Firestorm: Red Thunder

A chilling wind swept over the tall, unkempt grass of the lowlands, bouncing the fresh morning dew from its fibres. A silhouette kneels upright, peeking above the keen, shining blades. It was Friduric Loman, a young Hauptmann of the 1st German Corp’s 11th Panzergrenadier Division. His usual plucky energy was sapped from him over the course of their entrenchment of rural Amsterdam, the damp, cold wind beating the resolve from him. Still, he remained in his ditch with his men, firmly rooted in his observation duties. Through his binoculars, he made out dark green blotchs rising into view, T-72s, to his East from the treeline right where intel had anticipated them.

The Hauptmann wasted no time picking up his drenched, plastic-wrapped radio, relaying the information and orders to his comrades settled around the town. He paused for a moment, as he threw his once enthusiastic mind back to the briefing Generalmajor Hoster gave him. Reflecting on it with a nod, he decided to give his men the very same motivational final words he himself was given; “Stop them here, now, or Amsterdam is theirs.”

The low hum of distant machines grew, turning into the clamour of metal tracks, the once slow and steady din became erratic. Now! From ambush the Germans made their presence known to the Red invaders, a show of force, an impenetrable wall of steel for Ivan to clash against hopelessly. The thought played in the Hauptmann’s head of them turning tail and running, but of course this was a naive notion from the country boy who was fresh from officer training.

PAH-1s, rise from the backlines, swooping over the waiting German infantry, dipping and weaving through the buildings before rising above the train station. Then, before they could get any further, the thumping of cannons as one PAH turns into a shattered cloud of dust before the Hauptmann’s eyes. The Shilkas were already well positioned in anticipation of air support, a realisation that forces the remaining, bruised helicopter to fall back from the fight.

Meanwhile, further South, Marder IFVs parked at the petrol station scan the horizon from the safety of the concrete cover. Near the main road they clock three BMP-2s rolling up behind the hedges, their turrets rotating to face down the spotters. IN a blind panic, the Marders try and manoeuvre out of sight, but it’s too late, the rightmost vehicle bursts into flames, blocking the remaining teams in.

“Feuer frei, FEUER FREI!”, Loman’s men cried out around him. His head spinning with the destruction of his units, turning back to heel he stares down the guns of the T-72s barrelling towards him. With a roar, his Milan teams let lose their rockets into the hulls of the armoured stampede, splitting one of their tanks like a hot knife through apple pie, forcing their advance to break off behind the station.

The men occupying the factory follow suite, spotting another bunch of tanks in the open near the church. With their high ground vantage, they let their fury loose into the hulks, their hurried Milan shots missing but forcing a tank team out of their vehicle. Stationed below them were the new Jaguar 2s, peeping from behind a road barrier. Following the shots from their upstairs allies they guided their own missiles onto their targets; a distant flash, a delayed boom and a turret somersaulting high above the church steeple signalled the destruction of another tank.

The Marder IFVs, finally free of their car park nightmare bore their guns in revenge onto the creeping BMPs, roping in the rearguard unit to help form a firing line from behind the wreck of their ally. The cacophonous thudding of several guns into the hedges left one destroyed and another crew scrambling to safety.

The NVA continue to push ahead relentlessly, undeterred by their Western brother’s attempts to hinder their advance. Northward, two Shilkas creep out from the church, exposing themselves. Milans skip across the fields, bursting one of the machines, scuttling another. The BMPs hold fast, manning their vehicles once again and returning the favour straight back towards the Marders now sitting like ducks in the open. Two of the IFVs pop and burst as their ammunition sparks alight, wrecked en-mass with their scrap counterparts. With the futility of their situation looming over them, the remaining Marders press forward, closing the distance between them and the enemy fighting vehicles, guns opened as they moved, another BMP slowly catches fire as it fills with holes. One vehicle remained, but the German’s hopes sunk into the depths as they now catch the glowing light of flame bounce gently off the silent T-55s, perched behind the hedge awaiting the German’s foolish push forward.

The Southern flank was collapsing under very little weight, but most worryingly of all, the T-72s had vanished behind the station. All that remained of their presence was the ghostly echoes of their engines, full throttle. Suddenly, from Loman’s left the T-72s reappear, meters from their position, the cracking beam of their machineguns shaving the grass above the soldier’s helmets.

The Hauptmann buried his head in the dirt, but in a tiny moment of clarity bellowed the order; “RPGs, wait until they close the gap!”. The tanks charged the entrenchments, a wrecking ball knocking on the door to Amsterdam, but the RPGs answered.

Bravely, waiting until the last possible moment the RPG teams stood and let out a concordant barrage of rockets at the oncoming metal. One hits and tears the tracks off one of the charging bulls, the second rocket connects with the flimsy underside of another, flipping its lid in a plume of pressurised smoke and fire. Then, from the streets, the nearby Gepards slowly close in on the once aggressive horde, raining down on them a ceaseless barrage of 35mm shells, forcing self-awareness and a swift reverse into the hapless lemmings.

Hauptmann Loman watched on as the dazed T-72s break contact and trundle backwards to safety, a wave of relief washes over the drenched grenadiers, indicated by batches of nervous laughter and weary smiles from his men.

The T-55s that had laid so quietly before, calculating their opponent had already torn across the bushes to pounce on the helpless Marders, their main cannons shredding through one, the remaining crew scatter to safety, leaving their vehicles for the junkheap. All that was left for the NVA was to pierce a hole in the last of the Southern units and make room for the rest of their forces cutting a swathe into Amsterdam. At their back, three Spandrels drive cautiously into view of the Jaguars, and with the nearby T-72 unit send all their ordinance in their direction, falling short of their target, forcing the bail-out of one particularly shaken crew but luckily nothing more.

The T-72s that were caught in a disorganised melee with the infantry up North regained their bearings, mounting their tanks and training their guns on the overconfident Gepards. Two ear shattering bangs erupt before their husks fizz with the signs of ammo caught aflame.

It was the moments after this that the young Hauptmann encountered the East German’s fierce reputation for coordination. The tanks must’ve fed information about the German AA back along the line as not even a minute’s delay had occurred before Hinds shot up from behind the woods and dove behind the Gepards who were caught with their guns bore elsewhere. The flying tanks took the opportunity to steer their Spiral missiles into the rear of one of the Jaguar 2s, idling near the factory.

The grimness of the situation cast a shadow of hopelessness over the now thinning Bundeswehr line, holding by the thinnest of threads. This was not the time for such observations, however, as the prevailing thought amongst all those present and fighting was a simple, primal one. “Fight or die”.

Just as quickly as the onset of that darkness had come, light was beginning to shine through the clouds. The trumpets of heaven had spoken and from the skies the Germans had their angels.

Tornados sped in from the West, ripping through the air to hastily deliver the justice they had reserved just for the Reds. As swift as a gladiator’s lance they swoop past the AA, unleashing their payload on the unsuspecting T-72s and Spandrels. For a moment, the sky shrieked, and then the earth quaked with the impact of the bomblets. The figure of a Tornado speeds off for another pass, while the other falls silently, nipped by the well placed Shilkas. It all seemed pointless, but after a tense, lasting moment the dust clears. In the chaos, three molten husks of armoured vehicles and one more abandoned.

Inspiration overcame the men, the Gepards swung their turrets around, and in a flurry of brute continuous firepower punched through the plating in the fuselage of a Hind until it was a burning splay of metal tape, twisting in the wind. The deafening screech of airborn explosions was all the sign the Milans in the factory needed to know their back was covered. Remounting and re-training their weapons once again, they pull their projectiles right onto the top of one of the T-55s, halting it almost immediately as the intense heat from the explosion seemed to fuse it to the asphalt. A Luchs scout troop, lying in wait, spread themselves in front of the bypass; if anybody were to get through, it’d be by crawling over their charred metal corpses.

From across the town, the dull thud of Soviet guns is met with a sharp screech, another Jaguar is torn asunder by the tanks at the church. Over to the South, the pack of roaming T-55s encircle their Luchs prey before slaying them with a close-range barrage.

In response to the air threat, the Gepard Anti-Air battery had positioned themselves recklessly, bearing their rear at the lumbering enemy now behind them. The T-72s at the station turn once again, and along with the help of advancing Shilkas neatly dispatched the last two air defence units the Germans had with them.

Sensing this, the mortar carrying M113s and their OP, who prior to this spent their time at the back of the line, race forward to bring every measly piece of small arms fire they could to compensate for the loss of their air defence. The open-top troops raise their machine guns in an effort to deter their airborne assailant, their bullets helplessly pattering off the hardened shell of the aircraft. Suddenly, they cease their fire, the helicopter begins to tumble towards the ground; some rounds had penetrated the canopy glass, killing or wounding the pilot. The swish of the rotor blades slowed and deepened as it spun to its grave, crashing into the field behind Loman.

Erratic voices break in over the comms, “...T-55 tanks passed by the Southern line, three of them, they’ve punched through!...” The Milans must’ve caught another one of them, but now the NVA had overwhelmed their entire Southern line and were free to make their way to Amsterdam proper.

“Patch that hole up, no more stray dogs, do you copy?!” the Hauptmann yelled at the box in his hand, forgetting his radio etiquette in a moment of panic.

In a flash of extreme zeal, the M113s that had been so quiet before scurried into the fray. They bring their vehicles to a stop just before the enemy, creating an impromptu and literal wall of iron. Sacrificing their equipment was a crude a plan as they come, if it hadn’t been for the men in the factory building next to them. The blockade had stalled the advancing Reds just long enough for the Milans to strike at their next target, the Shilkas. After the eruption of one Shilka’s fuel tank, they had nowhere to go. The Spandrels tried their luck too, but were stuck between a river and a hard place, unable to act at all.

Soon, the well protected infantry would pick off the armoured advance that had ground to a halt against their makeshift barriers. It was only a matter of time, the WarPac forces seemed to know this, but they did not care. Both them and their enemy were on their knees, and one final stab into the heart would fell them. The T-72s creak to life one more time, barrelling down the tracks to the Hauptmann’s entrenchments, guns blazing, unyielding in their speed.

Unfortunately for the reds, the German forces did not forget their training and experience in the face of such intimidation, they proudly raise their newly loaded RPGs to the oncoming tanks, firing in a simultaneous salvo. With no end to their luck all rockets hit their mark, completely destroying one of the invaders, disabling the other two as they slide down the grassy slope to a halt.

For an moment, the rolling thunder of old explosions echoing from the distant hills were the only sounds on the battlefield.

“Schnell, schnell, die panzer zu erfassen!”, Loman waved forward, stationed with a tightened grip on his rifle as he signalled his men to charge the now defunct tanks. Before coming down from his combat high, it was over; he and his team were pulling soviet crew from their smoking tanks and the rest of their spearhead force were in reverse gear, climbing back into the forests they had come from, out of sight.

The losses had been heavy, any more and the mission would have been a complete defeat, for the Bundeswehr and West Germany. At the time, all Friduric Loman could think about was the mission, his men and his country, but with the adrenaline no longer coursing through his veins he had to wonder if the shaking was because of the thin margin between victory and his life.