Corps maximum time in a delaying action. To the north was Kassel, out of the Corps area. To the south the Fulda Gap opened up, dangerously close to the border only 15 kilometers away.
Langtry’s fifteen
The Black Horse Regiment were once again carrying the cudgel for their country as they had in the Philippines, Mexico, Europe and Vietnam.
Beside Langtry, Trooper Earl Waite suddenly exclaimed, “Man! Look at that!” Nine of the fifteen missiles had found their targets in sudden shattering fountains of red fireballs and flames.
The
The Soviet armored formation, after pausing for a moment, was now oriented in his general direction and a unit could be seen breaking off in an attempt to outflank L Troop. Langtry knew that this would run into the seventeen XM-1s of the Squadron Tank Company. That was their misfortune. He saw one of 2 Platoon’s
Somehow, Langtry felt completely detached from the surrounding battle. He gave his orders as though this was only another field training exercise. His little tactical Command Post functioned exactly as it had so many times before when practising for the battle they all hoped would never come.
“Shovel, this is Six. Execute Alpha 3.” This was the command to fall back to the next delaying position, the high ground overlooking Lauterbach.
The first platoon was soon on the move and already halfway to their next position as the second began to disengage. Langtry waved his arm and the three M-113s of the TAC CP started to move. As the first vehicle crossed the bridge over the Lauter, there was a tremendous flash. The bridge disappeared. Langtry felt himself thrown into the air, hitting the ground with a searing pain in his left shoulder. Two of his three command vehicles were on fire and the third rushing down the track on the other side of the stream in search of cover. Langtry sat up and muttered audibly, “Oh God. I hope the XO takes command in a hurry or the troop will be SOL.” He felt himself passing out. It was 0447Z, 4 August 1985.9 “
Taken from
“It was not yet three a.m. on Sunday 4 August and still dark when the commander of C Squadron of 8 Royal Tank Regiment in 1 Br Corps covering force in the Central Region received over his radio the order to stand-to. The daily routine time for stand-to was just before first light. This was clearly something special.
The line of the low crest 1,000 metres away to the east was dimly visible against a sky beginning to grow paler. He stood in the turret of his tank glued to the radio, heedless of the ordered bustle about him as the fourteen other tanks of the Squadron, with their supporting vehicles, started up to move out into daylight dispersion.
He took the mug of coffee handed up to him but did not want to eat. It was impossible in this time of waiting not to speculate on what might lie ahead. He did manage to remember, however, his promise to make sure that the TV newsmen were alerted if anything special turned up.
The voice from Headquarters came in again. “Enemy reported on the move,” it said. “Stand by at three zero minutes’ notice for Bravo.”
All his tanks and other radio outstations would have heard that transmission; there was nothing for him to add.
“Bravo” was the move to the Regiment’s emergency deployment position, 1,000 metres over the crest, almost on the Demarcation Line. Most of them knew it already from cautious reconnaissance on foot, with the tanks left back out of sight to avoid the frontier incident Division was so frightened of.
In less than ten minutes the voice came up again. “Move out now,” it said. There was a note of urgency in it.
The light was growing as he promptly gave the word to move, on the internal radio channel, with the order to load, prepare for action and be on the alert.
The tanks lurched once again into life.
His own was approaching the crest, bumping over stumpy ground, once forest, now felled to open a field of fire, as his Commander’s voice came up on the radio again.
“Enemy closer than we thought,” it said. “Expect early contact. Report first sighting immediately.”
His tank topped the crest on the last words, and there opened up before him the most frightening sight he had ever seen. The open ground below, stretching to a faintly seen line of trees about 2 kilometres away, was swarming with menacing black shapes coming fast towards him. They were tanks, moving in rough line-abreast about 200 metres apart, less than 1,000 metres off and closing the range quickly. Another line was following behind and a third just coming out of the trees. The world seemed full of Soviet tanks.
“You might have told me,” he said into the microphone: “Am engaging now. Out!”
He gave quick orders to the Squadron and to his own gunner, but already a sudden huge flash seen through his periscope head, followed at once by a great black cloud of smoke with a heart of flame, like a volcano in eruption, showed where a forward anti-tank missile launcher from somewhere behind him to the left had found its first target.
In the same moment he was stunned and deafened by a thunderous blow, as from some titanic hammer, outside the tank low down to the right, and was thrown hard against the side of the cupola as the tank slewed round and shuddered to a violent halt. At the same time a gigantic clang, which seemed to rend his skull, told of a solid shot skidding off the sloping front plate without penetrating. The tank’s main armament, its gun, was useless now.
The thing to do was to get the crew out, all three of them miraculously still alive, before the next projectile brewed them up.
In a daze, trembling like a leaf, he found himself on the ground, not quite knowing how he had got there, crouching for shelter in a shallow ditch. Roaring aircraft filled the sky low overhead, hurtling by at lightning speed with rockets crashing as they passed. Tanks he knew as Soviet T-72s came charging by in what seemed endless streams, the ground shaking under them and the air throbbing with the shrill clamour of their tracks. Squat BMP armoured infantry-carriers followed, guns blazing to their flanks. Flames were soaring into the sky with rich black clouds of smoke from burning tanks with their ammunition exploding in them. He could see no sign of any of his Squadron. His own tank crew had vanished. This was the war they had expected, not knowing really what to expect. For him, unhurt but alone, helpless and desolate, it already seemed as good as over.”
Taken from an article ‘Sketches of the Eighth at War’ in
The following impression of operations of the German and US Air Forces with
“The first wave of German
Oberleutnant Karl von Marschall was both exhilarated and relieved that their first mission of the war had gone so well. He was taking a breather at the entrance to the hardened aircrew bunker while his
