In response to NATO command's request for assistance, the Welsh Guards were sent south to the Ruhr. At 09:40 Zulu they ran headlong into a battalion strength Soviet armored column. The Welsh immediately deployed for battle with 1st Platoon covering the left objective, 2nd Platoon covering the right objective and the recce rushing ahead to allow both Chieftain troops to deploy forward.
Comrade Womakovski was surprised to encounter NATO troops in a supposedly pacified area but responded immediately. His orders were crisp and clear. One platoon of T-64's would move forward to engage the enemy recce and the BMP's would support them with their missiles. The second platoon would clear the road on Womakovski's right flank to cover the motor rifle company's deployment.
Though obviously as surprised as the British, the Russian commander was a professional. It wouldn't do to let him fully deploy. Every gun and missile capable of firing did so. The damage was minimal though, mainly bails; not kills.
After the shock of the incoming fire, the Soviets gunned their engines, lowered their barrels and went straight at the green/black hulks sitting in woods to their front. Their vehicles rocked with each shot. The sound was deafening. Unfortunately, the effects were minimal.
The British recce, minus no. 4 which was laboring to free itself in the woods, moved like wolves among sheep into the BMP horde threatening the Chieftain troops with their missiles. Coupled with fire from the infantry Milan teams, the devastation was terrific.
The incoming fire was beyond anything Womakovski's men had experienced before. Vehicles simply went off the radio grid. The deafening explosions seemed unending. Suddenly, Womakovski's tank jerked hard to the right and crashed into the building on his right. The engine stalled. He knew he had to move or die. He took command of his XO's tank and began screaming orders to his dwindling number of tankers. The second company on his right was unscathed and he ordered them to assault the hamlet to their front and hopefully take some of the fire directed his way.
The recce is savaging the BMP's but the T'64's won't die. Repeated bails, only to remount and now one of the Chieftains is out of action. The Spartans are moved to counter the Soviet thrust on the left and manage a kill. Milans from the infantry scream into the ether but to no effect. Calmly, Jones ordered his men to target an enemy vehicle, not fire blindly.
Though his BMP's were all dead and he was down to one T-64 beside his own, Womakovski continued the attack. He ordered the infantry out of their foxholes on right and forward to confront the imperialists.
With the first company of tanks ablaze, and Womakovski's second tank of the day knocked out, he moved on foot toward his infantry. The second company died when flanked by two Chieftains bent on revenge for the loss of one of their own. The now foot slogging infantry seemed dazed and Womakovski knew it would be suicide to do anything but live to fight another day. He swore he would return; immediately after he found and throttled the fool of an intel officer who told him this area was free of the enemy.