clambered aboard, and LeBlanc was roaring at the driver to advance when there was a bright red flash.     The T-64 had worked its way through several backyards and had barrelled out at an intersection just to the East. Locking a track the commander guided his gunner onto the M113. A terse “ogon!” followed. The 125mm crashed out.     LeBlanc was dead.
Now bereft of a leader, the remaining dozen men made a dash for Company HQ, where they hoped they could make a last stand under the remaining ITV’s field of fire. Even as they ran the Soviets, like sharks in bloody water, ran amok. All was chaos.     That chaos saved the remaining infantry of B Team, however. Amazingly, the Soviets seemed less concerned with finishing the job than they did trying to push right through Elm. It allowed the survivors to use every item in their arsenal they had left. One eagle-eyed SPC, seeing a Soviet tank with its cupola hatch open, manages to toss a fragmentation grenade in. He has little time to exult, his squad leader swiftly hustles him to the next scrap of cover.
Slowly, but surely, the survivors of 1st Platoon find their balance. Noonan and his HQ thicken the anti-tank fire with their LAWs. The Soviets push to the southern edge of Elm, but no further. Derelict T-64s meters away from the Company HQ demonstrate the high watermark.      The final remaining company of Soviet armour make the break for the eastern flank of the town, despite the congested terrain. The Battalion HQ follows with them. It is the definition of a forlorn hope. They meet fiery ends as they make their end run, when 1LT Rose and two other Abrams suddenly appear on their flank. The Soviets are savaged, but its not entirely one sided. The tank battalion’s attached ZSUs put up a fierce resistance, spraying the Abrams down with 23mm with such violence that it strips the turrets entirely. Fire control and thermal imagers are disabled and require resets. One of Rose’s NCO has to resort to boresighting, staring down the barrel. At such close range, they cannot possibly miss. It’s all over in minutes.        A few enemy tanks push past, roaring through the fiery gap. It is a paltry amount, and the shattered survivors are not able to effect any type of effective breakthrough. They are ultimately policed up by Cobras patrolling the immediate rear areas of the TF.
B Team has received a severe drubbing but has mauled the lead element of a Soviet tank regiment. The battle is over. The counteroffensive is not. 


 

Played the excellent Hobart's Funnies scenario and whipped up an AAR. Some choice shots:




Phenomenal infantry set-piece. I wish I had the time this weekend to play Swansong, the variant without the Funnies, to see just how much more bloody it is without these innovations. 
Read it here: https://rinaldiaars.blogspot.com/2022/09/armatos-fundit-cm-battle-of-normandy-aar.html
 

I'm fully capable of boneheaded moves, but I struggle to think of this stuff in relation to Combat Mission. Maybe it's not boneheaded, but it made me feel that way.
In the CMRT campaign Blunting the Spear, I was playing the fourth mission, an attack on Cimene. After a duel with the assault guns at the far end of the map, losing a couple of Mark IVs, we attacked our main right-side objective, the Brickworks, with four infantry platoons, a platoon of Mark IVs and a host of halftracks supported by artillery. With plenty of time on the clock, I was in no hurry, and using all of my assets, including smoke and recon-by-fire, we took the complex with no losses. It had been held by a single sapper platoon, who are dangerous at close range with a number of SMGs and satchels. In and among the buildings at the site they could have done some damage. But the recon-by-fire made 'em mad enough to shoot back, and the battle dominoed from there. Before long they tried to pull back, but I had shifted my armor on to the flanks in anticipation of this and cut them down.

The armor in the open ground on the left side of the map made progress after the assault gun duel until they came up against well-concealed anti-tank guns. One Mark IV was hit, the commander incapacitated, and the crew abandoned the tank. I halted my armor, unwilling to send more in front of the gun. Instead, artillery, mortar, machine gun, howitzer and tank fire lashed through the copse of woods. After ten minutes of this I had remounted the tank and attempted to reverse it to safety and the AT gun came to life and knocked it out. Dammit.
The weight of fire dropping on, and lashing through, that stand of woods should have left nothing alive. When I finally thought it safe because there was no sign of life coming out of it, I remounted the crew and boom! Dead tank. Felt like a sucker. As if that AT crew was just sitting there waiting for it. They must have had good holes.
 

 
I do AARs of all this stuff it seems and I found a shot depicting the scene, which I have not edited for clarity. Apologies. The crew in question can be seen center-left, with the crew icon showing them outside the tank icon, which remains because the tank is abandoned, not destroyed, with the remainder of the platoon halted a little further to the left. The crafty AT gun is the faded icon center-right just below the Cimene N marker. You can see a spotting round just hit to the left of this patch of woods. This was shortly before I ordered the crew to remount their tank.
So yeah, maybe not boneheaded exactly, but I felt like I got suckered, and you need to keep every barrel in the line in that campaign to see it through to the end.
 

- Ordering my infantry to move into my own artillery barrage / planned air area target zone. This is usually due to coming back to a saved game days later... usually.  
- Not using my off map support more liberally to pave the way for my advance fearing I'll run out when I need it most. Meanwhile my pixeltruppen are giving me evil eyes as they need to cross open fields in the face of four machine guns.

Not canceling a barrage is on top of my list. Move my units right into it. 

Played the excellent Hobart's Funnies scenario and whipped up an AAR. Some choice shots:




Phenomenal infantry set-piece. I wish I had the time this weekend to play Swansong, the variant without the Funnies, to see just how much more bloody it is without these innovations. 
Read it here: https://rinaldiaars.blogspot.com/2022/09/armatos-fundit-cm-battle-of-normandy-aar.html
 

Ah gotcha, so not the M113 then. Yeah, I don't think that was caught or reported.

Played the excellent Hobart's Funnies scenario and whipped up an AAR. Some choice shots:




Phenomenal infantry set-piece. I wish I had the time this weekend to play Swansong, the variant without the Funnies, to see just how much more bloody it is without these innovations. 
Read it here: https://rinaldiaars.blogspot.com/2022/09/armatos-fundit-cm-battle-of-normandy-aar.html
 

Played the excellent Hobart's Funnies scenario and whipped up an AAR. Some choice shots:




Phenomenal infantry set-piece. I wish I had the time this weekend to play Swansong, the variant without the Funnies, to see just how much more bloody it is without these innovations. 
Read it here: https://rinaldiaars.blogspot.com/2022/09/armatos-fundit-cm-battle-of-normandy-aar.html
 

Played the excellent Hobart's Funnies scenario and whipped up an AAR. Some choice shots:




Phenomenal infantry set-piece. I wish I had the time this weekend to play Swansong, the variant without the Funnies, to see just how much more bloody it is without these innovations. 
Read it here: https://rinaldiaars.blogspot.com/2022/09/armatos-fundit-cm-battle-of-normandy-aar.html
 

A cool NTC mod by @Kuli.  


The below screenshot is kind of dark.  It should show the OPFOR shoulder patch and OPFOR above the pocket. 

July 16th, 1145 hours.
Triumph to tragedy.
“Sir…I’m not raising TOC” the RTO said, hesitatingly. Booth met the man’s eyes. Silent dread communicated between them.  He was about to tell him to try one more time when the FSGT came trundling back around the corner in his ‘peep.’ That’s not good. A gnawing, creeping realisation made its way up out of the small of Booth’s back and crawled up his spine. The NCO’s face was boulder-like. Jaw set…
TOC had been hit. Hard. They had failed to displace for one minute too many and got plastered by Soviet artillery, much like the Soviets in Dorfborn were having their back broken by vengeful American artillery fire. Like one of the four horsemen, the FSGT had been tasked with riding back to his CO to deliver the grim news. Basically, every senior officer in TOC had been taken out: the LTC, S-1 and S-3 had all been wounded enough to warrant evacuation. The XO was severely wounded, an arm and a leg severed, his condition critical. The HHC CO killed, caught away from any cover momentarily, ripped to shreds by shrapnel. All that was left of the staff was the S-2, who refused to be evacuated despite painful neck wounds, and the duty NCOs.
“You’re it” the FSGT growled, “you got seniority. The Battalion’s yours, sir.” A thunderclap. Booth was in command. The entirety of TF Dragon. Well over 700 surviving men, 700 souls. The burden could’ve crushed him then and there, and likely should have, but something turned in him. Eyes narrowing, he quickly told the dependable NCO to hurry ahead back to what was left of the TOC and have the S-2 re organise the NCOs into acting battle captains. He would follow shortly in his command track, handing off command of the unit to his equally dependable XO, 1LT Noonan. He would hurl together a hasty TOC and strain every nerve to get the unit back under control.
Chapter 5: Thorn in the Side
Northwest of Neuhof, July 16th, 1600 hours.
Luckily, the TOC’s survivors showed themselves up to the task. They had worried Booth at first, most had some minor wounds and all had looked deeply shaken. The M577s were ruined messes, but neither had taken direct hits, and much of the vital planning material was salvageable. Whatever morale had been wavering was firmed up by the arrival of the CPT and the news that B Team had savaged the enemy to its front. Booth had energized the headquarters with his arrival, distracted grieving men by entrusting them with key tasks (appealing, subconsciously, to the professional pride of each individual NCO), and focused their efforts back on the fight – a fight he had convinced them they were winning. The impact was electric. Within the hour they were ready to receive orders from brigade, by 1500 the bulk of the battalion was pulling back, knowing full well the punch-drunk MRR to their front was in no condition to follow closely and fill the gap, let alone pursue with vigour or violence.
As the skeleton TOC organised the move and conformed with orders, Booth was presented with his first command decision: the TF had mauled the MRR so thoroughly that a neighbouring Soviet unit had begun to shake out into the attack on a town called Uttrichausen with its right flank twisting in the wind. Brigade was willing to move boundaries on a dime and have TF Dragon nail the lead MRB of that unit from the flank. Booth leapt at the opportunity, and task organised his Scout Platoon and surviving anti-tank platoon to do so. They hadn’t had time to resupply, and thus the fight was going to be a tight one, but the potential payoff was worth it; success could likely keep the entire brigade counterpunching whilst the next line of defence was constructed. The Soviets were templated to be passing through Dollbach around 1630 hours, beyond which was their probable line of departure.

 
Command devolved to 1LT Pemberton, the Anti-tank Platoon CO, and his surviving 6 ITOWs. 1LT Horning, the battalion scout platoon leader, would race ahead with his extremely depleted force; two M113s, an ITOW (with only 4 missiles) and a meagre 3 Dragon missiles. He had two scout sections to spare, led by SGTs Roy and Chung. They would engage forward elements and buy time for Pemberton’s two sections and the attached air-defence joes.
Pemberton, bumping along in his ‘peep’ hastily did a map recce and came up with BPs. He prayed to God the map was accurate to the terrain, there was no time to do a proper terrain walk. This was an aggressive interdiction, no doubt about it, the young man thought. His eagerness to hit the enemy when they were exposed was tempered by the ever-human fear of the unknown.  How to execute this fight? Across the valley the enemy would traverse was a thick treeline. The Soviets must have known their flank was in the air by now, and if he was the Soviet commander, he’d have units in that treeline dominating the heights overlooking Dollbach. How to fire into the valley without exposing his vulnerable ITOWs? A crossfire, that’s what he’d have to establish, keyhole positions, he thought with finality. Pemberton had his plan.
Taskings:
BP1: Scout ITOW, 1st AT section (alternate)
BP2 – 1st AT section (main)
BPs 3A & 3B – 2nd AT section (main and alternate)
EA Alpha – Forward of point 430, left-flank of Dollbach
EA Bravo – Forward of point 401, right-flank of Dollbach
***
The Soviets’ hackles were raised; thought 1LT Horning, as he watched a pair of Hinds flit in and out of sight across the valley, flashing over the thick, forested hills. They had put a lot of combat aviation forward, clearly cognizant of the exposed flank of this unit. It was a high summer day, and any vehicular movement kicked up hanging dust clouds, prompting Horning to spread his thin resources out, and give strict instructions for the tracks to make quick dashes, pausing frequently to let the dust settle as they sheltered under the next nearest copse of trees. Slowly, but surely, they managed to set themselves up in their assigned positions, finding decent concealment and cover to establish firing positions from.

By 1604 hours, Horning and SGT Chung have set themselves up in excellent firing positions on the extreme flanks of the AO.

As the scouts settled into their hides, a sudden pop is heard as a Stinger missile screeches upwards. One of the hunting Hinds had raised itself up too much, for too long, across the valley and an American AD man had chanced a shot.

The Hind’s weapons operator saw the tell-tale report and, swearing, alerted the pilot in time. The Hind bucked down sharply, and the missile failed to track. The other hinds, spooked by their comrades’ close call, follow suit. The air threat abates, for now.
SGT Chung, only momentarily distracted by the firing of the Stinger, shakes his head and concentrates. Over the distant thwock-thwock of the omnipresent Hinds, he can hear – more accurately, feel – the rumble of an approaching formation. A moment later, he can see it for himself: an entire MRC. He urgently whispers to his RTO to send the word. The RTO duly whispers the code phrase for contact: Rio Grande. The pre-arranged cluster mission begins to fire, forcing the BTRs to accelerate through the maelstrom.

“Jesus, Mary and Stonewall Jackson sir, that’s got to be an entire company – what the hell we going to do about that with just one shot?” whispers Horning’s RTO in an awed tone. Horning ignores the man and presses himself further against the ground, putting his hands under his chest. He awkwardly cranes his neck downwards and rolls his eyes up, attempting to keep a good eye on the BTRs while masking as much unnatural colour – his skin, the whites of his eyes – as he can. He wished he had time to apply camo paint. If any of this mass of enemy units spotted him, they were dead. BTR turrets were awkwardly trying to scan for targets, but their 14mm machine cannons were bouncing around visibly. Good he thought, hope the bastard gunners are blind. More problematic of course, were the Soviet rifleman hanging out of the rear hatches, with the occasional BTR having a Soviet soldier bouncing a SA-7 on his shoulder, scanning the skies for targets.
“Dragon 2 to Dragon 1 – “
Horning’s RTO scrambles to lower the volume on the receiver, as SGT Chung continues.
“- I am engaging. Making this missile count. Out.”

It takes a minute for Horning to spot an opportune target for his own position to follow the NCO’s lead. In frustration they watch BTRs briskly march past. Then, it happens: a BTR visibly slows down as it attempts to push through a small windbreak of trees. Tapping the Dragon gunner on his steel helmet, the 1LT points towards the target with an arrow-straight arm. The missile hits, but barely, almost passing between the wheels and underneath the BTR.


“Get the track to make a run for SGT Roy’s OP/LP, he’s got the spare missile. Run him down here and lets see if we can’t hit something else. Once you’ve passed that message on we are displacing, shift 30m right. One at a time, keep low and copy my stance.” The Officer whispers urgently.
***
Pemberton could see his young driver struggling to restrain himself from speeding forward. It was a battle the PFC was losing, as the distance inexorably widened between their ‘peep’ and the ITOWs and VADs that formed their small column. A soft word saw the vehicle pull back again. The 1LT couldn’t blame his driver’s haste. They had just arrived with the first section of his platoon, and already there was a thin spire of smoke reaching out from the valley, in what he estimated was EA Bravo. The lead Soviet elements were already in the area. There was no time to waste. The section raced towards its assigned BP, with VADs pulling off the road to take up covering positions.

Horning was desperately trying to shift the artillery fires to the overpass and road bridge; this lead Soviet company was making tracks, pushing through their anaemic ambush with remarkable discipline. The tail of the column was now entering EA Bravo. He could hear SGT Chung ordering SPC Brody, the commander of their sole ITV, to engage.
The ITV duly rumbled forward from the treeline it had taken as its hide in BP1 and inches forward along the flat plateau to its front. Brody soon identifies a plethora of targets. With a pop the first ITOW roars out, popping up then being pushed down by the gunner. It reaches out, a red dot in Brody’s field of vision. 

“Target!” the SPC roars, and then guides on: “Gunner, traverse right, two PCs forward of the line of trees”
“On. Firing!” comes the excited response. The second ITOW races out, but Brody can already tell its going to be a miss, as the Gunner struggles to both chase the accelerating BTR and keep the missile down. It passes just high.

Two sweating men in the cargo hatch quickly reload the last two missiles, but Brody’s crew once again have a mixed engagement. The third missile strikes another BTR, this one racing up a crop-filled slope towards a windbreak and the MSR. It explodes violently. Their fourth shot misses entirely, the missile going ballistic and slamming only a few dozen feet in front of them along the ridge, inert.
“Driver reverse, back to our original position.” Brody says through gritted teeth, whilst deploying smoke to cover the retrograde movement. Bitterly disappointed, nevertheless his part of the fight is over. Even as he pulls back, he hears 1LT Horning report the entry of yet another mass of enemy vehicles. If only we had time to resupply.

Unbeknownst to the disappointed Scout ITOW crew, however, Pemberton and his three anti-tank launchers had just taken up position in BP2. Pemberton and his RTO leapt from their Jeep and raced forward, taking cover among some trees at the lip of the ridge, to better direct fire whilst guiding his tracks into positions. The officer knew fire discipline would be key, not a missile could go to waste firing at a target another vehicle was already engaging. A bit awkwardly at first, but successfully, he used some landmarks to assign fire sectors to his three ITOWs.

Like their Scout counterpart, however, the anti-tankers have trouble striking their fast, fleeting targets. Two TOWs miss, badly. It is not until the third TOW that a target is struck successfully. Pemberton puts out a calming word, his unnaturally even voice having its intended effect. The gunners redouble their efforts, taking their time to line up the shots.
“Aim high, guide low boys, don’t rush things” the officer chides.
ITOWs begin to hit with regularity over the ensuing minutes, and the enemy BTRs stop manoeuvring so smartly. Casualties and evasive actions cause the formation to become strung out, which only increases their exposure. The young gunners stop suffering from “buck fever” and are better able to pick out lone targets. From his vantage point, Pemberton can report an increasing number of burning enemy BTRs with exultant satisfaction. Between 1615-1616 hours, 6 TOWs are fired for 4 kills, illustrating the furious rate of fire and the cornucopia of targets.


Whilst BP2 turns EA Bravo into a charnel house, the balance of the AT platoon arrives on the heights, and transit through the small town of Zillbach towards BP3. 

There’s just one problem, though: SGT Chung and his team, who boldly have remained in their initial firing positions to act as an OP/LP, spot a new threat.
“Dragon 2 to Dragon 1”
“This is Dragon 1”
“This callsign currently observing four times enemy tangoes, treeline near road bridge. Out to you.”
“Acknowledged, Dragon 2. We’ll let the AT know. Out.”

1LT Pemberton warns his leading SPC in the second section, and the determined enlisted man simply states they’ll keep the threat in mind and attempt to find positions masked to this new threat in BP3. Indeed, two of the three ITOWs can do just that. One, however, led by a SPC Catalano, running out of space to jockey, is surprised to find a T-64 aiming – at him!
Catalano’s gunner fires twice in rapid succession, more from shock than aggressive mindedness. The first TOW becomes a satellite, spinning off into space, and the second slams into the ground just on the other side of their hull down position. Catalano sees a giant burst of flame, and briefly and irrationally believes his gunner has scored a hit…then sees a small green dot grow larger and larger. It passes over their vehicle, and even ensconced inside the vibrating M113 and through his CVC, he can hear a faint sucking woosh. Too close for comfort. Gathering his wits, he gets his driver to reverse.

 
While BP3 struggles to find good positions, Pemberton continues to reap a grim bounty. Handing off targets personally and ensuring the pre-assigned fire sectors are maintained, BP2 continues to turn EA Bravo into a hellscape. Individual Soviet BTRs mill about in confusion. Their indecisiveness often fatal.

Despite the presence of the T-64s making BP3 a no-go for firing into EA Alpha, the three ITOWs (including a recovered SPC Catalano) can take positions that allow them to thicken the fire in EA Bravo. The initial engagements are frustrated by low field of view and limited time to target, but they eventually tally a few BTRs themselves. 

Perhaps spurred on by the suffering MRB’s survivors, the Hinds make a belated reappearance. This time any pretence of careful flying is tossed aside; the Hinds roar up and forward, seeking to strafe the assailants. One Hind is able to get a burst off, severely damaging one of Pemberton’s ITOWs, but four Hinds are swiftly destroyed by the overwhelming amount of SHORAD provided by Booth. One Hind is struck by a stinger and crashes in the valley, destroying a cowshed as its flaming carcass crashes through the structure’s roof.

The flight of the Hinds proves to be a bookend for the engagement at Dollbach. In BP2 the ITOWs begin to report going “black” on ammo, and one by one pop smoke and retreat into the cover of nearby trees. Pemberton himself taps his RTO on the helmet and dashes back to firmer concealment, where he begins to issue orders for the retreat.
The last of the mauled MRB, under the cover of the suicidally courageous Hinds, presses past EA Bravo and out of sight. Trailing them come the T-64s, who break cover and roar forward, in odd mimicry of the Hinds. They wheel to their left and attempt to break past EA Bravo.
Catalano is waiting, and along with the rest of his section in BP3, savage the tanks. In short order, 5 T-64s are burning.



An eerie silence descends… the only living creatures in the valley are wounded and burned Soviet riflemen and crewmen, painfully crawling away from their stricken mounts. The silence does not last, as mortars begin to search out for the Americans in BP3. A round crashes just behind SGT Chung.
“Displace! Back to the track” he screams with furious urgency.
The sound of the mortars fade, and all the SGT can hear is his own rattling breath and a pounding in his ears. He never hears the fateful round: there is just a flash of red, and then a disconnected awareness that something is not right…why am I on my back he ponders? He tries to get up. He cannot. He has no left leg. The realisation sends his mind into overdrive for a few moments, and his last conscious thought is simply an Oh my God before he lapses into unconsciousness and shock. Lying beside him are two of his men. One is killed, the other so severely wounded that he can only lay there in a heap, sucking air in a hideous rattle, before he shortly passes away. Chung’s RTO, on the verge of panic, drags his SGT back to the M113.  

It is the final part of this drama in miniature. As the mortar rounds continue to search out targets, the order from Pemberton is acknowledged across the net: the job was complete. Across the three BPs, the Scouts and Anti-tankers reverse out of sight, and then, slowly pick their way back to the rendezvous point.

Accurately assessing the damage was difficult, and Pemberton could only provide his new boss an estimate. The measure of success would only come in the following hour: the attack had been stopped cold, and the enemy’s lead element was barely a MRC in strength.


 
 

In the Fulda Gap, that most terrible dawn came and went for the US V Corps. The 11th Cavalry had bent, but it had not broken. Exercising units that had been caught flat-footed largely made good their escape, battered but capable of reconstitution. NATO deployed, alarmed but resolute, to protect this retreat.  The allied air forces made a herculean effort to create space through strikes in the enemy rear areas. The Elbe crossings were hit, hard. Much closer to home, crossings over the Werra were hit with equal violence. The cost was great, the Soviet air defence asked a high price for admission to these lucrative targets. Nevertheless, the initial Soviet supplies and follow-on forces were slowed.  The powerful shock forces immediately in the battle area still had to be dealt with, but that was a more manageable battle.
Anyone who knew anything, knew this: the initial move was a Soviet masterstroke and had shaped things to their advantage nicely. NATO, however, hadn’t been put in checkmate.
It was a different B Team, but the situation is not all that different: once again thrust into a nightmare scenario against the best an enemy had to offer. That is the situation B Company, 2nd of the 28th Infantry, 1st Brigade, 8th Infantry Division found itself in as July 16th dawned.
CPT Booth was still attempting to recover his balance. The war had come as a violent shock to everyone. His company’s war was not even 24 hours old, and yet his command had already been handled roughly.
First had come hurried orders on the 15th of July to take blocking positions. They were to hold until friendly exercising units could retreat through them. The friendlies had all gotten away and clean, but the enemy forward security element that had been hot on their heels had only been stopped at egregious cost. B Team’s first ever fight started well enough: the company’s ITOWs and attached scouts had flamed several enemy BMPs and a tank. Then the sheer force of enemy fire had sent them reeling backwards to new, hasty positions. An unexpected and sudden flank from several T-80s creeping through dead ground had almost spelled disaster. They been stopped at the ten-yard line in a point-blank engagement. The effort had nearly destroyed Booth’s command. When they received the order to pull back, they left behind three burning M60s – one containing the decapitated corpse of the Tank Platoon leader (he couldn’t even remember the man’s name) – a scout track, and several ITOWs, some from the Scouts, some from his Weapons platoon.
That had been the toughest moment of his life so far. Booth had learned from his first day of OCS: don’t leave your dead, never, ever, leave your wounded. The bastard that had said that had clearly never imagined what this war would look like. Booth’s FSGT, a dependable, quiet Vietnam veteran found him early that evening, weeping in the woods, a shuddering mess. Without a word the NCO clapped a hand on his shoulder, then turned around to go make sure no one would find their CO before he regained his composure.
Though Booth could hardly take credit for it, things had improved after that. An ambush conducted by his 2nd Platoon, surviving scouts and ITOWs had mauled a Soviet security element in the thick forest astride the MSR.  When they pulled back in their M113s, th
ey had left a platoon of T-64s and almost a company’s worth BMPs burning, piled up on the asphalt and along the shoulders. Similar, less dramatic, ambushes had been pulled off by the TF’s scouts and A Company. It had bought the battalion what Booth had already learned was the most precious resources of all in war: time. More importantly, it had burgeoned their sagging morale and showed them that the enemy could be defeated. So violent were these ambushes, they had compelled the Soviets to halt for the evening and night, to deploy their main forces for a deliberate attack.
TF “Dragon” had been able to dig in, lay obstacles, rest, reorganize, conduct proper terrain walks of their next intended battleground and even rehearse planned movements and retreats. Better yet, Booth had been able to sleep. The Soviets were now facing the unenviable task of regaining momentum through a set piece attack into prepared defences. Booth’s company, deployed in front of the suspected main effort, was going to stop them.
Chapter 4: Equilibrium
Neuhof, Forward Edge of the Battle Area. July 16th, 1100 hours.
Ten Fateful Minutes

A quiet stand-to. The Soviets didn’t come in the morning mist. The TF’s S-2 had estimated they were not capable, but Booth hadn’t really believed it. It had given the men a chance to have a hot breakfast, and for his rifle platoons to rehearse their drives into their pre-selected fighting positions. They had now once again returned to their hides, and Booth was going over the plan one last time with the headquarters’ team. Sitting on the ramp of the M113 with an overlay awkwardly spread out over both knees, he went over the scheme, taskings and timings once more.

He had called in the unfamiliar commanders of two attachments made to his unit: 1LT Lyles, a tanker cross-attached from a neighbouring armour Battalion and 1LT Swafford, a platoon leader from the Anti-tank company. They so far had made good impressions. They had been deferential but confident in advising how their commands should be used and had had a great role in shaping the battle plan. Lyles’ M60s were equipped with Tank Thermal Sights and were referred to as TTS. They would be a key component of the plan, a potentially decisive advantage. Swafford’s TOW launchers were older M150s, and would work closely with the TTS to make up for this.
“Let’s make sure we’re all clear on this. Each BP needs to position its vehicles to be able to fire into at least two EAs. We need to create a cycle of combat.”

There it was again. Booth had used that phrase ad nauseum all through yesterday evening and morning. It would have made his special platoon leaders exchange wry looks if the situation wasn’t so serious, and if the plan didn’t make so much good sense.
“Forward deployed units need to get their shots in and hand off the engagement quickly, falling back after the first couple of shots. No delay. The scouts, with some help from your platoon, Lyle, will handle those early engagement areas.”

Nods all around.
“We’re going to operate on the assumption that the other team are going to get to the goal line. We’re going to let em through but make sure they arrive in no position to cross it. Rifle platoons will clean up, Lyle’s main BP will hit anything heavy that manages to get into these final EAs.”


"Alright. That’s it. Get to your positions. Expect them before the morning is through.”
Booth had learned from his first encounter with the enemy. If they wanted to get through somewhere, they could do it the first time with high probability. It was better to bend rather than put up a wall early and watch the Soviets knock it down. He also remembered how his Company had almost immediately descended into chaos when trying to fall back to several successive positions. Too many successive BPs complicated things. A set of main BPs to fall back into was preferable.
He moved into the cargo space of his command track. As the ramp closed behind him, he went over his scheme once more…
His thoughts were interrupted by a squawk over the radio. Through light interference came the report: Dorfborn was coming under artillery fire.

“The centre of town is being hit hard. No casualties so far.” Dull crumps reverberate through the hull of Booth’s M113. “Sir, Neuhof is getting hit pretty hard” the gunner informs him. In the latter case, at least, the Soviets were not at risk of hitting any of his men, who remained to the rear in hides. The locals who had remained had, he hoped, listened to his missive to remain in their basements.  

Here we go. Booth thinks to himself as he tightens the straps of his steel helmet. Further reports were coming in now from Dorfborn: enemy vehicles in column, fanning out into line. Nodding at the company FIST, pre-planned fires are called upon to begin laying a thick fire down in front of the enemy’s axes of advance. The battle for Neuhof had begun.

For the Soviets, the fight begins disastrously. Several BMPs are destroyed trying to run the gauntlet of artillery fire. The FIST’s face betrays no satisfaction, or any other emotion, as he acknowledges the fire and attempts to keep the artillery fire shifting in line with the enemy’s advance.
Despite the pounding the bulk of these lead forces push through the fire, T-64s in the lead. The first direct fire engagement then begins, as the forward deployed TOWs and armour pick up these targets. In two minutes, TOWs managed to destroy several enemy recce, anti-tank and ADA elements that had exposed themselves in the treelines lining the valley floor. They also engage several T-64s that are furtively pushing forward, with catastrophic effect. Within two minutes, a platoon of the enemy’s tanks are burning. 


Scattered throughout the valley are American OPs, who help Booth tightly control the battle and report these initial successes. Prompted by the reports of the continuing Soviet advance, Booth’s attached TACP requests the pre-planned interdiction sorties to begin. A-10s which had been flying a race-track pattern behind friendly lines acknowledge, drop altitude and vector themselves in.

Within two minutes, the better part of an enemy company has suffered severe attrition. The start of the battle has gone almost precisely as Booth had planned. Almost. The initial exchange of fire is not one sided, and just as one of the forward ITOWs start to pull back, it is struck by a Spandrel. Its crew does not survive.


In Dorfborn, the NCO leading the scout section can see another enemy company crossing the River Fleide, entering into engagement area Blue. His men take up the awkward, cross-legged firing position with their M47 Dragons and remove the covers from the thermal sights. Concentrating hard, and trying to ignore the reverberating thumps of artillery hitting the town only a few dozen meters behind their positions, they begin to engage. A T-64 is soon burning.



A second soon joins it. The third shrugs off the Dragon as if it was nothing. Its turret orients towards the village, and sweeps back and forth, trying to pinpoint the firing position.
“That’s it, pack up and move next door. They’re onto us!” a SGT screams at his two scouts, straining to be heard over the screaming howls of the still-intensifying artillery. The Scouts brave the streets for brief moments at a time as they dash between houses, safety, and new firing positions. As new positions are taken up, they continue to report back to Booth. The enemy are flowing like water on either side of the village, and are beginning to present their flanks. These are choice shots, and the scouts make the most of the opportunity, hitting another pair of BMPs.
Then, the A-10s arrive. Two are shot down immediately by ADA, but the other pair close up and push through. Cluster bombs drop onto a buildup of enemy BMPs crossing the bottleneck at the River Fliede.

Back in Booth’s command track, 2LT Bartels, the TACP officer, officer looks shaken. Despite all the artillery fire onto identified enemy ADA, the Soviets still had more out there. It had been so effective. The remaining pair of A-10s don’t try their luck for a second pass and try to burn their way out. One of the two remaining A-10s is badly damaged by an anti-air missile and comes down extremely hard on landing back at base. Three A-10s for, at best, a handful of BMPs. He reports the ineffective air attack to the CO. His part in the battle is done. He can’t help but feel he’s somehow let his comrades down.
Meanwhile, the enemy continues to bypass Dorfborn on either flank. The Scouts are beginning to run low on Dragon missiles and their escape window is closing. Radioing a warning to the forward deployed TTS on their left flank of the targets coming their way, they close up shop and mount up. A harrowing cross-country dash in their M113s shortly follows, but they are all able to pull back behind Neuhof intact and in good order. The scouts never learn just how timely their retreat is, for as they are pulling back, a platoon of enemy BMPs finally breaks off from the pack and enters Dorfborn.

As the scouts are preparing to pull back, Booth is able to piece together the battlefield based on the reports from them, and the forward deployed armour. The enemy, as was expected, is bypassing the village on either side. Neuhof was clearly their destination. With the covering forces displacing, it was time to put the rifle platoons into their battle positions. With a terse codeword across the company net, he orders his tracks out of their hides and into their positions around Neuhof. They had rehearsed things excellently: it will take around 5 minutes to get set up.


As the tracks rumble towards BPs 1A and 1B respectively, the platoon leaders exercise the independent authority Booth has trusted them with. The first of many decisions: do the M113s remain in the BP, or out? In 1B, the platoon leader decides he will order his three M113s to pull back to their hides. His position is closest to Neuhof’s town centre and he knows enemy artillery fire can intensify on it quickly. In 1A, the platoon leader has already decided he will disperse the tracks into fighting positions. He needs as much firepower as he can get, as there are a lot more ingress routes to his position for an enemy to take.
The covering battle is over, and the fight begins to shift to the main BPs. SFC MacDade, Lyles’ platoon NCO opens up the engagement. Hidden away in BP2 with a OP/LP, he is told that a better part of a MRC is fully in EA Blue now. He orders his TTS and his wingman forward, using the treeline, a cottage and its hedged garden as a attack by fire position. MacDade accounts for two T-64s in rapid succession, guiding his gunner on with alacrity with his commander’s override.



The savage enfilading fire seems to sap the Soviet company in EA Blue of some impetus. They hesitate, then briefly halt. MacDade and his wingmen hit several more BMPs, despite the enemy attempting to return fire. The laser rangefinder equipped TTSs are proving as decisive as Booth had hoped.

The BMPs surging to the left of Dorfborn run into the outposted TTS that had covered the scout sections’ retreat. In quick succession, the gunner knocks out two BMPs as they push past the treeline. The TC, a SSGT, is too focused on looking through the CTSD at his gunner’s handiwork. He never identifies the third BMP, skulking in the treeline, as it hits his tank with a Spandrel. The jet of chemical energy eviscerates the entire crew. The SSGT never knows why he died, indeed never has a chance to realise he is dying. The M60 shudders and burns.


The surviving Soviet squad leader has no radio transmitter with which to report that the way around Dorfborn is open; and so he clambers out of the forward hatch, awkwardly fumbling to produce a green flare pistol from below. Aiming straight at the sky he fires it through the canopy of the treeline, willing it to be seen. His prayers are answered: his Battalion commander sees it, even in the bright summer morning, and immediately orders the surviving elements of this MRC to push towards it. He promises a redoubling of the artillery effort to the Major leading this thrust.
There’s a gap in Booth’s armour, and he doesn’t yet realise it.
MacDade, for his part, knows he’s overstayed his welcome in the firing positions. It has only been two minutes, but he knows that is a long time in this type of environment. He orders his wingman to pull back after his own tank. Just as his tank is arriving in cover behind one of the German cottages in the BP, his wingman’s tank is struck by a missile. He doesn’t see from where. Immediately, he thinks: that could’ve been me, and then, glad it wasn’t. A pang of guilt at the selfish thought when four men have just died. Then, relief: the TTS stirs. A slight move of the gun. Hatches open, cautiously, and a man clambers out of the turret. He turns around and helps lift an unconscious second crewman out, aided by the third, who unceremoniously is pushing the stricken man out by his boot soles . A fourth crewman is seen rounding the front end of the tank, arriving to help take the wounded, with almost careful reverence now, down from the engine deck of the tank.
MacDade waves them into the nearby cottage. The three men, a bit shocked but otherwise alright, quickly comply, the burly driver fireman carrying the wounded, unconscious gunner.

Across the battlezone, the Soviets bite back, no longer mere targets in the distance. Unbeknownst to MacDade, the T-64 that took out his wingman is itself shortly knocked out from BP 3B, as 1LT Swafford orders a pair of his TOWs to move forward and engage from the giant potash pile that looms over Neuhof.  As these TOWs are pulling back from the edge of the plateau, one is struck, and it is ripped apart in a blinding flash as its missiles touch off.

This gory disaster doesn’t discourage them. Swafford then orders his other pair of TOW carriers forward in BP3A. These, at the base of the potash mound, creep into hulldown positions on a forested slope. Another T-64 burns. This time they pull back safely into their hides.

The direct fire engagement in EA Red and Blue slackens as MacDade and Swafford pull their vehicles back into hides. The Soviets regain their composure, close formation, and surge onwards. The battle will have to be picked up again in EAs White and Yellow, as Booth’s infantrymen bottle up the Soviets on the mine fields protecting the approaches to Neuhof. For now, the tanks and TOWs lay low, their commanders seeking new firing positions in their respective BPs, anticipating the next engagement.
In BPs 1A and 1B, the infantrymen have debussed from their M113s. Booth and his command team have joined them in 1B, near the two intact bridges that help the town straddle the river Fleide. The decisive engagement was now a sure thing, as the Soviets seemed intent to press forward despite the mauling. 

Booth was fighting the surging adrenaline, trying to stay objective whilst monitoring the engagements on the company net. His XO was sending him SITREPs from the rest of the TF but whatever he was told was forgotten almost immediately. The rest of the Battalion could be on Mars, as far as he was concerned. His entire universe had shrunk to the small area of Neuhof and its approaches. So far, he was still master of this domain. Despite the almost non-factor combat aviation had been, the engagement had gone almost as well as he had planned it. He took mental stock of the situation, collating the many reports that had come in over the last few minutes, trying to form a cohesive image:

The company team was doing alright. For the loss of two tanks and two TOWs, they had accounted for an estimated eight T-64s, nine BMP-2s and five BRDMs.  The equivalent of a tank company and an MRC had been mauled across the first two EAs. So far, the enemy’s courses of action had conformed to what he had expected. They were bypassing Dorfborn, and appeared to be aiming to strike Neuhof from his left flank with one MRC, whilst another beelined for the train station to his front-right. What remained to be seen was whether they would stick to the low ground on the right, heading directly for BP1A, or try to climb the flat hill he had emplaced his surviving two M60A1s, under the command of SGT Marx, on. Another unknown, and a growing disquiet in his mind, was what was happening on his left. They had no eyes there since the scouts had pulled out, and the outpost TTS never pulled into MacDade’s position. It was tough terrain, but if the Soviets wanted to squeeze through it, they could.
It was 1110 hours. It had taken only ten minutes for this carnage to develop.
The Decisive Engagement
Artillery once again dominates the battle on both sides. Dorfborn, despite the Soviet intrusion into it, is hit once again, hard, by their artillery. Just as they did in the start, they pummel empty air. BMPs begin to press forward again, a bit more raggedly now, behind this renewed barrage.
American artillery answers, with fires coming down on TRPs that hope to close the exits from Dorfborn. 1LT Snook, the company FIST, had rode into BP 1B with Booth and had deployed forward in a rail house so to better guide the artillery. Now that his fires were under direct observation, rather than simply being from an overlay, the American artillery began to show increased agility. Fires chase the Soviets all the way and punish any halt.
A brief conversation between Booth and SGT Marx about the situation, results in his tank section pulling back to an alternative position behind BP 1A. They pull back swiftly, grateful to no longer be out on a limb with what’s left of a MRC bearing down on them.

A brief lull, filled only by the artillery fire from both sides, ensues. At 1116, the first Soviet BMPs erupt forward, nosing into the second and final set of EAs. A BMP enters into EA white, and is engaged from BP3, with Lyle and Swafford’s vehicle creeping forward once more. A TTS misses, but a TOW doesn’t. A second one follows, and this time it is shot up by the riflemen of 2LT LeBlanc’s platoon stationed in BP 1A.

The OP/LP assigned to MacDade’s BP feeds a steady report of more enemy vehicles.
“Oscar 2 send for Bravo 26. This callsign currently observing three times BMP in EA Blue and two times BMP in EA Yellow.”
“Bravo 26 copies. Out.”

Booth forewarns BP 1B’s platoon of the encroaching Soviets. It’s leader, 2LT Clausen, affirms and goes about ensuring his Dragon teams are deployed and ready. By 1117 they spot the enemy. Clausen wisely orders his men to hold fire, waiting for clearer shots, husbanding the limited ammunition his M47s have. Over the next three minutes, the OP/LP report more and more contacts heading for Neuhof via Dorfborn. It is the missing third Soviet MRC.
At 1120, the BMPs in EA Yellow are close enough and providing good silhouettes. Clausen orders his anti-tanks to engage at will. A BMP platoon is destroyed several hundred meters away from Neuhof. 


Clausen, like the scouts before him, instructs his Dragon teams to displace between shots. The men dash between neighbouring suburban houses. The civilians, almost all sheltering in their basements as instructed, wince every time they hear the heavy thuds of GI’s boots thumping against their floorboards and stairwells. Their terror is borne out of a helplessness, and ignorance.
“The Soviets must be at the edge of town!”
“Hush! Stay quiet, lay still”
A whispered exchange in German between an elderly man and his wife. They cannot know that the battle is going splendidly, that the Soviet advance, in the face of their losses, means nothing.
1LTs Lyle and Swafford continue to conduct berm drills in BP 3, nipping at the flanks and rear of the enemy surging into EA Yellow. What the infantry are unable to see or engage, they do. The dispersion of fire is excellent, and to Swafford’s particular relief, none of the finite number of TOWs are wasted firing at already destroyed enemy targets. 


The fight in EA Yellow reaches a crescendo as the reinforcing enemy MRC arrive in strength. Burgeoned by the reinforcements, the Soviets redouble their efforts to break into Neuhof. As the BMPs surge forward, they strike the minefield that had been laid through the middle of EA Yellow. Many strike mines and are immobilized. Several other BMPs managed to skirt the edge of the obstacle belt, moving along the rail line. That fight falls to Clausen.

For the majority of the MRC, milling along the obstacle belt, their situation soon becomes incredibly hot. First, they come under crushing artillery fire. Booth, from his forward command post in BP 1B, can see that a unique opportunity has come to destroy the majority of this MRC in a very short span of time. The ITOWs that had fallen back harass the halted enemy, knocking out a few from the agricultural plots behind Neuhof. 


Booth thinks quickly. Then, taking the handheld from the RTO, broadcasts across the company net. Like the voice of God, his voice punches into the ears of all his mounted platoon leaders.
“This is Bravo 26, all Bravo Tango callsigns to move forward and attack by fire enemy MRC in EA Yellow at 1125 hours. Repeat: H-hour is at 1125 hours.”
To Booth’s grim delight, he sees more and more enemy BMPs begin to pile up in front of EA Yellow’s obstacle belt. A target rich environment.
For surviving veterans of 2-28 INF, in the decades that follow, at reunions amongst themselves and in interviews for the media, much will be made of B Company’s “mad minute at Neuhof.” For the men who were there, it would become a moment of pride. Enlisted men would, during their dusty recollections, say this was the moment they believed they would win the war.
At 1125 hours, SGT Marx, 1LT Lyles, and 1LT Swafford order all their vehicles forward. Booth, likewise, orders the ITOWs under his command to engage. The TTS open the wound, with Lyles’ tank striking a BMP in EA Yellow. 

Then, an ITOW behind BP 1A adds to the tally.


The surviving TOW vehicle on the potash mound picks off a straggling BMP in EA Blue.

A TOW in BP3 claims a second BMP in EA Blue. The carnage proceeds: SGT Marx’s wingman — even with the far less accurate M60A1 — manages to destroy a BMP in EA Yellow as well - an ITOW behind Neuhof hits a BMP skulking in Dorfborn. Finally, Lyle’s wingman engages a BMP just as it fires a Spandrel missile. The BMP explodes as its missile pitbulls harmlessly off into the sky, to destinations unknown. 


The assault is utterly devastating on the Soviets. Within 60 seconds, 7 BMPs are burning. All that make it through the gauntlet of fire are the aforementioned pair of BMPs, which snake their way into Neuhof along the low ground. Dutifully, amazingly, fanatically, they disgorge their infantry, who storm into Clausen’s positions. The 2LT cannot but admire the courage of his Soviet counterparts.

Nevertheless, admiration doesn’t translate to pity. A M60 and a Dragon were already pre positioned to watch this entrance into town, and their fire forces the Soviet dismounts to duck into an alley, and right into his first squad. It’s hardly a fight. Caught in the open, the Soviet riflemen are gunned down in a violent fusillade. The only return fire the infantry receive comes from the final Soviet, caught by a M60 burst, who fires his AK in a reflexive spraying arc as he slumps over, dead. Mercifully, his steel helmet slides forward and covers his face, sparing his killer from having to humanize him in the fatal moment.


By 1135 hours the enemy’s attack is clearly shattered. The only surviving enemy are seen deployed at the forward edge of Dorfborn. An eerie silence momentarily falls…but is quickly shattered by a heavy Soviet barrage on 2LT’s Leblanc’s position in BP 1A. The initial pounding kills a pair of men, but the platoon is able to crawl into shelter on the bottom floor, and wait out the barrage in relative safety, even as it ruins and rubbles the buildings they are in.

Again, the American artillery responds in kind, with much more effect. Guided on by 1LT Snook, 155s expend their remaining munitions on the forces in Dorfborn. The fire, so heavily concentrated in such a small space, rips some BMPs apart, flips others, and peppers the survivors with shrapnel. 

Booth briefly toys with the idea of counterattacking Dorfborn, encouraged by the scout sections report that a covered, undefended route onto the flank of the shattered village is open through the trees. He ultimately declines to do so, however. Cognizant of the diminished ammunition of both his direct and indirect fire weaponry, and the importance of making sure Lyles’ and Swafford’s platoons do not suffer unnecessary losses (their parent units will need them, after all), he decides against risking a broken neck so late in the battle.

It becomes a moot point: under the cover of smoke and diesel splashed on engine decks, the surviving Soviets pull out of Dorfborn, slinking back in the direction they came. The Battle for Neuhof is over. It is 1142 hours.
As the pounding of artillery fades, the first thing Booth notices – strange as it seemed – was that he could hear birds chirping; had they returned that quickly, or had they simply stayed throughout the fire and fury? The next thing he noticed is that he didn’t feel tired, at all. Wasn’t he supposed to feel fatigued as the adrenaline poured out of his body? All he felt was exhilaration, and satisfaction. They had stopped the Soviets cold, and mauled (no, he corrected himself, destroyed) a MRB for functionally no loss.
His XO was already taking stock of the casualties. Booth knew he would not have many more letters to write, not much more than a dozen, at best. Unlike yesterday, he did not feel a man’s life had been lost in vain. That made it easier. His dependable FSGT had already departed in the TACP’s track to go fetch ammunition from Battalion. Battalion, he thought, how had the rest of the TF done? He couldn’t hear any sounds of battle on either flank…but he could see in the distance to the right, black smoke spires wafting over the forest dividing him from A Company’s engagement areas. A good sign. He concluded. Turning to his RTO, he dictated his SITREP for TOC...

Bit late on this one. Busy week at work. We're at the main event now: Germany. We don't join our intrepid core force just yet, however...
***
The war arrived like a thunderclap.
NATO units were doing a summer exercise, something had become almost rote in the decades since the Iron Curtain had fallen over Europe, when the bolt fell. Confusion reigned supreme. Some units at first even believed this was a highly realistic, unannounced part of the exercise. When real rounds of artillery began crashing around them and men began to die, that mistaken belief was rapidly abandoned. The Soviets had gained near total operational surprise.
The only saving grace was the equally routine paranoia that gripped NATO forces when the Soviets conducted summer exercises (the cover for their invasion) themselves. When the Soviets rolled across the border, they found themselves tangling with strong, and alert, covering forces. Operational and Strategic surprise did not always translate to the tactical level. In the CENTAG zone, that meant bruising brushes with the 11th and 2nd Armored Cavalry regiments.
Chapter 3: Apache Pass
Forward Edge of the Battle Area. July 13th, 0600 hours.
1st Battalion, 15th Tank Regiment, 39th Motor Rifle Division

“That is the plan, comrades. Combat aviation goes in at 0600. Our friends in the VVS follows 5 minutes after that. Artillery begins on these marked targets at 0615. We are across the line of departure in strength by 0620 hours. Questions?”
Lieutenant Colonel Burobin looked around at his company commanders. Silence. Stony, determined stares.  He folded the map and lightly slapped it against his knee. The briefing was over.
“Very well. To your tanks, mount up.”
They had several kilometres to traverse to get to the assembly area, a large, forested hill, labelled as the Dorn Berg. Recon was already well forward and had reported apparently light enemy forces entering the valley, no doubt to block further advances. His primary objective was a town in the middle of the valley, called Mittleaschenbach, which had vital bridges over the muddy streams that dominated the approaches to, and through, the valley.  Seizing the town was key to creating manoeuvre room for the balance of the regiment. He had been tasked, as well, to take the next town (Hofaschenbach), if possible.
As Burobin climbed on top of his T-64, he thought over the situation. The first hours of the war had gone exceedingly well, better than they it should have. The lead units had been lower echelon units with equipment in the process of being phased out, which had apparently set off less alarms with the enemy than the shock units normally would. Forward forces had brushed away surprised NATO forces, many of which were still on their routine summer exercises. Where breakthroughs hadn’t been made, the enemy had to pull back due to a lack of ammunition. In theory they had created the ideal scenario for his force: the “meeting engagement.”
His mind turned to his immediate problem. The reports from regimental and divisional reconnaissance hinted that this window of opportunity was rapidly closing, if it was not already closed. They had no run-ins yet with the US so-called “armoured cavalry”, which he knew the Capitalists would put much faith in to hold, delay and destroy forces like his own. If he was the American, he thought grimly, this valley is where he would begin that delaying action. He was no fool and respected his opponents. If he realised the value of this terrain, he was assumed his counterparts did to. Where would they deploy? There were only two options, really…

The terrain was complex and canalized. Muddy streams would force movement down only a handful of viable alleys. Thick forested hills blocked massed vehicular movement or restricted it to small dirt paths. A small force on these pieces of terrain could savage him. Speed. Speed was key.  Without their air power, which regiment said would be negligible, the Americans could not hope to stop him. He did not share the Colonel’s belief that they were living under a ‘Red Sky.’ Not quite yet. Speed…speed was key. Even if it came at the cost of effective fire. Grab them by the belt…
His thoughts were interrupted, the sanctuary of his thoughts shattered by a loud, booming roar. He looked up just in time to see two fighters, their wings swept back, red starts prominent on their tail, streak overhead in tight formation. Hugging the earth, they dipped out of sight, the canopy of the trees visibly swaying. The preparatory strikes had begun. He keyed his microphone and signalled the Battalion to begin its march. Then he slid down into the turret, ‘buttoning up’ his hatch as he did so. 
***
Darting forward cautiously, Soviet BRDMs nose into the Mittleschenbach valley. Moments earlier, four “Hind” helicopters had passed overhead, crossing the valley swiftly before disappearing over the opposite hill. The reconnaissance men could not yet know it, but the Hinds were already engaging American forces which were advancing to take blocking positions. Like their grandfathers in IL-2s, they swooped low, strafing enemy personnel carriers, and firing rockets in salvos. Two Hinds equipped with wire-guided missiles attempted to hit heavier targets, but were repeatedly forced to break off their attacks by enemy anti-helicopter missiles.  


Some BRDMs briefly halt among the treeline at the base of the Dorn Berg, having finally spotted the enemy: personnel carriers advancing despite the Hinds, into the valley. They duly report these contacts and decide to halt in their present positions to set up observation posts. Anti-tank BRDMs push into Oberaschenbach, losing a vehicle to an unseen assailant as they break cover. A survivor swiftly reports the village devoid of the enemy. 

The Soviet helicopters initially press their attack, despite the missiles. The BRDMs can see their handiwork now, as the Americans press on, zig-zagging and deploying smoke to frustrate the Hind’s aim. A Hind is blotted out of the sky by a missile, whilst an American APC explodes in a fireball from a direct hit. Panicking, the destroyed Hind’s wingman breaks off his attack entirely. A second APC is destroyed by a rocket run a moment later. With the APCs are tanks, who also zig-zag and pop smoke. They fare much better, and slide into the trees that line the Linz Berg – Ulmenstein gap. The enemy are on decisive terrain, although it has cost them. Would it be enough?


Then the Migs arrive. Guided In by observation posts scattered around the valley, they scream in towards their pre-planned objectives, dropping cluster bombs on the towns that line the valley floor. Black smoke rises, evidencing their success.

Despite the seemingly powerful air assault, the picture being built up by the lead recon elements is grim. The Americans have boldly seized decisive terrain, locking down the two best routes into the valley. Judging by the burning BRDM, they were also supported by anti-tank missiles of some kind.
This was the situation which greeted the lead platoon of the 2/15th Tank Regiment as it entered the area of operations. They were met by one of the observation teams, who clambered on top of the lead T-64 and briefed the young (extremely young!) lieutenant. 

The lieutenant, wisely, if somewhat passively, decides to report the situation and hold for the rest of his company. He directs his tanks into the treeline, trusting even less than his battalion commander the assurances that the sky is Soviet.

The next tank platoon to arrive from the company has a more aggressive, more senior lieutenant. Seeing six T-64s and supporting anti-tank BRDMs, he urges an engagement by fire on the powerful blocking force across the valley. If the enemy forces strung between Linz Berg and Ulmenstein were not destroyed or reduced, the attack would falter. The logic is iron-clad, despite the immense risk and the long odds. At 0610 hours they conduct their combined attack.  The results are mixed. Gunnery is about even, despite the superior volume of fire the Soviets put out. Vehicles burn on both sides, and surviving T-64s pull back into the trees, their efforts spent for now. They leave two burning hulks, fires hissing away, as they do so. The surviving lieutenant, a bit alarmed at the enemy’s expert gunnery, urges his superior to hurry. A sharp rebuke - “Discipline, discipline, get off the air! Essential communications only!” – is his reward for his efforts.

Burobin, monitoring the engagement on his second radio, is disquieted. He was in column with the battalion’s attached MRC and had just crossed the line of departure. It sounded like he was going to get a hot reception. He unbuttons briefly, and is engulfed in the dust being kicked up by the thundering herd. Coughing, he cranes his head up momentarily. A gap in the dust gives him a brief sight of the morning sky…there! Screaming overhead are two flying cruciform-like shapes. Suddenly, a BMP explodes. A second shortly follows.
Sliding back into the turret, the Lt. Col hollers with such an urgency he fails to provide his callsign: “Air warning, air warning. Smoke and wheel right!” Thick, oily-black smoke blooms as more than 20 vehicles contribute to creating a smokescreen. They run the gauntlet, losing a few more vehicles in the process to both direct fire and air attack. The unit disperses into a small copse of trees, and the Shilkas deploy to defend the temporary harbour. The MRC’s air defence troops roll over the sides of their BMPs and attempt to engage the enemy air. It is uncertain what they accomplished.


In cover of the forests and pines near the Dorn Berg, Burobin counts heads and collects his thoughts. His second company was still on its way but was surely also under air attack at present time. The enemy clearly had won the race; the meeting engagement was rapidly turning into a deliberate attack. It mattered not: he would have to accept a high attrition in men and material to seize the objective if so. He clambered out of his tank and looked for Major Istmin, the rifle company leader. The Major was alive, though looking decidedly unwell. Doing his best to ignore the pale pallor on his subordinate’s face, Burobin ordered him to disperse the BMPs and hold for now. They will go in as a unit. Striding back to his command tank, he stops to speak to the nearby FO in his specialist MTLB. The artillery will have to redouble its efforts.
So it does. Guided on by the FOs, the Soviet artillery ponderously shifts its fire, striking enemy anti-tank vehicles that had taken hull down positions in a field of crops. Burobin requests for a repeat of the air strike, and to his shock, it is approved immediately. Regiment and Division, monitoring the situation, seem to have grasped the gravity of the situation.

Under this cover of this artillery, Burobin urges on his point company. He knows the order has condemned more of his young tankers to fiery fates, but they must inflict more casualties on the enemy platoon holding the opposite heights if the rest of the Battalion are to safely transit. They do not, however, push heedlessly over the exposed ground. Realising the dangerousness of the mission, and the omnipresence of enemy air, the Major opts to push his surviving tanks through the claustrophobic hiking paths that line the Dorn Berg. This pushes the tanks several hundred meters forward. The hope is that the closer engagement range swings the balance in favour of the massed firepower.

Time, the most precious resource the Soviets have, ticks away as the T-64s carefully pick their way down the path and fan out among the pines. The Major is patient. Not until every tank appears abreast of its partners does he order them to move forward.


The excellence and effectiveness of enemy fire continues to shock the Soviet tankers. Several T-64s are burning within minutes, almost every other has sustained several hits. The massed fires, however, are inexorable. The MRC’s weapons platoon add to the fire, pushing their BMPs up to fire off missiles. One is destroyed, but its wingman reaches out with its Spandrel missile, destroying an enemy tank.

Soon enough, most of the enemy vehicles between the Linz Berg and Ulmenstein are burning. All that remains is a single, unseen tank that sporadically fires. The timing is fortuitous, for Burobin's second tank company has arrived. 

Believing they are through; the Lt. Col immediately hurls his companies forward with an urgent word. Acknowledgements flood in. Then the enemy air power reappears, popping up over a neighbouring hill, their guns flashing. The Major commanding the second company is seen bailing out of his ruined tank, along with his crew.

ZSU fire chases the enemy planes, and one explodes in a fireball as it careens into the side of a hill several kilometres away. The ZSUs themselves, out of ammunition, pull back into the treeline. Unknown to Burobin, the SA-7s are long dead. Their BMP hit by an air-delivered missile whilst the crews displaced to new firing positions.
It is too late to stop now, however. The Battalion, what is left of it, lunges forward, the trailing platoons of T-64s stopping on occasion to deliver crashing volleys to any enemy targets they identify. 


The casualties are appalling. The Americans have put them in a vice. If they halt for any length of time to put down effective fire, they are smashed by American air and artillery. If they push forward, they find themselves moving into a storm of enemy direct fire. Despite destroying the enemy positions to their direct front, the battalion is punished by fire from secondary positions nearer Hofaschenbach. Burobin is faced with an unpalatable choice: butchery in place, or butchery forward. He chooses the latter, continuing to place his faith in speed.
Soviet airpower makes a belated reappearance, and even the score card, somewhat. Enemy direct fire slackens, but bereft of anti-air defences, it is merely pro-forma. By the time the battalion has passed through Oberaschenbach, it is reduced to 5 tanks and 5 BMPs. 

It is a miracle that Burobin is alive. Even more miraculously, the Major leading the first company is among the living as well.  Istmin burns along with his BMP, free from fear now. The MRCs only surviving officer is a young junior lieutenant. The other squads are not from his platoon. It matters not – what can be done except to accomplish their objective? Despair will not raise the dead.
“All callsigns, guide on me” The Lt. Col speaks a terse word. There is no acknowledgement save from the first company leader’s tank. The other units cannot send, only receive. He must trust they are following. The surviving T-64s fan out on a hill just opposite the Linz Berg. They halt briefly in good hulldown positions. Burobin spots the surviving enemy tank first. A volley crashes out from the line of T-64s. The M60 burns.

“We have no cover here. Follow me, we must head for that treeline. BMPs, break left and assault objective Fedor. Out.” Any idea of appropriate radio protocol died somewhere with his lead company. For the surviving "runners" in the unit there can be no doubt it is the Boss speaking. 
Spotting a gap in the trees and trusting that it heralded another wide trail through the forest, the T-64s break forward again. One explodes just as it begins to roll forward. It is unclear what destroys it. Nevertheless, the gamble pays off. A narrow, traversable path through the trees deposits the 4 remaining T-64s onto the flank of Mittleschenbach. They begin to fire systematically into the village, smashing suspected positions and covering the BMPs. 

The motor riflemen, for their part, also suffer in their final dash to the objective. Two BMPs are destroyed by American helicopters, skilfully flitting up and down behind a treeline somewhere to the left. The lieutenant, more frenzied by panic than determination, pushes forward. His men follow his example. They slow down, only briefly, to allow accurate cannon fire to be put down onto suspected positions. In one of the BMPs a sergeant orders his men to put down suppressive fires. The squad dutifully fire in staccato bursts through the firing ports. They know now who, or what, they are supposed to see. 

The American defenders, a rifle platoon, fight back viciously. The T-64s break cover and successfully rejoin their comrades in the village. Tank and BMP once more fight in close tandem. The order “dismount!” does not come until the town square is penetrated by surviving vehicles. Mittleschenbach is reduced to a charnel house as 125mms fire HEAT and HE into houses yards away. The Soviet riflemen are routinely forced to hurl themselves to the ground and duck into alleys to avoid the deadly overpressure from the high calibre cannons. Somehow, the shattered battalion manages to compel the defenders to retreat. A single American APC careens out of the village at 0655 hours, dipping into dead ground on the far side of town, before it motors away, out of sight. 

Any thought of pushing forward is out of the question. Even if Burobin’s shattered unit had the ammunition left to fight, they did not have the strength to advance. Even as the Soviets began to flatten Mittleschenbach, surviving OPs on the Dorn Berg report a platoon of enemy vehicles take blocking positions in the gardens and hedges at the forward edge of Hofaschenbach. The way forward had been closed, and leaving the safety of the town would only invite further air attack. The surviving vehicles circle the wagons as Burobin reports the objective clear and his casualties.
“Regiment will deploy behind the Dorn Berg and pass through your unit at 1300 hours. Assume and maintain the defence in your current locus” comes the response with calculated disinterest, squealing through the enemy’s interference.

On opposite sides of the FEBA, two counterparts, Colonels both, receive reports with some satisfaction. Casualties heavy, yes, but initial objectives met. 

We're back; and we're here. The end of Part 1 of this little project (don't worry, I've already typed up Missions 03 through 06 of the 82 campaign). Red pass. The big one. The centrepiece. 
Chapter 2: Counterattack at Red Pass!
October 21st, 0630 hours. Somewhere south of Hill 644.2.
“I am expecting a pure MRB, with no frills. Probably coming in three echelons, a MRC each, and you can bet the bottom dollar those lead MRCs are going to go for the flanks and hold the shoulders for a final assault on your main positions…”
It was the TF S-2 talking, addressing the three company leaders. They were stuffed into the TOC, and the close proximity was rapidly driving the temperature and humidity up to unbearable levels. It was affecting Wren’s ability to focus, but he willed himself to concentrate on the briefing. It was an important one. This was their final test. The TF had a hard-fought 20th of October. The heavy team and C Company had spent themselves unsticking die-hard enemy reconnaissance elements and an MRC in the vicinity of Hill 644.2. They had succeeded, but so comprehensively ruined was the tank-heavy team that they had been functionally disbanded, and surviving tanks folded into platoons in the rifle companies. The TF had gone firm to lick its wounds and await the OPFOR counterstroke, the topic of the briefing. The Battalion scout platoon, well forward and in good hides, had identified the main effort: Red Lake Pass. B Team’s area of responsibility.
The S-2 finished, and the LTC stepped forward.
“Gentlemen, step outside and catch some air, and follow me.” They tumbled out of the TOC and followed the Old Man around its side, to see yet another sand table. They looked expectantly at their chief. Slowly and deliberately, the LTC took a marker meant to represent B Team, moving it onto a mound of sand representing Benchmark 2108.

“As you know, the engineer platoon got chopped up pretty badly during the last attack. They don’t have enough men to go around to dig us in before the OPFOR are expected to go in. To my mind, that makes the coming fight an ultimately offensive operation.” He paused to meet his subordinates’ gazes. He clearly liked what he saw, continuing, “we’re going to assume some risk here, I’m going to shore up C Team with your – “he nods at Wren “M150s and a rifle platoon, they’re also going to get most of the engineer support. A Team will also provide M150s to C.  That should allow them to hold a larger-than-usual frontage and make up for their losses. That will free up A Team as a reserve. Once we confirm the main effort is in B Team’s sector, I’m going to let them off the leash to counterattack. B Team’s going to fix them, attrit them, force ‘em to dismount. Then A team is going to finish them.”
Wren liked what he was hearing, and it was completely in line with his own aggressive thinking. The TF had learned from the Brown Pass fight that the way to counter the OPFOR’s clockwork-like battle drills was to get them off balance early and often, and counterpunch frequently. His combat team being halved for the battle was disquieting, but he knew fortune favoured the bold. It was a solid plan, based on excellent intel, and he knew the terrain would allow him to push his thinned-out company to maximum effect. He looked up to see the LTC studying him, as if trying to read his thoughts. Finally, the boss said: “Captain, tell me how you intend to fight the initial battle, and we’ll plan around it.”
“Well sir, as I see it, we’re going to have to accept a decisive engagement to take advantage of our superior dismounts. The Tanks are going to have to fight forward to force the enemy to deploy and to feel out their main effort. With some range cards and sufficient fire support, say priority from the 155 battery and some combat aviation, we can bleed them at range well enough to fix them close. I’m envisioning two engagement areas…”
Eight helmeted heads crowded around the sand table as Wren outlined his basic plan with emphatic gestures and sweeps of his hand. They would need another hour or so to flesh it out on the map, and another two hours after that to walk the intended ground with their platoon leaders and fire support officers, but the nucleus of a winning plan had formed. Wren’s defence was aggressive and scrappy, and more importantly, shaped an excellent flanking counterattack for A Company. 

Later that morning, Wren and his counterpart in A Company explained the taskings to their own subordinates.
Initial Tasking:
-  B Company (-) – Task: Fix
o   Tank Platoon (-) – Raid to Benchmark 2108. With the following attachments:
1st Squad, 1st Platoon FO, 1st Platoon o   1st Platoon (-) – Task: Occupy main BP vic. Benchmark 2124.  With the following attachments:
Company HQ Tank section o   Mortars – Task: Priority of fires to 1st Platoon (-). Position in “Sandy Wadi”.
o   Company FIST: OP on Benchmark 2124.
Reinforcement:
-  A Company (-) – Task: Flank
o   Tank Platoon
o   1st Platoon
o   2nd Platoon
Fires and Combat Aviation:
        Cluster 155mm at H+5; and        1 x Flight of Cobras at alert 15. Though Wren’s team did little more than follow and support during the night attack to seize 644.2, the job of clearing out die hard infiltrators had inevitably caused some losses. Most of 1st Platoon had suffered at least one or two men critically or lightly wounded in the squads, and they were down a basic load of ammunition from the sporadic fighting and patrols. More critically, two TCs in the tank platoon had been wounded by mortar fire earlier that morning, leaving two tanks understrength. Wren opted to take those two tanks into the main BP, where proximity to the infantry and OPs would hopefully make up for the crew deficit.
They were as ready as they were going to get. The men of 1st Platoon rested in shifts, and improved their fighting positions throughout the morning, awaiting word from the TF scouts about whether the big one was indeed coming their way. The sun reached, then passed its zenith, baking the men and causing much discomfort.
Then, came word: 40-50 vehicles were approaching the dry Red Pass Lake. Ten minutes later, a lone scout track came barrelling through what was going to be EA Red and pulled back along Bitter Springs MSR. Wren, deployed forward of Benchmark 2124 with the sniping tanks, could see it for himself: a massive cloud of high, hanging dust in the distance. A veritable stampede. It was 1250 hours.

The horde advance with alacrity, and by 1255 hours he could begin to spot individual vehicles through the dust. It was the main element of the MRB, just as the Battalion S-2 predicted. Travelling well in front of the main herd was a platoon of BMPs, in line, coming right down the middle towards Point 606.1. Artillery began to crash several hundred meters off Wren’s right, along the goat trail that constituted Bitter Springs MSR, smoke shells began to billow among the explosive bursts of HE.

“Bravo 26 send to Papa 66.”
“This is Papa 66, go ahead” – An unfamiliar voice, one of the Duty NCOs at TOC, responds.
“Bravo 26 reports contact with enemy main body.”
“Bravo 26, this is Papa 66. Roger your last. H-Hour, H-Hour. Out” – The Old man himself is on the horn now, announcing the start of the planned final battle.
It was 1300 hours.
“Bravo 26 send to Bravo Tango. Get your men moving, out”
“Bravo Tango: acknowledged”
1LT Harmon’s tank section, on this signal, moves out in column. The company mortars, monitoring the net, provide pre-arranged smoke to mask this movement. The destination: the rolling hills on the company team’s left flank.

It only takes them two minutes to arrive at an appropriate attack-by-fire position. The two carriers rolling with them, carrying 1st squad of 1st platoon, and the FO, roll on towards the more complex terrain.

Harmon pushes his men up for a quick attack by fire, but the engagement proves frustrating. Such a mass of enemy targets are impossible not to identify, but at such extended range, the small, speedy BMPs make difficult targets. Little is accomplished, and the 1LT doesn’t waste any further time in the position: he signals with his hands from his cupola, telling the section to orient on him.

As the tanks pull back into cover and rumble on, the promised priorities of fire from the supporting 155 battery are released to Wren.  The battery is immediately tasked to fire on the building concentrations of BMPs along Benchmark 2033 and Point 606.1.
From his OP position, well forward, Wren can see more BMPs entering the area. It appears to be another company. Like the lead forces, this unit initially speeds across the dry Red Pass Lake, but then wheels smartly to the north and disappears behind Benchmark 2108. Are they heading for 1LT Harmon’s position?  

1LT Harmon is trying to remain calm. There’s a lot of combat power driving right at the rest of the Company, and the compulsion to rush is almost overwhelming. “Move deliberately” he chides himself. “Slow is smooth and smooth is fast” he repeats to himself, mentally. The sandy desert floor was treacherous, and his tanks were likely to throw a track if they rushed unduly or made too sharp a change of direction. Nevertheless, he pressed his men on as fast as he dared. It took just shy of ten minutes to reach a second attack-by-fire position. This time, gunnery is much more satisfactory, aided no doubt by the fact that the BMPs are entering terrain they had previously ranged out. A BMP is destroyed at Point 2033.

More and more BMPs array themselves on and around Hill 636.2 and Benchmark 2033. Harmon isn’t sure what they’re waiting for, but he’s glad they’ve stopped. His tank section continues their attack by fire, doing berm drills to avoid the growing attentions of his erstwhile targets, and the volleys of Sagger missiles they send his way.
Then the artillery ordered by the CPT arrives. Bomblets immediately make an impression, and another BMP is flamed in the beaten zone, compelling BMPs to fall back in a hurry.

The retrograde movement is fleeting. The moment arrives: the mass of BMPs, despite the discomfort of the artillery fire and Harmon’s flanking fire, surge forward. The MRC that had earlier disappeared to the north reappear, forming up only a ridge away from Harmon’s positions. Wren is able to raise his tank platoon commander on the net and inform him of the impending threat. A strained acknowledgement is received. To his relief, he sees the three M60s swiftly pull back and orient to face this.

Would Harmon be able to hold with just three tanks and 12 dismounts? Pulling back to the main BP in time is simply out of the question. Wren winces, realising that to have asked such a small force to punch out so far forward was a mistake: he just hoped it wouldn’t be a fatal one. Little further time could be spent agonizing over the matter, as another MRC competes for his attention to the southeast. They are straddling the Bitter Springs MSR and flanking to the south.
“The S-2 will be glad to hear how correct he was about the enemy scheme.” He thinks bitterly.

Despite how well-predicted and doctrinal the assault was, it hadn’t done them a whit of good. Astonished by the pace of advance, they haven’t whittled down the lead OPFOR units anywhere near as much as they had hoped or planned. There was no time to dwell on that now. Nor was there time to alter the scheme. Wren was experienced enough to know to do so would only cause undue, possibly fatal confusion.
“Time to get in this fight.”
Scrambling down the sandy embankment, Wren rushes towards the nearest M60, waving it forward. He hoped that as the range closed rapidly, his own gunnery would become far more accurate. He had high expectations that this forward sniping position would put a hurting on the BMPs as they entered EA Blue. 
As the M60 rumbled up the ridge to a firing position, the SPC commanding the (under-strength) tank slips into the turret and slams the hatch shut behind him. His wingman, no doubt alerted via the platoon net, shortly does the same. One of the pair expertly two BMPs in as many shots, but before it can pull back into cover it is struck by a Sagger missile from somewhere to the north.


The other M60 also finds success. It flames a BMP with its first shot, destroying it even as it attempts to return fire with a missile. A second round impacts on the next nearest BMP, which explodes with such violence that a third, trying to skirt around its stricken comrades, is also knocked out. 


The sudden violent attack by fire sows confusion, briefly, among the OPFOR . The BMPs must slow their rate of advance to push past their burning compatriots and deploy back into an effective line. CPT Wren and the surviving M60 take this opportunity to make good their escape, falling back across several ridges and washes to take position in the main BP.


 *** To 1LT Harmon what is happening several hundred meters to his right may as well be in a different universe. He is entirely preoccupied with the immediate fight, which rapidly descends into what can only be described as a confused melee.
Upon being warned by the CO of the impending attack, he had just enough time to deploy his three tanks into somewhat effective battle positions. There was a massive blind spot on his left created by a low spur, and the best he could do in the time he had was to give vague orders to the infantry NCO to get over there and “deal with it.” No sooner had he given that unhelpful order, then the first OPFOR BMPs crested the ridge to his immediate front.
All three TCs dropped into their cupolas, slamming their hatches in near unison. Three cannons snap in quick succession. Harmon had failed to assign any fire sectors. 3 HEAT rounds smash into the same BMP, which shudders and explodes violently. 

The next couple of volleys are better controlled by the hard-pressed platoon leader, and three more BMPs are destroyed. The OPFOR surge roars forward, almost heedless, and Harmon realises they’re going to go right through him at this pace. He urgently orders the tanks to retreat, heading for a ravine in the rear slope.

Chaos reigns. Harmon bounces between the vision blocks in his cupola, in an attempt to figure out what the hell is happening. He’s astonished to see a BMP surge right past his tank, beelining into a scrub-filled ravine to his rear. Slewing the turret with the override, he gives the surprised gunner firing point procedures, even as he sprays frantically with the .50 calibre. The BMP is knocked out.

“There’s a freakin’ BMP to our front, it’s practically kissing us!” it’s his driver on the intercom. Even as they were dealing with the BMP to their rear, another one had charged right at them. Harmon hadn’t even realised. The Gunner, calmer now, quickly slews the turret. The vehicle fills the entire FOV of his sight. At this range, he cannot miss. The BMP explodes in a fireball. Harmon’s two wingman tanks report their own successful engagements in similarly messy, point-blank scraps.


The attached infantry are equally astonished to see BMPs driving right past them, their firing ports flashing and winking with rifle fire. Having grabbed as many LAWs as they could before dismounting, they are able to destroy several BMPs from the flank and rear. 

The M113s, hidden away in the washes near their dismounts, are likewise able to knock out a pair of BMPs, firing into their sides and rear.

Belatedly, a few surviving BMPs disgorge dismounts, who try to work their way down into the washes. They are able to knock out the M113s as they crest a ridge but have more trouble dealing with the dismounts. In a shootout right out of a Western, they are sprayed down at close range and forced to retreat.

It’s chaotic, it’s messy, but it ends decisively in Harmon’s favour. In two extremely confused minutes, he has removed an enemy company from the larger fight. He takes a minute, trying to restore his situational awareness (and his frayed nerves). The head count takes longer than he would like, and his stomach drops at the thought that all his dismounts are dead. The M113s don’t answer, and his worry mounts. Finally, breathing heavily, the FO NCO reports in and confirms his left is secure. He is also able to re-establish contact with the company HQ via radio and gives as accurate a SITREP as he can, given the circumstances.
“Good, we’re still in this fight.” He concludes.
“Alright, we need to sweep this ravine for any stragglers we missed. Gunner, scan every BMP, some might be playing dead and waiting for a chance shot. Driver, advance. Speed: 1.”
***
Wren is equally focused on his immediate fight, and after having guided the surviving M60 into a good hide, has once again taken as exposed from which he could control the battle. 1LT Voegt, from his position near Benchmark 2124, reports the OPFOR beginning to dismount within EA blue. It's an excellent sign; the enemy would be basically fixed in position as they tried to climb up around the flanks with their dismounts first, at an infantry pace. 1st Platoon and the surviving M60 are now decisively engaged.  It is 1320 hours.

Then Wren’ radio squawks:
“Alpha 26 send to Bravo 26: we are now exiting Sierra Whiskey.”
Sierra Whiskey – the Sandy Wadi. A Company had arrived, with impeccable timing.

Risking a somewhat lengthy radio message, CPT Wren does his best to update his counterpart on the current situation. The decision ultimately lies with A Team’s CPT: the counterattack is on…but how?
Leaning out of his command track’s hatch, the newly arrived leader takes a moment to gather his thoughts. The thrust on the northern flank sounds like it had been stopped cold, if not destroyed. He could push his team in that direction, wheeling right to hit the enemy engaged in EA Blue from the flank and rear. Alternatively, he could push his entire team into the main BP and engage the deployed enemy head-on. He had to decide, and quick. Ultimately, he chooses the bolder option, rationalizing that wheeling right through B Team’s tank platoon would:
Reinforce a success Help mop up any straggling or infiltrating enemy; and Avoid a complex forward passage of line through the main BP and into the teeth of an attacking MRC.
Ordering a tank section to take a support-by-fire position near point 632.1, the rest of A Company (-) move out of the Sandy Wadi in column, keeping Point 632.1 to their right, and begin their attack. He informs CPT Wren of his scheme of manoeuvre. All 1st Platoon and its attachments must do is hold on. Cluster munitions shift, in the meantime, to deny the ground the OPFOR are attempting to advance through. The hope is that it will buy enough time to vector Cobras onto the surviving enemy.
As A Co roars forward and through a brief danger area, the number 3 tank from the company’s tank platoon foolishly halts to engage a BMP several kilometres distant. It misses, badly, and is immediately struck by a Sagger missile for its wasted effort. The tank platoon leader can only swear to himself and urge the rest of his callsigns to be less foolish.
 

It only takes a couple of minutes to link up with 1LT Harmon’s surviving callsigns. The hard-pressed armor officer was still rooting out surviving enemy dismounts and BMPs that were scattered around the ravine. In the hide-and-seek firefight that resulted after the melee, he had lost both M113s and one of his tanks had been damaged by a BMP’s 73mm gun. The point element of A Company arriving swings the balance firmly back in Harmon’s favour, and they announce its arrival in style, the lead tank knocking out one of these sheltering BMPs.

As the tanks advance, they take small arms fire from surviving OPFOR dismounts, they report it for the following infantry and press on to link up with Harmon. The combined two tank sections take effective hull down positions and attack by fire. Despite the long range they are able to knock out several BMPs at the edge of EA Blue are knocked out. 


The enemy attack appears to be stalling, the main effort in EA Blue reduced to a bloody dismount-forward assault. Then the OPFOR helicopters arrive. Despite the VADs best efforts, the pilots skilfully evade and devastate the company mortar platoon with gun runs and rockets. The weapons platoon leader is killed in action during one of these attacks.


While frustrating, and devastating to the rear area of B Team, it doesn’t give the attack the impetus it needs. The BMPs, taking cover as best they can in the washboard-like terrain in EA Blue, fill the air with Saggers, searching out for the surviving M60 which has been making a deadly nuisance of itself, ably directed by Wren into, and out of, firing positions.


 Eventually, however, the M60’s luck runs out. An enemy Sagger finally strikes, disabling the tank. Nevertheless, the MRBs losses rise inexorably. The “battlefield calculus” is overwhelmingly in A and B Team’s favour thus far.

Back in the ravine, 1st Squad from B Team’s 1st Platoon continue to root out enemy dismounts. They are shortly joined by the infantry from A Team, who dismount behind a low berm and effectively engage the enemy, who have expertly and calmly sheltered in any fold of terrain they could find. They take casualties, but the firefights go overwhelmingly their way, often aided by the M113s.



The battle is reaching its climax. The surviving BMPs are fighting gamely from decent cover, and at least of company of enemy dismounts are continuing to advance. Wren gets on the horn:
“Bravo 26 send to Alpha 26.”
“Alpha 26 here.”
“Cobras are telling me they’re Winchester and we’re in a firefight here with multiple dismounts. If you’re going to make a move, make it now. Out”
The stress is evident in Wren’s voice, and it spurs A Team’s leader to action. He tells his tank platoon (-) and to get moving, and the unengaged 2nd Platoon to follow and support. The three M60s do one final jockey into a firing position, scanning for targets, then roll up and over the ridge. 

The tanks surge forward, aiming to hit the rear of the OPFOR’s formation. Advancing on line and at a steady pace, they hose down the washboard terrain with coax, in an attempt to keep the OPFOR dismounts pinned. Despite the volume of fire, the platoon leader’s tank is disabled by a die-hard RPG gunner. Nevertheless, the two remaining M60s push through and begin to sweep away the surviving BMPs.

While the balance of A Company is driving into the MRB’s flank and rear, its 1st Platoon, having finished mopping up OPFOR infiltrators, climbs Benchmark 2108. A beautiful sight greets them. Excitedly, the platoon FO requests for priority of fires. “We got the whole logistical tail of the MRB here!” – He gets his fire mission. Several minutes later, the 155 scattering the soft skins that are taking cover behind Hill 636.2 and destroying two.

The roaring battle slowly peters out, as A Company’s 2nd Platoon root out the enemy from the washboard terrain.

Even at this late stage, the OPFOR dismounts fight tenaciously. Almost all of them must be killed in close assaults by the riflemen. None surrender.

Then, the radios across the Taskforce crackle: “End-ex, end-ex, end-ex.”
The fight is over. Indeed, the battle and rotation are over. The burning vehicles and the dead men fade into what they really are: blinking MILEs lights and disappointed soldiers sitting cross legged on the desert floor, signalling they are “killed.” To Wren and the entirety of this TF however, it was real enough. This final fight was nothing short of harrowing. The OPFOR were relentless, quite literally storming through their positions at times.
While the field of ruin that used to be an entire enemy MRB is a gratifying sight, and would appear to be clear evidence of a smashing success for the TF, determining who won was a matter of difficulty. 

Controversy ensues during the final AAR. The observers and evaluators can hardly agree among themselves how to rate the TF’s final performance. The OPFOR brigade commander, the NTC coordinator, ultimately declares it a minor defeat. He cites, absurdly to Wren’s mind, the dismounted losses taken by A and B Company Team as being unsustainable. Worse still, CPT Wren is criticized, though not with enthusiasm, for accepting a decisive engagement.

The TF commander is lauded for his aggressive plan, and equally importantly, for trusting his subordinates with planning and command decisions. The LTC had the idea, and a framework, but how it was accomplished was rightly left to the two CPTs who would have to fight the actual battle.
The tank losses are brought up and are bitterly criticized. The US Army CPT who was leading the main MRB battalion (the OPFOR always lead “one up”, so a LT often lead a company) is conspicuously and noticeably quiet throughout the debriefing. Wren and his counterpart in A Company take this as the greatest sign of how the battle really went.
The vivid image of the MRB’s logistical units’ MILES indicators blinking in the desert heat was evidence enough for the officers and men of the TF. The criticisms raised did ring true, and the NTC had shown itself to be a harsh master. Years later, men of the TF would say it was, in many ways, harder than the real thing. The OPFOR pushed through often murderous fire with a unity of purpose and fearlessness that no unit could maintain in the face of such heavy losses. Real men in a real battle fear death, are awed by the sight of burning, twisted metal and flesh, the howl of artillery and the screaming of the wounded. No matter how realistic the NTC was, Wren mused, a self-confident OPFOR could never be convinced to halt their attack when they are simply resurrected for battle the next day.

Despite this, the TF had won. This rotation was firm proof that the Soviets, the real opposing force, can and could be defeated.

Both highly recommended reads, that have graced my book shelf for quite some time.

I think there's some criticism to be made, with hindsight, of some of Bolger's sources, but the book is a product of its time and he worked with what he had to hand. As a resource for future map makers and scenario designers though it's a goldmine, I agree. 
Now, without further ado...
 
Chapter 1.2: Pursuit, Interrupted
 
16th October, 1300 hours
It had taken much longer than Wren was happy with for the order to resume the advance to be given. Problems had developed at the Brigade level, with the neighbouring task force reporting extremely heavy resistance as they conducted their own movements to contact. The hold order, Wren found out, was born out of a worry that the spread-out companies of his own TF would get defeated in detail or hit in the flank by the enemy’s reserves, which had clearly not been needed elsewhere.
So, both B Team and the surviving OPFOR bided their time and licked their wounds. All was not still, though: violence had occasionally punctuated the time since his morning’s fight had ended. Mortars, and the odd machinegun burst had kept both sides’ security elements discomfited, and had equally frustrated the infantry’s attempts to dig any type of scrape in the rocky desert floor.
Wren had hoped he could make the most of the late morning to reconstitute and rearm his forces. No such luck, however. The Battalion trains had been incredibly overstretched between the widely separate teams and canalized geography. The Battalion XO had managed to push forward much needed fuel to his tracks and tanks, and even hot food for the men. Nothing further was forthcoming. The TOWs, already low on ammunition, would have to make do with what they had. He was likewise running low on Dragon missiles in his rifle platoons.
Worse still, his tank platoon was still down to only three effective tanks. With no crew casualty replacements, the stricken tank was too undermanned to be worth a damn, and he had sent the disappointed crew back to Battalion. The Platoon leader’s gun would require legitimate maintenance, and he was effectively a machinegun bunker. Command devolved to SFC Rosenberger, the tank platoon NCO. Vehicular woes did not end there, two M113s had broken down (little surprise, given the state they were in when his unit collected them) late in the morning, and they were still in no condition to fight by H-hour.
Nevertheless, word had come down at 1100: B Company Team was to pursue and destroy surviving enemy in vicinity North of Brown Pass. The rest of the tank platoons were being returned to the control of their parent company and would follow and support Wren’s efforts. It had now become a Battalion-level affair, to a degree. H-hour had been set to 1300 hours. He had been warned by the TF’s S-2 to expect the enemy to redouble their effort with the injection of more combat power in his AO, likely armour. The time had come.

The plan was simple: Hug the same key terrain he had anchored his company on earlier that morning and attempt to continue that right-wheeling attack his unit had been completing when the stop order arrived. He integrated an air and artillery interdiction effort, once again, into the scheme; making the most of his trip back to TOC to liaise with combat-aviation and the Battalion FIST. Fires would land, and Cobras would prowl about on the likely axis of advance for any reinforcing enemy armour. Wren did not feel fully satisfied with the plan: it was predictable and merely a repetition of the morning’s efforts, but it was what he could do with the little time (and resources) he had. It would have to do.
B Company team had assembled once again in the small bowl that denoted the exit from Brown Pass. Just like that morning, the lip of the bowl provided an excellent battle position and location from which to provide cover. Sure enough, as soon as the lead vehicles creeped into a hull-down position to establish such positions, they reported and destroyed a lone BMP. The assaulting forces snake forward even as this occurs.


Something's up...and something's wrong.
The SBF and the point elements all report the same thing: enemy dismounts retreating from PL Chariots towards PL Stripes. Why fall back now? Wren ponders.
Whatever the OPFOR have planned, for now, Wren doesn't interrupt his own. It only takes a few minutes for 2LT Bunting to report his dismounts and Rosenberger's tank section, in position. They will form the anchor on the mountainous left flank. The infantry, established on the cliffs, have set up OPs/LPs and anti-tank blocking positions. The tanks take an attack-by-fire position at the base of this same terrain and begin coaxing the enemy infantry earlier seen falling back.


All is soon revealed when the SFC reports that he has contact with enemy armour, in about company strength, approaching from the north.
A flurry of code words are fired over the net, signalling the pre-arranged artillery and combat aviation missions. Cobras, loitering to the west, swiftly respond and take firing positions. Artillery confirms fire for effect with cluster munitions. The intention is to give the OPFOR armour a hot reception. Too hot of one.
It doesn’t quite go as planned. The flight leader of the pair of helicopters reports coming under heavy fire and cancels his engagement after only a single clear-cut kill. They must evade swiftly, practically bouncing off the desert floor to break radar lock and line of sight. Having anticipated more of the same from this morning, the OPFOR commanders had attached a “Shilka” – an anti-air gun tractor – to the relief force.

The vehicle spits out fire like a dragon, breaking up the Cobras’ attack without much effort. Rosenberger announces he is beginning a direct fire engagement, but two tanks M60s fighting off an entire armoured company is long odds by any measurement.
Then the artillery weighs in. The T-72s boldly surge through it and are out of the danger zone quickly. Wren and his FO scramble to begin shifting the fire. 

Having emerged from the maelstrom, the T-72s open fire. It is only the combination of excellent hull-down positions and frequent jockeying that spare Rosenberger, his wingman, and the supporting positions from being removed from the fight immediately.

Things, to put it mildly, were not looking hot. CPT Wren knew he had lost control of the battle. There was little he could do now: he had played his cards, and the OPFOR hadn’t even looked at them. A direct-fire engagement was roaring across the entire length of the desert and all the infantry and their carriers could do was find some cover. The Sioux were closing in, whooping and hollering, and all his command could do was return fire, as best they could, and await the Cavalry.
Return fire they did. B Company’s heavy-hitters were stationary and in good cover, whereas the enemy was in the open and on the move. Speed protected the OPFOR to a degree, but they would need to halt, or slow their rate of advance, to give accurate return fire. Despite the mounting pressure on their battle position, Rosenberger’s wingman puts a T-72 down. Then, the TOWs secure two kills themselves, exhausting the remaining ammo on these vehicles. 

The fierce defensive fire buys precious minutes. Under heavy fire and mounting losses, the OPFOR Tank Company leader issues brisk orders to begin advancing more cautiously. What was once a surging wave becomes a series of aggressive bounds. Fire becomes much more accurate, as a result, and Rosenberger’s luck finally runs out. In swift succession, his tank, then his wingman’s, are destroyed. One burns fiercely, its entire crew killed.

With the tanks duelling at extreme range, Wren finally feels secure enough to attempt to get back into the fight. OPFOR dismounts were still attempting to filter back to safety, and he reintroduces himself to the battle by ordering the M113s from Bunting’s platoon to move forward and engage them. They put down heavy enfilading fire, and the hapless enemy fall steadily to the thumping fire. Bunting’s M60s can reach out at this extended range, albeit less effectively, to add to this fire.
Reports confirm that about 5 OPFOR T-72s are still operational. Slowly wrestling the initiative back from the enemy, Wren begins coordinating with his supporting assets a renewed joint-fires effort on the now stalled-out enemy. Ten minutes. Ten minutes until these assets could be guided onto target. Realising that the enemy ADA was still out there and exposed, Wren tells his counterpart to prioritize the Shilka. He gets an affirmative response from the tank leader.


“This is Tango 26. Roger Bravo 26, we’re going to go for that ADA. Wait one.”
The imposing line jockey forward and backwards over the next couple minutes, again duelling with the T-72s, as they search out for the high value target. A SSG on the third engagement spots the Shilka, and in a remarkable feat of gunnery, guides his gunner on for a kill.

“Tango 26 send to Bravo 26: tell the birds they’re in business. Out.”
CPT Wren, and the surviving elements of the company team, had at last found their equilibrium. A plan had formed in his mind, clear and apparent, and involving all elements. Risking excessive radio communications, he runs it past the Tank Company leader. The aggressive-minded cavalryman agrees without much hesitation.
He issues his orders: 1st and 2nd Platoon’s Dragons to work forward on the high ground and engage T-72s on the left flank of PL STRIPES, Renfro (and the sole combat effective tank) to take his platoon and carriers to mop up the enemy dismounts, all the while the Tank Company surged forward in bounds towards STRIPES. Mortars would support Renfro, air and artillery the tank company. It was just similar enough to the original scheme that the pivot could be done quickly and without confusion, but unlike the original plan, it properly involved the tank company.
The Dragon gunners get moving, hustling to be in position before the air and artillery signal the start of the attack. Soon they are putting fire down on a pair of T-72s hidden from the Tank Company’s sight. They report no penetrations, but the heavy hits undoubtedly effect, to a serious degree, the enemy armour’s ability to participate in the coming fight. 


Then the combined fires of the Cobras and cluster munitions renew. No radio communication is necessary, with the tanks getting a primetime view of the cluster munitions impacting among the enemy’s positions. Their young 1LT issues the order to attack. Wren, hanging out the cargo hatch of his command track, sees this movement over his right shoulder, and orders his own men to go.

The T-72s, now largely stationary, feel the impact of the cluster artillery much more keenly. It disrupts their return fire, as the bomblets cause spalling and much discomfort within the fighting compartment of the vehicles. The initial bounds of the heavy company proceed unmolested in large part thanks to this.


The OPFOR had not been idle during this impasse either, however. Their own artillery falls on the assembly area of B Co, and Bunting and Renfro’s men find themselves chased all the way back to their M113s by impacting high explosives. A Dragon team are cut down. Despite the heavy fire, the Company is able to remount, and make it away and clear out of the heavy shellfire before more misfortune can befall them.


Armour begins to dominate the fight, though not entirely. As the heavy team fights slowly forward, bounding by platoons down from the high ground, Renfro’s platoon is able to hit OPFOR dismounts in the flank, sweeping along the plateau just in front of PL CHARIOTS. It’s hardly a battle. Exhausted from their morning ordeal and caught in the middle of a raging firefight between two groups of tanks, the OPFOR are swept away. 

The friendly tanks bound through, and past them, and report PL CHARIOTS crossed by 1328 hours. Then, inexplicably, the enemy armour rumbles out of their hasty battle positions and once again attempt to surge forward. The firefight rapidly accelerates to a conclusion, as the outnumbered T-72s take a shellacking from the M60s. 


Outnumbered and outgunned, by 1333 hours all that remains of the OPFOR armour are shuddering, popping wrecks, most burning fiercely. The hard-bitten OPFOR dismounts scatter if not compelled to surrender, and escape and evade into the desert, no longer a coherent fighting force. Those that survive the trek back to safety will be in no condition, physically, to fight.

Exhaustion blankets the two companies and like an insidious fog, it slowly creeps across the entire task force. Heat, thirst, hunger, the release of adrenaline, and sheer physical fatigue root men to the spot. CPT Wren and his sweat-soaked counterpart from the tank company have difficulty even getting their swollen tongues to move when they deliver their situation reports back at the TOC:

To everyone’s immense relief and satisfaction, the LTC, after hearing their reports, had some good news: They were getting 24 hours for much-needed maintenance and rest. Then, between the 17th and 19th of October the unit would be in the Northern Corridor, conducting live-fire exercises. They would be spared the attentions of the OPFOR until after that time.
The officers and men of B Company, salt-stained, hot and exhausted, slept like the dead that evening. 

Continued...
Wren had been monitoring the fight, listening to Bunting control the point element. Things appeared to be going well, but he could tell the pressure was on. Each report from his senior platoon leader was rising an octave, a sign he knew well from countless exercises was a sign of stress. He urged the main body of his force on, because it was clear that contrary to fixing the enemy, Bunting appeared to be getting pinned himself. By 0908 hours, Wren and the balance of the company team arrived in the hasty fighting position. The cross-attached armour platoon under 1LT Harmon pushes forward, taking hull down positions all along the ridge.

The moment had come to take the fight forward. Wren required only a couple of minutes to appraise himself of the situation, his track nudging itself in next to Bunting’s. Whilst the company leader was briefed by his point platoon leader, the company mortars set up a hasty firing position. They were soon firing a repeat mission at the OPFOR dismounts, who were still working their way around the right flank of the Company’s position. 

The situation was still very confused, but Wren was able to come up with a straightforward scheme of maneuver based on what appeared apparent:   He knew there was remnants of a BMP platoon to the right flank, practically on PL Toto. 2nd Platoon would sweep and clear them off the heights with priority of company mortars. Tank platoon (-) to punch straight towards PL Yazoo. TOWs and the rest of the tank platoon to support by fire. Air power, if he could raise it again in time, would support. 1st Platoon to remount, rearm, and follow and support (2). 
It was a good plan, all things considered, but it was based on shaky info in a highly fluid situation. Wren was still giving his tasking orders when 1LT Harmon broke in with a contact report. A single T-72 had just been knocked out by his unit at close range, and there was an unspecified amount of BMPs making smoke and driving (once more) towards the high ground on the right flank.

FO teams that climbed the craggy cliffs on the left flank firmed up these reports in due course. The OPFOR appeared to be going all in on the Company’s right flank, and Wren duly modified Harmon’s mission to sweep to the northwest, rather than directly north, to account for this.

Wren keyed his microphone, and issued his FRAGO:
“All callsigns this is Bravo 26. Orders: Situation. One times Mike Romeo Charlie approaching north, vicinity phase line TOTO. Mission. Destroy. Groupings and tasks. Bravo 22, move northwest, orient north, assault one times Bravo Mike Papa platoon.  Bravo Tango, you are the main effort. Move towards phase line YAZOO, orient northwest. Provide one times support tango each to Bravo 24 and Bravo 22.  Bravo 21 and this call sign, to follow and support Bravo Tango. Bravo 24, continue with current task. Acknowledge and questions, over?”
A satisfying chorus rolled in over the company net from his platoon leaders, all repeating some variation of acknowledgement and indication of no questions.
Supporting by fire, the TOWs open the engagement, reaching out to touch the enemy as they began to expose themselves in their approach.


The OPFOR increasingly show signs of being disoriented, caught off guard. What had been a single-minded effort to seize key terrain was becoming a fight for survival. The worm was turning, with initiative firmly passing to Wren’s company team. Roaring forward in column behind a wedge of three M60s, Wren was greeted by the satisfying sight of his joint fires coming to bear. His hurried call for further gunship support had been answered, and he could see TOW and rocket fire creating havoc, black spires of smoke testament to their effect. Then, a few hundred meters to his front, he could see Harmon’s M60s fire a volley. The RTO’s radio crackles, and the young PFC awkwardly hands the receiver to him in the cramped cargo space:
“Bravo 26 this is Bravo Tango. Am engaging three times B-M-P, repeat I am engaging three times BMP, you may want to hold your callsign back sir, out.”

Somewhere off to their right, 2LT Renfro’s reinforced platoon was snaking forward in column, forming the right arm of a pincer. Renfro did his best to ensure his group kept, as far as the terrain allowed, the main effort in sight. He knew Wren intended this attack to be mutually supporting.
“Bravo Tango send to Bravo 26.”
“This is 26. Send.”
“Have engaged and destroyed three times BMP. Am resuming advance. Out”
The enemy’s second echelon had been caught in the open and devastated by the balance of the tank platoon. What the slow-moving sweep does not kill, the overwatching TOWs and trailing tank does. Caught off guard, the BMPs attempt to make smoke and reverse into some approximation of a hull down position. Their dismounts likewise attempt to find cover, but most are chopped up badly by the M113s. It is a testament to the professionalism of the OPFOR that, despite the unfolding disaster, they are still able to put down heavy, often accurate, return fire. One tank is penetrated and suffers crew casualties, and Harmon’s tank has its main gun damaged in the exchange. The BMPs die hard, but die they do.


Harmon’s Platoon NCO, who had been in the trail tank with the TOWs, now moves forward to take over for his leader, whose disabled tank falls back. With most of the BMPs destroyed, the fight returns to the infantry, and surviving OPFOR dismounts fight tenaciously from every scrap of cover and concealment the terrain can provide. Renfro’s unit mops up the shattered BMP platoon, .50 calibers thumping as the infantry bound forward.

One of 2nd Platoon’s Dragon teams identifies two BMPs in ambush near the main effort’s position, and duly report and engage them. The wisdom of ensuring the platoons remained in mutually supporting distance is made clear by this incident.

By 0918 hours, Wren’s command group and most of 1st Platoon had outflanked OPFOR dismounts by climbing Hill 165.5 and had begun to pour fire down their flank. Despite the dominating position, the American infantry take accurate, shockingly accurate, return fire. Three casualties are suffered in the exchange, but the result is preordained. Bunting, with the other half of the platoon, bounds forwards. With grenade and bayonet, the OPFOR dismounts are either killed, wounded, or captured. It is an ugly, intimate firefight – not what the casual observer would expect in desert terrain.

By 0926 hours, the fight is over. Individual survivors are picked off, caught in a crossfire between the vehicles of 1st and 2nd Platoon’s as they attempt to escape the close assault. Word filters down from brigade, to TOC, from TOC to Wren: ceasefire, assume a hasty defense and stand by for further orders.
 
***
The lead OPFOR battalion commander was perturbed. This was not the type of aggressive response he expected.  He was not an overly prideful man, he knew a battle lost when he saw one, but he was also not accustomed to defeat. Not on his home turf. He could turn the enemy’s success into defeat, the enemy Battalion was pushing through separate passes, outside of mutual support, and the company-sized force that had just savaged his combat reconnaissance patrol and forward security element was now out on a limb, outside of the mutual support of its sister companies.
He knew he needed to redouble his efforts and try to catch the enemy while they were either rearming or attempting to pursue his lead force. The surviving forward officer reported his men were going firm, as was expected of him, to try and fix the enemy for as long as possible.
“Adjutant, get me Regiment. Request release of the armour reserve.”
They would be ready by this afternoon. It should be soon enough.

Boeing Yard, Fort Irwin, California
CPT Wren could feel a very strong headache coming on. It wasn’t the unbearable, searingly-dry heat, (well, it was the heat in part) so much as it was the logistical nightmare his company, and his Battalion Taskforce writ-large, had been dumped into. They had just arrived at the Boeing yard, serving as an initial assembly and equipment collection point for their rotation at the National Training Centre. The officers and senior NCOs were in absolute, collective shock at what greeted them. They had left most of their equipment behind at Ft. Stewart, with the promise that they would be provided with well-maintained, pre-positioned gear on arrival at Ft. Irwin.
The sight of the Battalion XO standing amidst the metaphorical wreckage, hands on hips, with an evil countenance on his face revealed how stretched the truth of that promise had been. If looks could kill, the MAJ would’ve struck down every civilian contractor in the yard by now. The displeasure radiating out of the Battalion XO was echoed by the companies’ XOs. Wren’s second in command, 1 LT Booth, looked like he was contemplating homicide whilst talking with the civilian contractors mounting MILEs gear to the Company’s M150 tank destroyers.
They had left behind relatively cutting-edge equipment, which they had left in top shape, back at their home posting. What greeted them were older models of M60 tanks and TOW launchers, lacking the excellent thermal sights they had come to rely on. The TF’s sister battalion that had just come back from rotation had never warned them about this. They had been put through the wringer and had warned his unit that the infamous OPFOR didn’t play by the rules.
Looking over at the rundown, dated equipment in poor repair, Wren couldn't help but feel that this was part of an elaborate plot to put them off balance before the rotation even began...
Chapter 1.1: The Hasty Attack
 
Near Brown Pass, National Training Centre, Fort Irwin.
The operations group had gathered around a sand table, essentially a scaled-down presentation of local terrain, to plan how they would kick off the mock war for the barren, craggy desert. Wren could feel the sun beating down on his exposed neck as he looked down. He had wisely kept his steel helmet off for the briefing, preferring a patrol cap. It offered some slight relief to the sensation that he was in an oven, and that he particularly was being burned in the pan.
The immediate mission was straightforward, in principle. Brigade had informed them that the lead elements of an enemy Motor Rifle Regiment (MRR) had entered the area of operations and was suspected to be heading towards one of several passages through the corridor. The enemy’s general intent was not difficult to divine: secure one of these features and allow the regiment to debouch onto the desert and deploy for an attack. The TF was to establish contact with the enemy’s forward elements, fix them and, if possible, destroy them. Follow up operations would then commence against the main body of the MRR.  
These first fights would devolve to the companies. The NTC was intended to train the army to fight a step down, that is, a company was expected to go toe-to-toe with an OPFOR battalion, and a battalion with a regiment. It was a tough ask. It put a lot of pressure on guys like Wren, but it also forged these junior leaders into the backbone of America’s army.
The NTC’s entire concept was one big, tough, ask. It had thus far put units, sometimes inadequately trained, always under-equipped, against a dedicated opposing force, or OPFOR. The US Army had played around with the idea of an opposing force before. What had resulted was a hokey B-movie routine simply called the “Aggressors.” They had no foundation in reality, no equipment that bore any relation to something in service, and failed completely to reflect any one of the many likely enemies the United States would face. The Aggressors, like the men who were tasked to portray them, had nothing worth fighting for. Units that rotated in to display them liked getting killed early and often, so they could get a hot meal at the mock casualty clearing stations. It was schlock, and the army had known it.
Fort Irwin, it’s dedicated OPFOR, and the MILEs system (think one giant game of angry laser tag) had changed all that.

This OPFOR had one task: play the Soviets better than the Soviets themselves, and brutalize their enemy whilst doing so. The fact the OPFOR was also expected to meet training standards as a US unit made it a nightmare opponent: a ruthlessly competent enemy that knew your playbook back-to-front.  The first bunch of battalions that had rotated through the NTC had come away shocked, and not infrequently in tatters. Wren’s TF had the advantage of learning from these initial rotations. Two TFs from sister brigades in their division had already gotten their NTC-issued hidings and had diligently and openly disseminated their experiences. They were, theoretically, the best prepared unit yet to come prepared for the fight.
This was their first opportunity to prove that. The Battalion S-2, a highly competent officer with a Master’s in psychology, had put his money down on the idea that the enemy’s lead elements would head for Brown pass. Wren’s area of responsibility. Considering this, the TF Commander had indicated he was willing to throw significant weight behind his company team. Combat aviation, and armour retained under task force control for support of his team, if need be. There were two courses of action: let the lead MRB come through the pass and hit them hard in the bottleneck or push through and find them in the open. The resources his CO was willing to allocate would change depending on the decision, but he trusted his CPT enough to reach one on his own and held his peace as to which he would have preferred.
Wren thought for a moment…Allowing the enemy to come through the pass was the “textbook” solution. It was canalizing terrain and would allow him to get the most out of his company team. It would be a mainly defensive operation, greatly aiding his chances of avoiding heavy losses. Thing is, textbook was obvious. The textbook made for poor reading in this situation, thought Wren. The first option ceded initiative to an OPFOR he knew was lean and mean on the offensive, especially one going to plan. He interrupted his thoughts with a question:
“Are you able to allocate me any of the scouts?” he asked his CO.
“No can do. We need them to tie into the armour battalion TF operating in the Southern Corridor, they can’t put dismounts in those hills as readily as we can.”
If he fought in Brown Pass himself, he would need to seriously contest the high valley mesas, or else the OPFOR would get observers up there and make any type of hasty defence untenable due to artillery fire. He wanted scouts for that, rather than have to put too much load on dismounted foot patrols taken from his platoon. The CO’s answer settled the dilemma. Wren reached over and pushed the little blue block representing his company team through the pass on the sand table.

He could see in his mind, the actual terrain leaping up around him. Wren had always had an eye for terrain, and he knew he could make the most of it here. The “open” ground north of Brown Pass was anything but. It was a series of plateaus, a giant natural staircase, that provided good cover to all but the tallest of vehicles and would allow a commander (on either side) to switch from a long-range engagement to a close-in one at a moment’s notice. The exit of the pass also had a craggy pair of mountains, impassable to vehicles, but perfect for dismounts. Pushing through would make that terrain all his. He intended to use it to its fullest effect.

Preparing for tomorrow’s operations meant it was going to be a long night. Wren, his hard-pressed XO and the platoon leaders had a lot of work to do to make the plan a reality. Wren also had to find the TACP, frustratingly absent at the briefing, and try to integrate the combat aviation into the plan, as he wouldn’t be able to have it “on call” and flexible once the rounds were flying back and forth.
***
16th October, 0900 Hours

They were through Brown Pass, without any enemy air interdiction. At least, 1st Platoon was through. So narrow was the defile, so real the threat of OPFOR air attack, that the Company team was deliberately strung out. This meant that, for 2LT Bunting’s forward group, if there was a fight, it would be his alone for some measure of time. His job was to fix the enemy for the rest of the Company team to manoeuvre aggressively. It was an important, high-risk task and a sign of the trust Wren put in his senior platoon leader. With Bunting’s platoon was the two M150 TOW vehicles, on loan from 1LT Benner’s platoon. The group was moving in staggered column, along a sandy trail, towards a low ridge that denoted the northern mouth of Brown Pass.
Bunting, riding in the lead M113 with a Dragon team and the assigned forward observer, looked over his shoulder. A pair of Cobras was providing intimate support and were hovering just behind Hill 165.5. Suddenly, one of the Cobras raised itself up a bit more and fired off a TOW missile with a hiss and a pop. Contact?

Contact! Urging his track forward, his driver cautiously nosed the M113 in fits and starts up the ridge. Calling a halt, he could see high, hanging dust clouds in the vicinity of PL “Yazoo”, one of several reporting lines to help the TOC track the advance of both B Company and the OPFOR. It quickly became apparent that multiple enemy BMPs were moving fast towards the mouth of the pass. More than he could handle in an open fight. Bunting reacted fast, and with clear-headedness. They had expected this. The Cobras were making the enemy squirm and push with haste, that could play to his advantage. The little bowl his group was in was excellent defensive terrain from which he could pin the enemy. Signalling over the platoon radio, as well as with his hands from the cargo hatch, he ordered his squad tracks into an umbrella-shaped defence.

The flying column cover being provided by the Cobras was showing its worth. Behind excellent positions, the Cobras took turns launching TOWs, which raced at knee-height over the desert to slam into BMPs’ flanks. Wren, hearing Bunting’s contact report, got the word back to TOC quickly. The planned F-16 strike went in 5 minutes after the initial contact report, and they laid their clusters in, presumably with devastating effect.


The OPFOR recon leader stayed calm. He must have known his best bet now was to get forward and to grab the enemy by the belt. The BMPs surged forward. They would be in Bunting’s perimeter within minutes if the Americans didn’t react strongly.

The TOWs weighed in, however, at Bunting’s command. They fired from excellent hull down positions along the low ridge he established his fighting position from. To Bunting’s chagrin, their first few shots are wildly off target. The TOW crews were inexperienced and clearly a bit awe-struck at the sight of a company of BMPs ruthlessly pushing through air attack. It takes two engagements to finally find their nerve – and their targets. A BMP burns.

Then the enemy weighs in with their own fire support. A thunderous crush of artillery impacts just to the left of Bunting’s track. He buttons up to avoid the angry, buzzing shards of shrapnel. The OPFOR artillery is off target but still denies a large part of this excellent battle position to him. More alarmingly, it kicks up the high, hanging dust Bunting has already learned defines the NTC’s desert terrain. Soon his attached TOWs are telling them they can no longer actively engage threats through the dust. ****, this is going to get close and messy, thinks Bunting.
“Earl, get that ramp down and get your ass out with the Dragon, get up there!” he screams to the mounted Dragon team, ducking back down into the cargo compartment.  “Evans, get posted somewhere on this ridge and the Chucks going!” he continues, calmer now, to the attached FO.

The BMPs were only 600 meters or so away now. The vagaries of the terrain were making themselves felt. BMPs were flitting in and out of sight, and the TOWs continued to have trouble engaging, only managing to pick off the occasional BMP.
SPC Earl, the platoon’s Dragon gunner, calmly sets up on a bit of the ridge, determined to cover the short front of the Platoon’s BP. He ignores the artillery, as best he can, and adopts the awkward cross-legged firing position, waiting for the first enemy to pop up over the plateau. A pair of BMPs shortly obliges him, even halting momentarily, to his delight. One is shortly burning. The TOWs catch a lucky break soon afterwards and tally two more BMPs.

In a furious five minutes, Bunting’s small force and air cover appeared to have mauled an enemy company. There was no time to rest on their laurels, however. Another platoon of BMPs, seeing the carnage to their front, smartly pull to their left, disgorging dismounts and creating smoke, and then surge past Bunting’s right flank, towards Point 199.1. Through gaps in the smoke, Bunting is able to track the line of enemy dismounts, and he spots in the distance even more BMPs – the enemy’s main security element?
The Cobras have ceased fire, displacing so as to avoid enemy anti-air fire. A wise move, to be sure, but a poorly timed one from Bunting’s perspective. He has no way of raising them quickly again, lacking a direct communications line to them. It was entirely his fight now.  
Movement is key to any defence, but especially a hasty one. The TOWs were ordered to displace to cover the burgeoning threat on the right flank, but this takes them dangerously close to the enemy artillery fire. The TOW crews find themselves constantly ducking back down to avoid shrapnel.

Nevertheless, they can re-engage, picking off a few of the flankers. 

Then, out of the smoke - and through its own artillery - surges a single enemy BMP. Bunting, too focused on the immediate fight, had never strictly given orders to his squads to dismount in the reverse slope. Luckily, his experienced NCOs read in between the lines and dismounted on their own initiative and had liberally handed-out LAWs to their men whilst doing so. The BMP is engaged effectively by these disposable rockets and is swiftly knocked out.

 
***
This is a beefy chapter, and I don't want to bore you to death...bite sized chunks. To be continued (as for the Normandy DAR, the backlog of photos do was larger than thought, apologies). 

I have been slowly playing through Cold War's campaigns and standalone scenarios and have been completely blown away with the fidelity of the singleplayer experience. The AI plans have almost universally been some of the best I've seen in any title. It's been immersive. As I often do when I play, I started snapping pictures and making small gifs. When I arrived to scenario 3 in the US Campaign I thought "I should start making an AAR." So, I paused, went back to play the NTC campaign, a few of my favourite scenarios from the Soviet perspective, and started writing. 
I've learned two things: I can't write to save my life, and I really enjoyed it regardless. I already have 6 AARs completed of my experiences and will share them with you all, if only to distract. They strike a more narrative tone, but I have done my best to explain the tactics and decisions. I will label the scenario/mission at the start of every AAR. Without further ado...
 
Prologue:
Kiev Military District, Ukraine SSR.
It was a clear, late spring day somewhere south of Kiev. The open pastureland was starting to show the signs of recovery following the harsh winter. Grass grew tall and the sea of mud was firming up into dry terrain. To any casual observer it would seem a scene of idyllic pastoral calm.

It is a façade. The calm is shattered in an instant, and a brutish ballet begins.

A thunderous barrage deforms and rapes the landscape. It builds to a howling, shrieking crescendo. A cacophony of mortars, howitzers and “Grad” rockets form the orchestra. The impacts smother two wooded hills with a mix of high explosive, smoke, and chemical irritants similar to CS gas. It was all the fury and violence of war, at its apparent worst.
This was not war, however. Merely a facsimile of it. An exercise. To the stern-faced evaluators observing from several kilometres away, and the attached state TV camera crews, it was real enough. Real enough for citizens of the Soviet Union who would watch these scenes play out on their TVs, real enough for Western defence analysts who would pore over every frame of the video, and real enough indeed for young conscripts sat waiting in their tanks and personnel carriers a few kilometres away, in readiness behind a low ridge.

Belly crawling forward among tree, bush and scrub on this same ridge, were more of these young Soviet conscripts. These men were equipped with heavy weapons:  machine guns, recoilless rifles, grenade launchers and potent anti-tank missiles. They would soon make their presence felt, reaching out into the roaring inferno across the open field, destroying any target they could see which remained unharmed from the bombardment. Their missiles began reaching out, flying towards real and simulated targets. TV cameras panned, keeping up with the missiles, visible as green dots against the background.


The evaluators would duly note “hits” recorded by these weapons and, using an intricate set of rules and modifiers, adjust the amount of fire (and therefore casualties) the unit would be deemed to receive when they began their attack. The prospects were good: everything appeared to be within nominal parameters for this drill. The artillery was on target, the missile fire accurate.
As the artillery fire began to abate, the MRB commander – a tough, professional soldier who had been through several prestigious state academies and had seen service in Afghanistan – knew the time was right to begin his attack. Ensconced within his personnel carrier, his voice simultaneously filled the headset of every vehicle commander of this force: begin, armour forward, came the command.
A company of T-64s, a marvel of Soviet technology and a demonstration of its single-minded design philosophy, rumbled up the ridge they had sheltered behind. Taking effective hull down positions, their imposing 125mm cannons crashed out in volleys, striking targets on the forward edge of the forested hills.

The fire is deemed highly effective, scoring several “kills” of enemy vehicles.  With this report crackling through his headset from the tank company commander, the MRB leader issues the next orders, this time via pre-assigned codeword. Repeating himself so there could be no confusion, he tersely speaks: Hornet, hornet, hornet. The unit roars forward as one.
Again, the tanks lead, pushing up and over the ridge at top speed. They fire, with much less accuracy now, on the move, too fast for even the gyro stabilizers to compensate. It is no matter, movement now is key, rather than fire. 

As they pass the exposed area, their rate of advance slows again. Their fire becomes highly effective once more, volleys crashing out across the valley. The observers would note “losses”, of course, losses would always result as an attack neared an objective. They were well within normal parameters, however. What was expected, acceptable, in the science of the attack.

Then come the personnel carriers, surging over the ridge. They move with alacrity behind the armour, in two extended lines.

With pinpoint timing, the artillery fire redoubles on the wooded hills, once again smothering the MRB’s objectives. Any surviving enemy who would chance a shot at these vulnerable vehicles would undoubtedly be discouraged by the howling high explosives.

Again, losses are incurred by the observer/evaluators. Not enough, however. Again, everything is within acceptable parameters.
The MRB closes with shocking speed, crossing several hundred meters in only a few minutes. The momentum and impetus is irresistible. Most of the tanks halt 500 meters away from the wooded tree line, redoubling their fire into and around it. A handful of T-64s move forward with the personnel carriers to provide intimate support. They close the distance aggressively, moving through the final rounds of their own artillery. This particularly impresses the camera crews, still diligently recording, delighted at the realism of the exercise.


The vehicles rumble into the woods, their heavy machineguns thumping away at silhouette targets meant to simulate enemy infantry in their foxholes. Then, the orders come: “Dismount! Forward!” Soviet infantry scramble out of rear hatches and side doors, over engine decks, and into action. Units move in an extended line, firing bursts from their assault rifles. Occasionally, a squad halts at the knee, spraying down foxholes with automatic fire and rocket propelled grenades. They press forward, moving with astonishing speed, newer conscripts desperately sucking for air as they gallop forward.

Leaning out of the hatch of his command vehicle, the MRB commander witnesses his forward companies safely debussing on the objectives. Smoke, as planned, begins to land at the edges of the hills, isolating them from one another. Exultant, for he knows his unit is performing excellently, he urges forward the remainder of his force. Not onto these terrain objectives, these are not of the greatest importance, but beyond them. Breakthrough.
The tanks form into two columns and  roar through the hole ripped in the enemy’s defence, and the MRB commander pushes his command group, air defence vehicles and his third company through in the vacuum they create. They fire as they move, riflemen spraying the smoke-shrouded treeline from open cargo hatches on the rear of the personnel carriers.


***
“15 minutes.”
“What was that, comrade Colonel?” the TV producer asks, overhearing the supervising Colonel despite the dull thuds and crunches in the distance.
“15 minutes. That’s the average time it usually takes to complete this drill.” He explains.
“Is that good?”
The Colonel laughs, “Yes, 15 minutes is quite acceptable… this commander has done it in 12.”
The dismounted infantry may take hours, in reality, to comb through the wooded hills and defeat the surviving enemy infantry. That they would suffer heavily whilst doing so was not in dispute, nor was it of any particular importance. Even the uninitiated TV crewmen could deduce that. The real takeaway, the true objective, was that most of a tank company and an entirely unscathed set of motor riflemen were through the enemy’s defensive position. Havoc would ensue, and the destruction of the notional enemy unit was almost presaged. What the Colonel observing knew, and that the TV crewmen did not, was that inexorably, inevitably, behind this breakthrough would come a tank battalion, then another regiment, and then entire brigades. Victory would follow. It was as simple as that.
Notes/Thoughts
So, the scenario played here was "Soviet Tactical Doctrine 1 (MRB)" by Miller. I wanted to play because I thought it would make a great little compare and contrast piece to how the US would have to do things, especially in the NTC campaign. It's also just a solid concept for a mission, and a trend that I hope continues. For the absence of doubt, I played it straight, precisely as the briefing guides you to do. 
I also think there's some subtle criticism to be made, through the scenario, of how we know the Soviets trained in reality. Big, choreographed exercises. Useful for producing units that knew a series of SOPs and battle-drill evolutions, perhaps not as useful for producing units that know how to keep pushing through when BTRs and BMPs are exploding. They weren't organic like say, I feel the NTC was. Keep that in your minds for now. 

Boeing Yard, Fort Irwin, California
CPT Wren could feel a very strong headache coming on. It wasn’t the unbearable, searingly-dry heat, (well, it was the heat in part) so much as it was the logistical nightmare his company, and his Battalion Taskforce writ-large, had been dumped into. They had just arrived at the Boeing yard, serving as an initial assembly and equipment collection point for their rotation at the National Training Centre. The officers and senior NCOs were in absolute, collective shock at what greeted them. They had left most of their equipment behind at Ft. Stewart, with the promise that they would be provided with well-maintained, pre-positioned gear on arrival at Ft. Irwin.
The sight of the Battalion XO standing amidst the metaphorical wreckage, hands on hips, with an evil countenance on his face revealed how stretched the truth of that promise had been. If looks could kill, the MAJ would’ve struck down every civilian contractor in the yard by now. The displeasure radiating out of the Battalion XO was echoed by the companies’ XOs. Wren’s second in command, 1 LT Booth, looked like he was contemplating homicide whilst talking with the civilian contractors mounting MILEs gear to the Company’s M150 tank destroyers.
They had left behind relatively cutting-edge equipment, which they had left in top shape, back at their home posting. What greeted them were older models of M60 tanks and TOW launchers, lacking the excellent thermal sights they had come to rely on. The TF’s sister battalion that had just come back from rotation had never warned them about this. They had been put through the wringer and had warned his unit that the infamous OPFOR didn’t play by the rules.
Looking over at the rundown, dated equipment in poor repair, Wren couldn't help but feel that this was part of an elaborate plot to put them off balance before the rotation even began...
Chapter 1.1: The Hasty Attack
 
Near Brown Pass, National Training Centre, Fort Irwin.
The operations group had gathered around a sand table, essentially a scaled-down presentation of local terrain, to plan how they would kick off the mock war for the barren, craggy desert. Wren could feel the sun beating down on his exposed neck as he looked down. He had wisely kept his steel helmet off for the briefing, preferring a patrol cap. It offered some slight relief to the sensation that he was in an oven, and that he particularly was being burned in the pan.
The immediate mission was straightforward, in principle. Brigade had informed them that the lead elements of an enemy Motor Rifle Regiment (MRR) had entered the area of operations and was suspected to be heading towards one of several passages through the corridor. The enemy’s general intent was not difficult to divine: secure one of these features and allow the regiment to debouch onto the desert and deploy for an attack. The TF was to establish contact with the enemy’s forward elements, fix them and, if possible, destroy them. Follow up operations would then commence against the main body of the MRR.  
These first fights would devolve to the companies. The NTC was intended to train the army to fight a step down, that is, a company was expected to go toe-to-toe with an OPFOR battalion, and a battalion with a regiment. It was a tough ask. It put a lot of pressure on guys like Wren, but it also forged these junior leaders into the backbone of America’s army.
The NTC’s entire concept was one big, tough, ask. It had thus far put units, sometimes inadequately trained, always under-equipped, against a dedicated opposing force, or OPFOR. The US Army had played around with the idea of an opposing force before. What had resulted was a hokey B-movie routine simply called the “Aggressors.” They had no foundation in reality, no equipment that bore any relation to something in service, and failed completely to reflect any one of the many likely enemies the United States would face. The Aggressors, like the men who were tasked to portray them, had nothing worth fighting for. Units that rotated in to display them liked getting killed early and often, so they could get a hot meal at the mock casualty clearing stations. It was schlock, and the army had known it.
Fort Irwin, it’s dedicated OPFOR, and the MILEs system (think one giant game of angry laser tag) had changed all that.

This OPFOR had one task: play the Soviets better than the Soviets themselves, and brutalize their enemy whilst doing so. The fact the OPFOR was also expected to meet training standards as a US unit made it a nightmare opponent: a ruthlessly competent enemy that knew your playbook back-to-front.  The first bunch of battalions that had rotated through the NTC had come away shocked, and not infrequently in tatters. Wren’s TF had the advantage of learning from these initial rotations. Two TFs from sister brigades in their division had already gotten their NTC-issued hidings and had diligently and openly disseminated their experiences. They were, theoretically, the best prepared unit yet to come prepared for the fight.
This was their first opportunity to prove that. The Battalion S-2, a highly competent officer with a Master’s in psychology, had put his money down on the idea that the enemy’s lead elements would head for Brown pass. Wren’s area of responsibility. Considering this, the TF Commander had indicated he was willing to throw significant weight behind his company team. Combat aviation, and armour retained under task force control for support of his team, if need be. There were two courses of action: let the lead MRB come through the pass and hit them hard in the bottleneck or push through and find them in the open. The resources his CO was willing to allocate would change depending on the decision, but he trusted his CPT enough to reach one on his own and held his peace as to which he would have preferred.
Wren thought for a moment…Allowing the enemy to come through the pass was the “textbook” solution. It was canalizing terrain and would allow him to get the most out of his company team. It would be a mainly defensive operation, greatly aiding his chances of avoiding heavy losses. Thing is, textbook was obvious. The textbook made for poor reading in this situation, thought Wren. The first option ceded initiative to an OPFOR he knew was lean and mean on the offensive, especially one going to plan. He interrupted his thoughts with a question:
“Are you able to allocate me any of the scouts?” he asked his CO.
“No can do. We need them to tie into the armour battalion TF operating in the Southern Corridor, they can’t put dismounts in those hills as readily as we can.”
If he fought in Brown Pass himself, he would need to seriously contest the high valley mesas, or else the OPFOR would get observers up there and make any type of hasty defence untenable due to artillery fire. He wanted scouts for that, rather than have to put too much load on dismounted foot patrols taken from his platoon. The CO’s answer settled the dilemma. Wren reached over and pushed the little blue block representing his company team through the pass on the sand table.

He could see in his mind, the actual terrain leaping up around him. Wren had always had an eye for terrain, and he knew he could make the most of it here. The “open” ground north of Brown Pass was anything but. It was a series of plateaus, a giant natural staircase, that provided good cover to all but the tallest of vehicles and would allow a commander (on either side) to switch from a long-range engagement to a close-in one at a moment’s notice. The exit of the pass also had a craggy pair of mountains, impassable to vehicles, but perfect for dismounts. Pushing through would make that terrain all his. He intended to use it to its fullest effect.

Preparing for tomorrow’s operations meant it was going to be a long night. Wren, his hard-pressed XO and the platoon leaders had a lot of work to do to make the plan a reality. Wren also had to find the TACP, frustratingly absent at the briefing, and try to integrate the combat aviation into the plan, as he wouldn’t be able to have it “on call” and flexible once the rounds were flying back and forth.
***
16th October, 0900 Hours

They were through Brown Pass, without any enemy air interdiction. At least, 1st Platoon was through. So narrow was the defile, so real the threat of OPFOR air attack, that the Company team was deliberately strung out. This meant that, for 2LT Bunting’s forward group, if there was a fight, it would be his alone for some measure of time. His job was to fix the enemy for the rest of the Company team to manoeuvre aggressively. It was an important, high-risk task and a sign of the trust Wren put in his senior platoon leader. With Bunting’s platoon was the two M150 TOW vehicles, on loan from 1LT Benner’s platoon. The group was moving in staggered column, along a sandy trail, towards a low ridge that denoted the northern mouth of Brown Pass.
Bunting, riding in the lead M113 with a Dragon team and the assigned forward observer, looked over his shoulder. A pair of Cobras was providing intimate support and were hovering just behind Hill 165.5. Suddenly, one of the Cobras raised itself up a bit more and fired off a TOW missile with a hiss and a pop. Contact?

Contact! Urging his track forward, his driver cautiously nosed the M113 in fits and starts up the ridge. Calling a halt, he could see high, hanging dust clouds in the vicinity of PL “Yazoo”, one of several reporting lines to help the TOC track the advance of both B Company and the OPFOR. It quickly became apparent that multiple enemy BMPs were moving fast towards the mouth of the pass. More than he could handle in an open fight. Bunting reacted fast, and with clear-headedness. They had expected this. The Cobras were making the enemy squirm and push with haste, that could play to his advantage. The little bowl his group was in was excellent defensive terrain from which he could pin the enemy. Signalling over the platoon radio, as well as with his hands from the cargo hatch, he ordered his squad tracks into an umbrella-shaped defence.

The flying column cover being provided by the Cobras was showing its worth. Behind excellent positions, the Cobras took turns launching TOWs, which raced at knee-height over the desert to slam into BMPs’ flanks. Wren, hearing Bunting’s contact report, got the word back to TOC quickly. The planned F-16 strike went in 5 minutes after the initial contact report, and they laid their clusters in, presumably with devastating effect.


The OPFOR recon leader stayed calm. He must have known his best bet now was to get forward and to grab the enemy by the belt. The BMPs surged forward. They would be in Bunting’s perimeter within minutes if the Americans didn’t react strongly.

The TOWs weighed in, however, at Bunting’s command. They fired from excellent hull down positions along the low ridge he established his fighting position from. To Bunting’s chagrin, their first few shots are wildly off target. The TOW crews were inexperienced and clearly a bit awe-struck at the sight of a company of BMPs ruthlessly pushing through air attack. It takes two engagements to finally find their nerve – and their targets. A BMP burns.

Then the enemy weighs in with their own fire support. A thunderous crush of artillery impacts just to the left of Bunting’s track. He buttons up to avoid the angry, buzzing shards of shrapnel. The OPFOR artillery is off target but still denies a large part of this excellent battle position to him. More alarmingly, it kicks up the high, hanging dust Bunting has already learned defines the NTC’s desert terrain. Soon his attached TOWs are telling them they can no longer actively engage threats through the dust. ****, this is going to get close and messy, thinks Bunting.
“Earl, get that ramp down and get your ass out with the Dragon, get up there!” he screams to the mounted Dragon team, ducking back down into the cargo compartment.  “Evans, get posted somewhere on this ridge and the Chucks going!” he continues, calmer now, to the attached FO.

The BMPs were only 600 meters or so away now. The vagaries of the terrain were making themselves felt. BMPs were flitting in and out of sight, and the TOWs continued to have trouble engaging, only managing to pick off the occasional BMP.
SPC Earl, the platoon’s Dragon gunner, calmly sets up on a bit of the ridge, determined to cover the short front of the Platoon’s BP. He ignores the artillery, as best he can, and adopts the awkward cross-legged firing position, waiting for the first enemy to pop up over the plateau. A pair of BMPs shortly obliges him, even halting momentarily, to his delight. One is shortly burning. The TOWs catch a lucky break soon afterwards and tally two more BMPs.

In a furious five minutes, Bunting’s small force and air cover appeared to have mauled an enemy company. There was no time to rest on their laurels, however. Another platoon of BMPs, seeing the carnage to their front, smartly pull to their left, disgorging dismounts and creating smoke, and then surge past Bunting’s right flank, towards Point 199.1. Through gaps in the smoke, Bunting is able to track the line of enemy dismounts, and he spots in the distance even more BMPs – the enemy’s main security element?
The Cobras have ceased fire, displacing so as to avoid enemy anti-air fire. A wise move, to be sure, but a poorly timed one from Bunting’s perspective. He has no way of raising them quickly again, lacking a direct communications line to them. It was entirely his fight now.  
Movement is key to any defence, but especially a hasty one. The TOWs were ordered to displace to cover the burgeoning threat on the right flank, but this takes them dangerously close to the enemy artillery fire. The TOW crews find themselves constantly ducking back down to avoid shrapnel.

Nevertheless, they can re-engage, picking off a few of the flankers. 

Then, out of the smoke - and through its own artillery - surges a single enemy BMP. Bunting, too focused on the immediate fight, had never strictly given orders to his squads to dismount in the reverse slope. Luckily, his experienced NCOs read in between the lines and dismounted on their own initiative and had liberally handed-out LAWs to their men whilst doing so. The BMP is engaged effectively by these disposable rockets and is swiftly knocked out.

 
***
This is a beefy chapter, and I don't want to bore you to death...bite sized chunks. To be continued (as for the Normandy DAR, the backlog of photos do was larger than thought, apologies). 

July 16th, 1145 hours.
Triumph to tragedy.
“Sir…I’m not raising TOC” the RTO said, hesitatingly. Booth met the man’s eyes. Silent dread communicated between them.  He was about to tell him to try one more time when the FSGT came trundling back around the corner in his ‘peep.’ That’s not good. A gnawing, creeping realisation made its way up out of the small of Booth’s back and crawled up his spine. The NCO’s face was boulder-like. Jaw set…
TOC had been hit. Hard. They had failed to displace for one minute too many and got plastered by Soviet artillery, much like the Soviets in Dorfborn were having their back broken by vengeful American artillery fire. Like one of the four horsemen, the FSGT had been tasked with riding back to his CO to deliver the grim news. Basically, every senior officer in TOC had been taken out: the LTC, S-1 and S-3 had all been wounded enough to warrant evacuation. The XO was severely wounded, an arm and a leg severed, his condition critical. The HHC CO killed, caught away from any cover momentarily, ripped to shreds by shrapnel. All that was left of the staff was the S-2, who refused to be evacuated despite painful neck wounds, and the duty NCOs.
“You’re it” the FSGT growled, “you got seniority. The Battalion’s yours, sir.” A thunderclap. Booth was in command. The entirety of TF Dragon. Well over 700 surviving men, 700 souls. The burden could’ve crushed him then and there, and likely should have, but something turned in him. Eyes narrowing, he quickly told the dependable NCO to hurry ahead back to what was left of the TOC and have the S-2 re organise the NCOs into acting battle captains. He would follow shortly in his command track, handing off command of the unit to his equally dependable XO, 1LT Noonan. He would hurl together a hasty TOC and strain every nerve to get the unit back under control.
Chapter 5: Thorn in the Side
Northwest of Neuhof, July 16th, 1600 hours.
Luckily, the TOC’s survivors showed themselves up to the task. They had worried Booth at first, most had some minor wounds and all had looked deeply shaken. The M577s were ruined messes, but neither had taken direct hits, and much of the vital planning material was salvageable. Whatever morale had been wavering was firmed up by the arrival of the CPT and the news that B Team had savaged the enemy to its front. Booth had energized the headquarters with his arrival, distracted grieving men by entrusting them with key tasks (appealing, subconsciously, to the professional pride of each individual NCO), and focused their efforts back on the fight – a fight he had convinced them they were winning. The impact was electric. Within the hour they were ready to receive orders from brigade, by 1500 the bulk of the battalion was pulling back, knowing full well the punch-drunk MRR to their front was in no condition to follow closely and fill the gap, let alone pursue with vigour or violence.
As the skeleton TOC organised the move and conformed with orders, Booth was presented with his first command decision: the TF had mauled the MRR so thoroughly that a neighbouring Soviet unit had begun to shake out into the attack on a town called Uttrichausen with its right flank twisting in the wind. Brigade was willing to move boundaries on a dime and have TF Dragon nail the lead MRB of that unit from the flank. Booth leapt at the opportunity, and task organised his Scout Platoon and surviving anti-tank platoon to do so. They hadn’t had time to resupply, and thus the fight was going to be a tight one, but the potential payoff was worth it; success could likely keep the entire brigade counterpunching whilst the next line of defence was constructed. The Soviets were templated to be passing through Dollbach around 1630 hours, beyond which was their probable line of departure.

 
Command devolved to 1LT Pemberton, the Anti-tank Platoon CO, and his surviving 6 ITOWs. 1LT Horning, the battalion scout platoon leader, would race ahead with his extremely depleted force; two M113s, an ITOW (with only 4 missiles) and a meagre 3 Dragon missiles. He had two scout sections to spare, led by SGTs Roy and Chung. They would engage forward elements and buy time for Pemberton’s two sections and the attached air-defence joes.
Pemberton, bumping along in his ‘peep’ hastily did a map recce and came up with BPs. He prayed to God the map was accurate to the terrain, there was no time to do a proper terrain walk. This was an aggressive interdiction, no doubt about it, the young man thought. His eagerness to hit the enemy when they were exposed was tempered by the ever-human fear of the unknown.  How to execute this fight? Across the valley the enemy would traverse was a thick treeline. The Soviets must have known their flank was in the air by now, and if he was the Soviet commander, he’d have units in that treeline dominating the heights overlooking Dollbach. How to fire into the valley without exposing his vulnerable ITOWs? A crossfire, that’s what he’d have to establish, keyhole positions, he thought with finality. Pemberton had his plan.
Taskings:
BP1: Scout ITOW, 1st AT section (alternate)
BP2 – 1st AT section (main)
BPs 3A & 3B – 2nd AT section (main and alternate)
EA Alpha – Forward of point 430, left-flank of Dollbach
EA Bravo – Forward of point 401, right-flank of Dollbach
***
The Soviets’ hackles were raised; thought 1LT Horning, as he watched a pair of Hinds flit in and out of sight across the valley, flashing over the thick, forested hills. They had put a lot of combat aviation forward, clearly cognizant of the exposed flank of this unit. It was a high summer day, and any vehicular movement kicked up hanging dust clouds, prompting Horning to spread his thin resources out, and give strict instructions for the tracks to make quick dashes, pausing frequently to let the dust settle as they sheltered under the next nearest copse of trees. Slowly, but surely, they managed to set themselves up in their assigned positions, finding decent concealment and cover to establish firing positions from.

By 1604 hours, Horning and SGT Chung have set themselves up in excellent firing positions on the extreme flanks of the AO.

As the scouts settled into their hides, a sudden pop is heard as a Stinger missile screeches upwards. One of the hunting Hinds had raised itself up too much, for too long, across the valley and an American AD man had chanced a shot.

The Hind’s weapons operator saw the tell-tale report and, swearing, alerted the pilot in time. The Hind bucked down sharply, and the missile failed to track. The other hinds, spooked by their comrades’ close call, follow suit. The air threat abates, for now.
SGT Chung, only momentarily distracted by the firing of the Stinger, shakes his head and concentrates. Over the distant thwock-thwock of the omnipresent Hinds, he can hear – more accurately, feel – the rumble of an approaching formation. A moment later, he can see it for himself: an entire MRC. He urgently whispers to his RTO to send the word. The RTO duly whispers the code phrase for contact: Rio Grande. The pre-arranged cluster mission begins to fire, forcing the BTRs to accelerate through the maelstrom.

“Jesus, Mary and Stonewall Jackson sir, that’s got to be an entire company – what the hell we going to do about that with just one shot?” whispers Horning’s RTO in an awed tone. Horning ignores the man and presses himself further against the ground, putting his hands under his chest. He awkwardly cranes his neck downwards and rolls his eyes up, attempting to keep a good eye on the BTRs while masking as much unnatural colour – his skin, the whites of his eyes – as he can. He wished he had time to apply camo paint. If any of this mass of enemy units spotted him, they were dead. BTR turrets were awkwardly trying to scan for targets, but their 14mm machine cannons were bouncing around visibly. Good he thought, hope the bastard gunners are blind. More problematic of course, were the Soviet rifleman hanging out of the rear hatches, with the occasional BTR having a Soviet soldier bouncing a SA-7 on his shoulder, scanning the skies for targets.
“Dragon 2 to Dragon 1 – “
Horning’s RTO scrambles to lower the volume on the receiver, as SGT Chung continues.
“- I am engaging. Making this missile count. Out.”

It takes a minute for Horning to spot an opportune target for his own position to follow the NCO’s lead. In frustration they watch BTRs briskly march past. Then, it happens: a BTR visibly slows down as it attempts to push through a small windbreak of trees. Tapping the Dragon gunner on his steel helmet, the 1LT points towards the target with an arrow-straight arm. The missile hits, but barely, almost passing between the wheels and underneath the BTR.


“Get the track to make a run for SGT Roy’s OP/LP, he’s got the spare missile. Run him down here and lets see if we can’t hit something else. Once you’ve passed that message on we are displacing, shift 30m right. One at a time, keep low and copy my stance.” The Officer whispers urgently.
***
Pemberton could see his young driver struggling to restrain himself from speeding forward. It was a battle the PFC was losing, as the distance inexorably widened between their ‘peep’ and the ITOWs and VADs that formed their small column. A soft word saw the vehicle pull back again. The 1LT couldn’t blame his driver’s haste. They had just arrived with the first section of his platoon, and already there was a thin spire of smoke reaching out from the valley, in what he estimated was EA Bravo. The lead Soviet elements were already in the area. There was no time to waste. The section raced towards its assigned BP, with VADs pulling off the road to take up covering positions.

Horning was desperately trying to shift the artillery fires to the overpass and road bridge; this lead Soviet company was making tracks, pushing through their anaemic ambush with remarkable discipline. The tail of the column was now entering EA Bravo. He could hear SGT Chung ordering SPC Brody, the commander of their sole ITV, to engage.
The ITV duly rumbled forward from the treeline it had taken as its hide in BP1 and inches forward along the flat plateau to its front. Brody soon identifies a plethora of targets. With a pop the first ITOW roars out, popping up then being pushed down by the gunner. It reaches out, a red dot in Brody’s field of vision. 

“Target!” the SPC roars, and then guides on: “Gunner, traverse right, two PCs forward of the line of trees”
“On. Firing!” comes the excited response. The second ITOW races out, but Brody can already tell its going to be a miss, as the Gunner struggles to both chase the accelerating BTR and keep the missile down. It passes just high.

Two sweating men in the cargo hatch quickly reload the last two missiles, but Brody’s crew once again have a mixed engagement. The third missile strikes another BTR, this one racing up a crop-filled slope towards a windbreak and the MSR. It explodes violently. Their fourth shot misses entirely, the missile going ballistic and slamming only a few dozen feet in front of them along the ridge, inert.
“Driver reverse, back to our original position.” Brody says through gritted teeth, whilst deploying smoke to cover the retrograde movement. Bitterly disappointed, nevertheless his part of the fight is over. Even as he pulls back, he hears 1LT Horning report the entry of yet another mass of enemy vehicles. If only we had time to resupply.

Unbeknownst to the disappointed Scout ITOW crew, however, Pemberton and his three anti-tank launchers had just taken up position in BP2. Pemberton and his RTO leapt from their Jeep and raced forward, taking cover among some trees at the lip of the ridge, to better direct fire whilst guiding his tracks into positions. The officer knew fire discipline would be key, not a missile could go to waste firing at a target another vehicle was already engaging. A bit awkwardly at first, but successfully, he used some landmarks to assign fire sectors to his three ITOWs.

Like their Scout counterpart, however, the anti-tankers have trouble striking their fast, fleeting targets. Two TOWs miss, badly. It is not until the third TOW that a target is struck successfully. Pemberton puts out a calming word, his unnaturally even voice having its intended effect. The gunners redouble their efforts, taking their time to line up the shots.
“Aim high, guide low boys, don’t rush things” the officer chides.
ITOWs begin to hit with regularity over the ensuing minutes, and the enemy BTRs stop manoeuvring so smartly. Casualties and evasive actions cause the formation to become strung out, which only increases their exposure. The young gunners stop suffering from “buck fever” and are better able to pick out lone targets. From his vantage point, Pemberton can report an increasing number of burning enemy BTRs with exultant satisfaction. Between 1615-1616 hours, 6 TOWs are fired for 4 kills, illustrating the furious rate of fire and the cornucopia of targets.


Whilst BP2 turns EA Bravo into a charnel house, the balance of the AT platoon arrives on the heights, and transit through the small town of Zillbach towards BP3. 

There’s just one problem, though: SGT Chung and his team, who boldly have remained in their initial firing positions to act as an OP/LP, spot a new threat.
“Dragon 2 to Dragon 1”
“This is Dragon 1”
“This callsign currently observing four times enemy tangoes, treeline near road bridge. Out to you.”
“Acknowledged, Dragon 2. We’ll let the AT know. Out.”

1LT Pemberton warns his leading SPC in the second section, and the determined enlisted man simply states they’ll keep the threat in mind and attempt to find positions masked to this new threat in BP3. Indeed, two of the three ITOWs can do just that. One, however, led by a SPC Catalano, running out of space to jockey, is surprised to find a T-64 aiming – at him!
Catalano’s gunner fires twice in rapid succession, more from shock than aggressive mindedness. The first TOW becomes a satellite, spinning off into space, and the second slams into the ground just on the other side of their hull down position. Catalano sees a giant burst of flame, and briefly and irrationally believes his gunner has scored a hit…then sees a small green dot grow larger and larger. It passes over their vehicle, and even ensconced inside the vibrating M113 and through his CVC, he can hear a faint sucking woosh. Too close for comfort. Gathering his wits, he gets his driver to reverse.

 
While BP3 struggles to find good positions, Pemberton continues to reap a grim bounty. Handing off targets personally and ensuring the pre-assigned fire sectors are maintained, BP2 continues to turn EA Bravo into a hellscape. Individual Soviet BTRs mill about in confusion. Their indecisiveness often fatal.

Despite the presence of the T-64s making BP3 a no-go for firing into EA Alpha, the three ITOWs (including a recovered SPC Catalano) can take positions that allow them to thicken the fire in EA Bravo. The initial engagements are frustrated by low field of view and limited time to target, but they eventually tally a few BTRs themselves. 

Perhaps spurred on by the suffering MRB’s survivors, the Hinds make a belated reappearance. This time any pretence of careful flying is tossed aside; the Hinds roar up and forward, seeking to strafe the assailants. One Hind is able to get a burst off, severely damaging one of Pemberton’s ITOWs, but four Hinds are swiftly destroyed by the overwhelming amount of SHORAD provided by Booth. One Hind is struck by a stinger and crashes in the valley, destroying a cowshed as its flaming carcass crashes through the structure’s roof.

The flight of the Hinds proves to be a bookend for the engagement at Dollbach. In BP2 the ITOWs begin to report going “black” on ammo, and one by one pop smoke and retreat into the cover of nearby trees. Pemberton himself taps his RTO on the helmet and dashes back to firmer concealment, where he begins to issue orders for the retreat.
The last of the mauled MRB, under the cover of the suicidally courageous Hinds, presses past EA Bravo and out of sight. Trailing them come the T-64s, who break cover and roar forward, in odd mimicry of the Hinds. They wheel to their left and attempt to break past EA Bravo.
Catalano is waiting, and along with the rest of his section in BP3, savage the tanks. In short order, 5 T-64s are burning.



An eerie silence descends… the only living creatures in the valley are wounded and burned Soviet riflemen and crewmen, painfully crawling away from their stricken mounts. The silence does not last, as mortars begin to search out for the Americans in BP3. A round crashes just behind SGT Chung.
“Displace! Back to the track” he screams with furious urgency.
The sound of the mortars fade, and all the SGT can hear is his own rattling breath and a pounding in his ears. He never hears the fateful round: there is just a flash of red, and then a disconnected awareness that something is not right…why am I on my back he ponders? He tries to get up. He cannot. He has no left leg. The realisation sends his mind into overdrive for a few moments, and his last conscious thought is simply an Oh my God before he lapses into unconsciousness and shock. Lying beside him are two of his men. One is killed, the other so severely wounded that he can only lay there in a heap, sucking air in a hideous rattle, before he shortly passes away. Chung’s RTO, on the verge of panic, drags his SGT back to the M113.  

It is the final part of this drama in miniature. As the mortar rounds continue to search out targets, the order from Pemberton is acknowledged across the net: the job was complete. Across the three BPs, the Scouts and Anti-tankers reverse out of sight, and then, slowly pick their way back to the rendezvous point.

Accurately assessing the damage was difficult, and Pemberton could only provide his new boss an estimate. The measure of success would only come in the following hour: the attack had been stopped cold, and the enemy’s lead element was barely a MRC in strength.


 
 

This was one of my favourites.

July 16th, 1145 hours.
Triumph to tragedy.
“Sir…I’m not raising TOC” the RTO said, hesitatingly. Booth met the man’s eyes. Silent dread communicated between them.  He was about to tell him to try one more time when the FSGT came trundling back around the corner in his ‘peep.’ That’s not good. A gnawing, creeping realisation made its way up out of the small of Booth’s back and crawled up his spine. The NCO’s face was boulder-like. Jaw set…
TOC had been hit. Hard. They had failed to displace for one minute too many and got plastered by Soviet artillery, much like the Soviets in Dorfborn were having their back broken by vengeful American artillery fire. Like one of the four horsemen, the FSGT had been tasked with riding back to his CO to deliver the grim news. Basically, every senior officer in TOC had been taken out: the LTC, S-1 and S-3 had all been wounded enough to warrant evacuation. The XO was severely wounded, an arm and a leg severed, his condition critical. The HHC CO killed, caught away from any cover momentarily, ripped to shreds by shrapnel. All that was left of the staff was the S-2, who refused to be evacuated despite painful neck wounds, and the duty NCOs.
“You’re it” the FSGT growled, “you got seniority. The Battalion’s yours, sir.” A thunderclap. Booth was in command. The entirety of TF Dragon. Well over 700 surviving men, 700 souls. The burden could’ve crushed him then and there, and likely should have, but something turned in him. Eyes narrowing, he quickly told the dependable NCO to hurry ahead back to what was left of the TOC and have the S-2 re organise the NCOs into acting battle captains. He would follow shortly in his command track, handing off command of the unit to his equally dependable XO, 1LT Noonan. He would hurl together a hasty TOC and strain every nerve to get the unit back under control.
Chapter 5: Thorn in the Side
Northwest of Neuhof, July 16th, 1600 hours.
Luckily, the TOC’s survivors showed themselves up to the task. They had worried Booth at first, most had some minor wounds and all had looked deeply shaken. The M577s were ruined messes, but neither had taken direct hits, and much of the vital planning material was salvageable. Whatever morale had been wavering was firmed up by the arrival of the CPT and the news that B Team had savaged the enemy to its front. Booth had energized the headquarters with his arrival, distracted grieving men by entrusting them with key tasks (appealing, subconsciously, to the professional pride of each individual NCO), and focused their efforts back on the fight – a fight he had convinced them they were winning. The impact was electric. Within the hour they were ready to receive orders from brigade, by 1500 the bulk of the battalion was pulling back, knowing full well the punch-drunk MRR to their front was in no condition to follow closely and fill the gap, let alone pursue with vigour or violence.
As the skeleton TOC organised the move and conformed with orders, Booth was presented with his first command decision: the TF had mauled the MRR so thoroughly that a neighbouring Soviet unit had begun to shake out into the attack on a town called Uttrichausen with its right flank twisting in the wind. Brigade was willing to move boundaries on a dime and have TF Dragon nail the lead MRB of that unit from the flank. Booth leapt at the opportunity, and task organised his Scout Platoon and surviving anti-tank platoon to do so. They hadn’t had time to resupply, and thus the fight was going to be a tight one, but the potential payoff was worth it; success could likely keep the entire brigade counterpunching whilst the next line of defence was constructed. The Soviets were templated to be passing through Dollbach around 1630 hours, beyond which was their probable line of departure.

 
Command devolved to 1LT Pemberton, the Anti-tank Platoon CO, and his surviving 6 ITOWs. 1LT Horning, the battalion scout platoon leader, would race ahead with his extremely depleted force; two M113s, an ITOW (with only 4 missiles) and a meagre 3 Dragon missiles. He had two scout sections to spare, led by SGTs Roy and Chung. They would engage forward elements and buy time for Pemberton’s two sections and the attached air-defence joes.
Pemberton, bumping along in his ‘peep’ hastily did a map recce and came up with BPs. He prayed to God the map was accurate to the terrain, there was no time to do a proper terrain walk. This was an aggressive interdiction, no doubt about it, the young man thought. His eagerness to hit the enemy when they were exposed was tempered by the ever-human fear of the unknown.  How to execute this fight? Across the valley the enemy would traverse was a thick treeline. The Soviets must have known their flank was in the air by now, and if he was the Soviet commander, he’d have units in that treeline dominating the heights overlooking Dollbach. How to fire into the valley without exposing his vulnerable ITOWs? A crossfire, that’s what he’d have to establish, keyhole positions, he thought with finality. Pemberton had his plan.
Taskings:
BP1: Scout ITOW, 1st AT section (alternate)
BP2 – 1st AT section (main)
BPs 3A & 3B – 2nd AT section (main and alternate)
EA Alpha – Forward of point 430, left-flank of Dollbach
EA Bravo – Forward of point 401, right-flank of Dollbach
***
The Soviets’ hackles were raised; thought 1LT Horning, as he watched a pair of Hinds flit in and out of sight across the valley, flashing over the thick, forested hills. They had put a lot of combat aviation forward, clearly cognizant of the exposed flank of this unit. It was a high summer day, and any vehicular movement kicked up hanging dust clouds, prompting Horning to spread his thin resources out, and give strict instructions for the tracks to make quick dashes, pausing frequently to let the dust settle as they sheltered under the next nearest copse of trees. Slowly, but surely, they managed to set themselves up in their assigned positions, finding decent concealment and cover to establish firing positions from.

By 1604 hours, Horning and SGT Chung have set themselves up in excellent firing positions on the extreme flanks of the AO.

As the scouts settled into their hides, a sudden pop is heard as a Stinger missile screeches upwards. One of the hunting Hinds had raised itself up too much, for too long, across the valley and an American AD man had chanced a shot.

The Hind’s weapons operator saw the tell-tale report and, swearing, alerted the pilot in time. The Hind bucked down sharply, and the missile failed to track. The other hinds, spooked by their comrades’ close call, follow suit. The air threat abates, for now.
SGT Chung, only momentarily distracted by the firing of the Stinger, shakes his head and concentrates. Over the distant thwock-thwock of the omnipresent Hinds, he can hear – more accurately, feel – the rumble of an approaching formation. A moment later, he can see it for himself: an entire MRC. He urgently whispers to his RTO to send the word. The RTO duly whispers the code phrase for contact: Rio Grande. The pre-arranged cluster mission begins to fire, forcing the BTRs to accelerate through the maelstrom.

“Jesus, Mary and Stonewall Jackson sir, that’s got to be an entire company – what the hell we going to do about that with just one shot?” whispers Horning’s RTO in an awed tone. Horning ignores the man and presses himself further against the ground, putting his hands under his chest. He awkwardly cranes his neck downwards and rolls his eyes up, attempting to keep a good eye on the BTRs while masking as much unnatural colour – his skin, the whites of his eyes – as he can. He wished he had time to apply camo paint. If any of this mass of enemy units spotted him, they were dead. BTR turrets were awkwardly trying to scan for targets, but their 14mm machine cannons were bouncing around visibly. Good he thought, hope the bastard gunners are blind. More problematic of course, were the Soviet rifleman hanging out of the rear hatches, with the occasional BTR having a Soviet soldier bouncing a SA-7 on his shoulder, scanning the skies for targets.
“Dragon 2 to Dragon 1 – “
Horning’s RTO scrambles to lower the volume on the receiver, as SGT Chung continues.
“- I am engaging. Making this missile count. Out.”

It takes a minute for Horning to spot an opportune target for his own position to follow the NCO’s lead. In frustration they watch BTRs briskly march past. Then, it happens: a BTR visibly slows down as it attempts to push through a small windbreak of trees. Tapping the Dragon gunner on his steel helmet, the 1LT points towards the target with an arrow-straight arm. The missile hits, but barely, almost passing between the wheels and underneath the BTR.


“Get the track to make a run for SGT Roy’s OP/LP, he’s got the spare missile. Run him down here and lets see if we can’t hit something else. Once you’ve passed that message on we are displacing, shift 30m right. One at a time, keep low and copy my stance.” The Officer whispers urgently.
***
Pemberton could see his young driver struggling to restrain himself from speeding forward. It was a battle the PFC was losing, as the distance inexorably widened between their ‘peep’ and the ITOWs and VADs that formed their small column. A soft word saw the vehicle pull back again. The 1LT couldn’t blame his driver’s haste. They had just arrived with the first section of his platoon, and already there was a thin spire of smoke reaching out from the valley, in what he estimated was EA Bravo. The lead Soviet elements were already in the area. There was no time to waste. The section raced towards its assigned BP, with VADs pulling off the road to take up covering positions.

Horning was desperately trying to shift the artillery fires to the overpass and road bridge; this lead Soviet company was making tracks, pushing through their anaemic ambush with remarkable discipline. The tail of the column was now entering EA Bravo. He could hear SGT Chung ordering SPC Brody, the commander of their sole ITV, to engage.
The ITV duly rumbled forward from the treeline it had taken as its hide in BP1 and inches forward along the flat plateau to its front. Brody soon identifies a plethora of targets. With a pop the first ITOW roars out, popping up then being pushed down by the gunner. It reaches out, a red dot in Brody’s field of vision. 

“Target!” the SPC roars, and then guides on: “Gunner, traverse right, two PCs forward of the line of trees”
“On. Firing!” comes the excited response. The second ITOW races out, but Brody can already tell its going to be a miss, as the Gunner struggles to both chase the accelerating BTR and keep the missile down. It passes just high.

Two sweating men in the cargo hatch quickly reload the last two missiles, but Brody’s crew once again have a mixed engagement. The third missile strikes another BTR, this one racing up a crop-filled slope towards a windbreak and the MSR. It explodes violently. Their fourth shot misses entirely, the missile going ballistic and slamming only a few dozen feet in front of them along the ridge, inert.
“Driver reverse, back to our original position.” Brody says through gritted teeth, whilst deploying smoke to cover the retrograde movement. Bitterly disappointed, nevertheless his part of the fight is over. Even as he pulls back, he hears 1LT Horning report the entry of yet another mass of enemy vehicles. If only we had time to resupply.

Unbeknownst to the disappointed Scout ITOW crew, however, Pemberton and his three anti-tank launchers had just taken up position in BP2. Pemberton and his RTO leapt from their Jeep and raced forward, taking cover among some trees at the lip of the ridge, to better direct fire whilst guiding his tracks into positions. The officer knew fire discipline would be key, not a missile could go to waste firing at a target another vehicle was already engaging. A bit awkwardly at first, but successfully, he used some landmarks to assign fire sectors to his three ITOWs.

Like their Scout counterpart, however, the anti-tankers have trouble striking their fast, fleeting targets. Two TOWs miss, badly. It is not until the third TOW that a target is struck successfully. Pemberton puts out a calming word, his unnaturally even voice having its intended effect. The gunners redouble their efforts, taking their time to line up the shots.
“Aim high, guide low boys, don’t rush things” the officer chides.
ITOWs begin to hit with regularity over the ensuing minutes, and the enemy BTRs stop manoeuvring so smartly. Casualties and evasive actions cause the formation to become strung out, which only increases their exposure. The young gunners stop suffering from “buck fever” and are better able to pick out lone targets. From his vantage point, Pemberton can report an increasing number of burning enemy BTRs with exultant satisfaction. Between 1615-1616 hours, 6 TOWs are fired for 4 kills, illustrating the furious rate of fire and the cornucopia of targets.


Whilst BP2 turns EA Bravo into a charnel house, the balance of the AT platoon arrives on the heights, and transit through the small town of Zillbach towards BP3. 

There’s just one problem, though: SGT Chung and his team, who boldly have remained in their initial firing positions to act as an OP/LP, spot a new threat.
“Dragon 2 to Dragon 1”
“This is Dragon 1”
“This callsign currently observing four times enemy tangoes, treeline near road bridge. Out to you.”
“Acknowledged, Dragon 2. We’ll let the AT know. Out.”

1LT Pemberton warns his leading SPC in the second section, and the determined enlisted man simply states they’ll keep the threat in mind and attempt to find positions masked to this new threat in BP3. Indeed, two of the three ITOWs can do just that. One, however, led by a SPC Catalano, running out of space to jockey, is surprised to find a T-64 aiming – at him!
Catalano’s gunner fires twice in rapid succession, more from shock than aggressive mindedness. The first TOW becomes a satellite, spinning off into space, and the second slams into the ground just on the other side of their hull down position. Catalano sees a giant burst of flame, and briefly and irrationally believes his gunner has scored a hit…then sees a small green dot grow larger and larger. It passes over their vehicle, and even ensconced inside the vibrating M113 and through his CVC, he can hear a faint sucking woosh. Too close for comfort. Gathering his wits, he gets his driver to reverse.

 
While BP3 struggles to find good positions, Pemberton continues to reap a grim bounty. Handing off targets personally and ensuring the pre-assigned fire sectors are maintained, BP2 continues to turn EA Bravo into a hellscape. Individual Soviet BTRs mill about in confusion. Their indecisiveness often fatal.

Despite the presence of the T-64s making BP3 a no-go for firing into EA Alpha, the three ITOWs (including a recovered SPC Catalano) can take positions that allow them to thicken the fire in EA Bravo. The initial engagements are frustrated by low field of view and limited time to target, but they eventually tally a few BTRs themselves. 

Perhaps spurred on by the suffering MRB’s survivors, the Hinds make a belated reappearance. This time any pretence of careful flying is tossed aside; the Hinds roar up and forward, seeking to strafe the assailants. One Hind is able to get a burst off, severely damaging one of Pemberton’s ITOWs, but four Hinds are swiftly destroyed by the overwhelming amount of SHORAD provided by Booth. One Hind is struck by a stinger and crashes in the valley, destroying a cowshed as its flaming carcass crashes through the structure’s roof.

The flight of the Hinds proves to be a bookend for the engagement at Dollbach. In BP2 the ITOWs begin to report going “black” on ammo, and one by one pop smoke and retreat into the cover of nearby trees. Pemberton himself taps his RTO on the helmet and dashes back to firmer concealment, where he begins to issue orders for the retreat.
The last of the mauled MRB, under the cover of the suicidally courageous Hinds, presses past EA Bravo and out of sight. Trailing them come the T-64s, who break cover and roar forward, in odd mimicry of the Hinds. They wheel to their left and attempt to break past EA Bravo.
Catalano is waiting, and along with the rest of his section in BP3, savage the tanks. In short order, 5 T-64s are burning.



An eerie silence descends… the only living creatures in the valley are wounded and burned Soviet riflemen and crewmen, painfully crawling away from their stricken mounts. The silence does not last, as mortars begin to search out for the Americans in BP3. A round crashes just behind SGT Chung.
“Displace! Back to the track” he screams with furious urgency.
The sound of the mortars fade, and all the SGT can hear is his own rattling breath and a pounding in his ears. He never hears the fateful round: there is just a flash of red, and then a disconnected awareness that something is not right…why am I on my back he ponders? He tries to get up. He cannot. He has no left leg. The realisation sends his mind into overdrive for a few moments, and his last conscious thought is simply an Oh my God before he lapses into unconsciousness and shock. Lying beside him are two of his men. One is killed, the other so severely wounded that he can only lay there in a heap, sucking air in a hideous rattle, before he shortly passes away. Chung’s RTO, on the verge of panic, drags his SGT back to the M113.  

It is the final part of this drama in miniature. As the mortar rounds continue to search out targets, the order from Pemberton is acknowledged across the net: the job was complete. Across the three BPs, the Scouts and Anti-tankers reverse out of sight, and then, slowly pick their way back to the rendezvous point.

Accurately assessing the damage was difficult, and Pemberton could only provide his new boss an estimate. The measure of success would only come in the following hour: the attack had been stopped cold, and the enemy’s lead element was barely a MRC in strength.


 
 

Hello, I just recently finished the scenario Snow for the Hungry (part of fire and rubble). I didn't want to do too in-depth of a rundown on it (it is a great scenario and I recommend it to anyone). So I figured I'd do this miniature AAR. I'm just going to briefly recount my match in a few small posts.
 
 2 platoons of understrength Panzer Grenadiers and a group of about 7 tanks (3 tigers, 2 stugs, and 2 panthers) are going to try and relieve Konigsberg. As part of it, we have to secure the road leading to the city and clear out some Soviet units along the way. There is a heavy blizzard going on that enables us to move in relative safety and take the objectives in detail. Here is the plan:


 
 

Good things come to those who wait, hope things have calmed down on your end MMM