checking it and quietly clearing the depression of a few sleeping guards. They now watched the Narnibians from the gully’s edge and awaited
D Squadron’s Eland armored cars.
With infantry squads riding on top, the 90mm gun-armed
Elands would flank the Namibian entrenchments and flush the Swapo bastards out of their holes. Once that had happened, von Brandis planned to hit them with an HE barrage from his battery of towed mortars and then mop them up with a Ratel-mounted infantry assault. It was a bit of overkill, he thought, for a bunch of untrained kaffirs, but twenty-years of warfare in Angola and Namibia had taught him never to underestimate the fighting power of a dug-in enemy.
Also, he wanted to crush the enemy battalion-to so shatter the unit that the Narnibians would have to commit fresh reserves. Anything that drew
Swapo or Cuban troops away from the Auas Mountains would help revive
South Africa’s stalled southern attack. Von Brandis knew his force was supposed to be Nimrod’s secondary effort, but there were many ways to win a war.
He scanned the brown, treeless slopes about two and a half kilometers away, just outside heavy machinegun range. Nothing. No signs of life at all. The hills looked as barren as an arid, airless moonscape.
Von Brandis checked his watch and then his map-following D Squadron’s flank attack in his mind’s eye. Right now the company should be carefully picking its way along the rocky, waterless stream bed, thirteen armored cars with foot soldiers from C Company clinging to them as they bumped and swayed over uneven ground. The scouts were covering their approach, thank God.
He lowered the map again and swung his binoculars left and then right, checking the battalion’s other units. They were formed, hidden by folds in the ground. A and B Company’s Ratels were unbuttoned, but their troops were close by, ready to board and make the planned final assault.
It was getting lighter, and he could imagine the Namibian commander congratulating himself on successfully holding the South Africans at bay for a whole night. A man’s spirits rose with the sun. The Swapo clown was probably trying to decide how he could strengthen his defense or even scrape up enough reinforcements for a limited counterattack…. “Foxtrot Hotel One, this is Foxtrot Sierra One. Enemy
positions are starting to stir. We can hear Delta’s engines.” The scout captain sounded bored-a triumph of training over nerves.
Von Brandis tensed. This was the period of greatest danger. If the Elands were caught while confined by the steep gully walls, they’d be easy targets for Namibian RPGs. If that happened, he was prepared to order an immediate frontal assault to rescue the armored car squadron and its attached infantry. Though normally a dangerous course, it would probably succeed against such a weak Swapo unit-especially one already distracted by a move against its left flank.
“Hotel One, this is Sierra. Ready.” The short transmission from the scouts meant that they were in position. He could expect to hear firing anytime.
Von Brandis heard the crack of a high-velocity gun, but it was somehow a deeper, fuller sound than that made by an Eland’s 90mm cannon.
Whooosh! A shell screamed overhead and burst about a hundred meters to the right, dangerously near a group of A Company Ratels. The explosion threw up a cloud of dirt and rock and triggered a mass movement of men and vehicles. The sound of engines starting and hatches slamming almost covered the sound of other guns, clearly firing from somewhere ahead on the Namibian-held ridge line. The scream of incoming projectiles and thundering explosions became almost continuous.
His vehicles were all under cover, to prevent observation as much as to protect them from incoming fire. Still, the Narnibians were shooting mainly to keep their heads down, and it was working.
The colonel fought the urge to take cover inside his Ratel and instead scanned the enemy ridge again. A momentary puff of gray smoke and stabbing orange flame caught his eye. He focused the binoculars. There!
The shot came from a small, dark bump lumbering downhill toward his battalion’s positions. Suddenly, as if his eyes now knew what to look for, he realized that there were three … five … eight, nine, ten other vehicles, all firing and moving. A tank company!
Small dots clumped behind the tanks. Infantry trotting to keep up with their armored protectors. He lowered his binoculars. My God, the
Narnibians were actually launching a combined arms counterattack on his battalion. It was astounding, almost unbelievable.
New noises rose above the unearthly din. While the tank shells made a low, roaring whoosh, these were high-pitched screams, followed by even bigger explosions. Heavy mortars!
Von Brandis dropped into the Ratel and slammed the hatch shut. He needed no further encouragement. Time to act. He looked at the map, trying to remember where the wind was blowing from. From the west. Good. He tapped the young Citizen Force corporal acting as his radioman on the shoulder.
“Tell the mortars to drop smoke five hundred meters in front of our position. Then warn the antitank jeeps to be ready to fire when the enemy tanks come out of our smoke screen. “
Aside from the Eland armored cars already committed to the flank attack, the only antitank weapons the battalion had were ancient French-designed
SS. I I missiles mounted on unarmored jeeps. Von Brandis hadn’t been able to identify the tanks at such range, but they were probably T-54s or T55s. He’d fought them before-big, lumbering behemoths with 100mm guns and heavy armor. Then he remembered the Angolans and Cubans were in the act.
They had T-62s, with 115mm guns and better fire-control gear.
Christ! His SS. I Is were an even match for enemy T-55s, but he didn’t know if their warheads could penetrate the frontal armor of a T-62. He had the unpleasant feeling he was about to find out.
Where the hell was D Squadron? He needed those big gunned armored cars in the battle now-not pissing around down in the bottom of that bloody gully. He fiddled with his radio headset, waiting impatiently as he listened to the radio operator passing his instructions to the antitank section. The corporal stopped talking. A clear circuit! Von Brandis squeezed the transmit switch on his mike.
“Foxtrot Delta One, this is
Foxtrot Hotel One. What is your status, over?”
Cannon and machinegun fire mixed with the voice in his earphones.
“Hotel
One, this is Delta One. Engaging enemy
infantry force. Have located one battery large mortars. Am attacking now.
No casualties. Hotel, we see signs of tank movement. Repeat, we see many tread marks, over.”
Thanks for the warning, Von Brandis thought, but said nothing.
“Delta
One, detach one troop to attack the mortars, but bring the rest of your force back west soonest! We are under attack by a tank company and an unknown number of infantry. “
The radio easily carried the Eland squadron commander’s shock and surprise.
“Roger. Will engage tanks to the west. Out! “
Nearly four minutes had passed, enough for the oncoming enemy tanks to advance a few hundred meters. Von Brandis peered through the small, thick-glassed peepholes in the APC’s turret. Nothing. He couldn’t see a damned thing.
Cursing the misnamed “vision blocks” under his breath, he opened the roof hatch again and used his binoculars to study the advancing enemy formation.
Mortar rounds burst in front of the charging tanks-spraying tendrils of gray-white smoke high into the air. Created by a chemical reaction in each mortar shell, the smoke was working-blown by a light northwesterly breeze toward the advancing tank company, reducing the effectiveness of their fire.
Karumph! A mortar explosion nearby reminded him that they were still in trouble, and he mentally urged D Squadron onward. The battalion needed their firepower.
The enemy tanks were still shooting as they drew nearer, starting to vanish in the South African smoke screen. Von Brandis ignored them.
Moving fire from a tank, especially an old one, isn’t that accurate. His own men were holding their fire,
