Inkester shouted: 'Where is it? I've lost it!'
'Calm down…there, two o'clock, on the edge of the smoke.' Sergeant Morgan Davis saw the T-72 as a dark silhouette through the 'times-ten' magnification of his sight. The Soviet tank was three-quarters-on to Bravo Two, bucking as it crossed the furrowed land three thousand meters away, swerving occasionally to avoid the wider craters in its path.
'I've got it.'
'Take your time.'
'Sod…the bastard's gone.'
'Steady…there.' Davis was using the coupled sight giving him an identical view to that of Inkester the gunner. The sights were settled on the hull of the T-72 as Inkester traversed the gun. The tank heaved upwards with the shock as the gunner hit the firing button and the propulsion charge detonated in the breech. With the engine on tick-over the roar of the gun was impressive within the confines of the fighting compartment. An automatic flashguard within the sight protected the eyes of the gunner and commander from the glare of the barrel flame, but smoke from the muzzle blurred their vision for a few seconds.
'Load Sabot,' ordered Davis.
There was a heavy clank of metal from the vertically sliding breech-block as Shadwell reloaded, and a mist of cordite smoke swirled inside the hull; most of the fumes were exhausted outside the tank, but some always drifted back. Shadwell shouted: 'Loaded.' He made certain he was well clear of the gun before he did so. Gunners could get a shot off fast if they had a target and to be caught-out standing behind the gun was a sure way to die as the recoil hurled it backwards. It was only one of several ways a loader could come to grief; more commonly they managed to get themselves caught in the traverse, getting a leg or foot trapped behind the charge bins as the gunner or commander swung the turret.
'Shit!' Inkester swore, not at Shadwell but because the burst of the Chieftain's 120mm shell was ahead and to the right of the Soviet T-72. As he brought the sight onto it again, he suddenly realized with horror that he was staring right down the black muzzle of the T-72's gun. Through his sight's magnification the T-72 seemed little more than two hundred meters away. There was a burst of flame from the barrel of its 125mm, and Inkester instinctively ducked instead of firing.
'Inkester! What the hell?' shouted Davis. There was an explosion on the slope forty meters to the rear of the Chieftain. Davis didn't see it, but he felt the ground shake and the violent thud of the pressure wave against Bravo Two's hull. The shell must have passed within centimeters of his turret…his head. He felt sick.
Inkester's sight picked up the T-72 again, and again the Chieftain's gun roared. This time vision was better as Bravo Two settled back on her suspension. The T-72 had begun to jink once the driver had realized he was under fire.
Davis seemed to wait forever, until he decided Inkester must have missed again or the shell had failed to explode. Then he saw a brief shower of sparks scatter from the foredeck of the T-72's hull to the left of the driver's hatch, and almost at the same time it exploded outwards like a movie scene in slow motion. He saw the two hatches on the turret fly upwards, followed by the turret itself and the driver's and engine hatches. Soundlessly, to Davis, the hull tore apart, belching a swirling orb of flame. He heard Inkester's awed voice: 'My God!'
Davis stared through the lens. '50 traverse right…one o'clock. Infantry combat vehicle…a BMP. Pick it up, Inky.' He felt the turret swing and dropped his eyes back to the sight. 'Good…good.' Inkester was silent, concentrating now, just as he would be at Lulworth or Suffield. The range was less than for the T-72 – thirteen hundred meters.
The Chieftain lurched. This time Inkester had fired quickly, but more calmly. The shell struck the BMP just under the thick sloping armour of its bow, and exploded on impact. The vehicle stopped as though it had run into an impenetrable wall. A second later Davis saw the eight infantrymen it had contained, and two of its crew who were apparently unwounded, leap from the vehicle and dive for the shelter of a nearby shell crater. He could see them clearly. Instinctively, he found them in the sight of the 7.62mm machine gun. The Chieftain's turret was moving again as Inkester sought another target. Davis corrected his aim, adjusting the movement of his cupola to oppose that of the turret. He pressed the firing button and heard the satisfying response from the gun; the bullets tore the lip from the crater in a burst of dust and earth. It was difficult to keep the fire accurate. One of the Soviet infantrymen scrambled from the shell hole and ran to Davis's right. He didn't bother to try to follow the man. The bodies he could now see in the crater were motionless.
Inkester had the main sight on another tank, a T-80 which had appeared at the edge of the smoke. Davis anticipated the explosion of the gun, but before Inkester could fire the tank swerved and began belching flame through ventilators and hatches.
'Blowpipe missile,' shouted Davis. He could see movement on the lower ground to his left. 'Some of our infantry. Why the hell don't they keep us informed?' There were shell bursts in the trees near the infantry position, and the smoke laid by the enemy artillery was much closer. The noise of the battle had become as great as that of the initial artillery barrage. Davis could hear the crump of mortar shells and feel the ground shivering beneath the Chieftain. It was like standing in a railway tunnel as a ten-coach intercity roared by.
He was about to try to help the infantry with prophylactic fire along the hedges beyond their position, when Inkester shouted again: 'Traversing right…three o'clock.' Davis saw movement at the edge of the barrage. Dark hulls in the smoke…the sudden flashes of white flame. Inkester began bringing the turret around.
The bank of earth three meters ahead of Bravo Two was hurled aside. The concussion knocked Davis backwards, his head smashing against the equipment behind him. He heard a second explosion and was thrust forward out of his seat. Someone was screaming…the interior of the Chieftain was pitch-black, the atmosphere thick with the stench of fuel and swirling dust. 'We're going to brew up,' thought Davis. 'Any second now we'll go.' Bravo Two was quivering as though it were alive. He tried to struggle upright, but could find no purchase for his feet. Shadwell was yelling beside him. There was a burst of light above, then a terrifying crash. The Chieftain's hull echoed…there was excruciating pain in Davis's ears. Bravo Two rocked as though it were resting on a water-bed, then something seemed to hammer down on the turret with terrible force, twisting the tank sideways, forcing it deep into the earth as though struck by a gigantic fist…
Magpie, the stay-behind-unit of the Royal Tank Regiment, had not suffered from the intense Soviet barrage that preceded their armoured assault. Few of the missiles and shells had landed in the strip of ground that included their underground bunkers, though they had felt the thump of explosions transmitted through the heavy clay to the concrete chambers in which they and their light Scimitar tanks were sealed. The position was shell and bomb proof, and even the heavily camouflaged entrance which was its weakest point was protected by an overhanging shelf of concrete looking, with its natural weathering and subtle design, like nothing more than an outcrop of limestone.
There was a sense of isolation making the men even more nervous. They were now totally cut off from the NATO armies; a small island, encompassed by an ocean. The war had swept past them, friends must have already died, but as yet they had seen none of the action.
Captain Mick Fellows hoped he had transmitted none of his own doubts to their minds. It was bad enough that he himself should be having misgivings about the entire project. And waiting through the long hours until darkness came again, and with it his final instructions from HQ, was making him even edgier.
What the hell was he doing here anyway? Volunteer? They'd said that; made him feel proud about it too, for a while. They had used an insidious form of pressure: 'Need the best man, Mick…someone reliable, cod-headed…any ideas? Important task. It'll do your career a bit of good!'
'Captain Fellows, sir.' It was Lieutenant Sandy Roxforth, one of his Scimitar commanders, at the observation platform. 'There's some movement outside.'
There were two periscopes built into the roof of the bunker, their view covering a full three hundred and sixty degrees around the position. Roxforth had been using the one which covered the area towards the north-east in the direction of the East German border town of Oebisfelde a few kilometers away. Beyond the first chequerboard of fields was the 248 highway following the line of the border. Fellows lowered his head to the periscope and adjusted the focus to suit his eyes. The field of vision was blurred at the edges where grass and small shrubs close to the position interfered with the clarity of the lenses. A pall of smoke drifted in the easterly wind, from the direction of the woods beyond Bahrdorf. The village itself must have come under heavy shelling. Even at this distance, its familiar outline had changed. The bell tower of the church was missing, and many of the buildings looked ragged. The devastated farmland no longer had the prosperous and orderly appearance of the previous day, the surface of the fields heavily scarred by shell, bomb and missile craters, the formerly neat boundaries destroyed and tangled. A grain silo some six hundred meters from the bunker was blazing, and through the periscope's magnifying lenses Fellows could distinguish the carcasses of a herd of Fresian dairy cows nearby.
Even as he examined the changed landscape there was a flurry of explosions around the village. It was like watching the silent movie of another war. The barrage intensified as though some artillery observer had called for an Uncle Target and all the guns of the division were joining in. Perhaps a Russian commander had been foolish enough to allow his armour to be drawn into the collection of buildings.
Much closer and, to his right where he traversed the periscope, he could distinguish the movement of enemy vehicles and he was attempting to identify them when the ground they were crossing disingegrate in one single eruption of fire and smoke. The giant explosion separated into individual shell-bursts. It seemed that nothing could survive in the holocaust that Fellows recognized as a defensive barrage from NATO aritllery positions to the west, but the dark armoured vehicles were pressing forward out of the smoke, joined by others on their left flank. Their charge was no longer ordered, the shelling had destroyed any semblance of formation. They were T-72s and T-64s, the latter easily distinguishable by the remote-controlled 12.7mm AAMG sited above the main gun. Close behind the battle tanks were a number of BMPs, tracked infantry carriers.
The artillery were now ranging on individual targets. He saw one tank swerve to avoid a deep crater, only to collide with another which had moved too close. He could almost feel the grinding of metal against metal, but the vehicles separated with a barely noticeable lowering of their speed.
They must have crossed the minefields south of Oebisfelde, and Fellows wondered about the casualties this must have cost them. The mines had been laid densely, and the invaders would have been under artillery attack as well. The tanks he was watching now, and the infantry combat vehicles, were the survivors.
'You want a closer look, sir?' It was Hinton, commander of the platoon of 22nd SAS. A lieutenant, there were no badges of rank on his smock. 'Use the other 'scope.'
Fellows walked with him in silence to the eastern end of the bunker, stepping through the groups of camouflage-streaked men who sat or lay on the concrete floor, many asleep. Hinton nodded towards the second periscope. Fellows put his eyes to the binocular lenses. He pulled his head back in surprise, then stared out again. Not fifteen meters away was the stationary hull of a 122mm self-propelled gun; on the slab side of its turret was a white circle, encompassing a red star.
He looked at Hinton and raised his eyebrows.
'We counted eleven of them,' said Hinton. 'They've positioned themselves in a line running towards the south-east.'
There were normally only eighteen SPGs to a Soviet tank division, thought Fellows. As they would have had to cross the minefields while under artillery fire, the eleven Hinton had seen were probably the only ones to have made it. And they were on the left flank of what appeared to be a Soviet division's main thrust. 'Are they all the same type?'
'I don't think so. There were others, with a flatter profile and a grill on the hull just forward of the turret.'
'M-1976s. Self-propelled howitzers. There's a lot of West German armour facing Oebisfelde, so these SPGs must be part of an encircling movement. The Soviet recce units have probably passed us further to the south.' It was tempting to use the VHF and get the information back to HQ; one quick air strike would remove the danger to the defending amour, who were probably already within the closing jaws of a pair of giant pincers. But they had been ordered to maintain complete radio silence; the men and vehicles encapsuled within the bunker already had their job to do. Regardless of anything which might happen out in the battlefields, they were to sit tight until contacted by HQ, on the evening of the first day of battle.
Hinton seemed to read his thoughts. 'If they're still here tonight, sir, we can do something about them. My lads will enjoy a bit of excitement close to home.'
Fellows raised his eyebrows, but remained silent. Hinton's cockiness was what he expected from the SAS. He didn't like them. They'd caught the press and public imagination, and came in for a lot of publicity which they claimed they didn't want. In Fellows' opinion, there were plenty of units in the army as capable, a fact which had been proved in Ireland.
Many times, Lt Colonel James Studley had been in his regiment's mess, and heard descriptions of Second World War tank battles from officers who were retired or nearing the end of their service. He had listened, interested in the early part of his career when their memories had been fresher and their stories new to his ears, and then politely but with increasing boredom over the next few years. With time and alcohol he had heard the same stories repeated again and again until eventually he was able to switch off part of his mind yet still make the appropriate noises of amazement, horror or amusement, at the correct intervals. He had heard some of the troopers refer to old sweats as 'when we's', from their habit of beginning a story with: 'When we were at…'or 'when we were in…' One day, somebody would probably give him the same label; now he hoped so, it would be proof he had survived.
He had never before seen a landscape such as he viewed from the command post. Primeval was the word he found to describe it best – if it could be described at all! A panorama incapable of sustaining human life, violent, ragged, volcanic, it contained no beauty, no peacefulness. Layered by heavy nauseous fumes, it erupted fire, spewed rock, earth and steel, convulsed and shuddered in a cacophony of deafening sound.
At first he had been able to distinguish the battle group's own guns, the throaty roar of the Chieftain's 120mms, the M109s. They had soon become lost amidst the howls and shrieks of the rockets, the clamorous thunder of artillery, the whines, moans and demonic screams of a hundred kinds of projectiles and their explosions.
The barn which concealed the command Sultans had been hit twice. First unintentionally, by a cannon shell fired by one of the many aircraft over the battlefront, and in the second instance by a heavy mortar bomb, which Studley believed might have been a Soviet M-160. The trajectory of the bomb, one of several to have landed in the area, had been checked-out on the three-dimensional surveillance radar and revealed the firing position to be located six kilometers to the east. The fire-point had been neutralized by artillery, but that was no comfort to the two infantrymen of the command platoon who had been killed.
Colonel Studley was feeling pleased with his command staff; everything seemed to be operating smoothly and efficiently. Young Douglas Whitley, the signals officer, had set a good example to the men when the mortar bomb had exploded, remaining cool and checking the equipment for possible damage even before the dust had settled. Philip Donelly, the adjutant, had almost ignored the incident, and continued his plotting of the group's movements on the situation map with a Chinograph.
'By the way, the French are in.' One of the Divisional HQ staff had told Studley on the divisional network a few minutes previously. The radio communication had gone through the security scramblers.
'Thank God! When?'
'One minute after it all started. They mobilized reserves two days ago and are moving up their armour behind the Americans. It'll ease things.'
'One hell of a lot,' agreed Studley.
'What's your situation?'
'We're holding at Mooonraker, but we'll retire shortly. There's a lot of Red armour in this sector.'
'There are four Soviet divisions between Helmstedt and Wittingen. The Russian 16th Division's main thrust appears to be towards Braunschweig. We believe this is their present Red. Helmstedt has been overrun by the Soviet 9th Division, and we think they will try to link-up with the 16th Division as they progress. We have reports of a Soviet recce battalion at Boitzenhagen, and a considerable drop of air assault troops at Wahrenholz. We also have a report of the use of chemical weapons on the front south of Lübeck…it's confused and unconfirmed. Do as well for you to bear it in mind.'
'Thank you.'
The adjutant had been listening to the conversation on one of the spare headsets. 'Perhaps we should move back behind the river Ise, sir.'
'Too early yet. If we pull back so far we'll make life too easy for them.'
'We won't be able to hold them much longer, sir, nine more of the tanks are out of action. That leaves us with thirty-two, plus your own command Chieftain. There have been a lot of casualties amongst the infantry and the forward positions have just reported contact with Soviet patrols.'
Studley grimaced then said: 'I'm going to look around. Let me know immediately if anything unexpected develops. We'll move as soon as I get back.' He wondered if it was conscience drawing him out of the command post; the thought of his men fighting for their lives on the lower slopes of the moor while he remained in a relatively safe position. Perhaps it would help their morale if they saw him alongside them for a while. Guiltily, he knew he was just seeking an excuse. He wanted to take part in some of the action, himself.
He walked outside. There was the sound of rifle and machine gun fire towards the east, and the sharp crack of hand-grenades. It was distorted by the heavier gunfire, but with its inference of close combat sounded more urgent and deadly.
An NBC-suited figure snapped to attention beside the Chieftain. 'Sergeant Pudsey, are all the crew ready?' Studley asked him.
'Yes, sir. 'They're as twitchy as greyhounds in their traps. Want to be with their mates.' Sergeant Pudsey was standing parade-ground straight. He acted as the colonel's loader, and had the reputation of being one of the fastest in the regiment.
'Let's go then, Sergeant.' Studley began climbing into the tank.
'Yes, sir.' There was pleasure in Pudsey's voice at the command. He swung himself easily up on to the front of the hull and yelled at the driver's hatch, 'Drum her up, Horsefield.'
Studley waited until Pudsey had climbed inside and settled himself into his seat, and then followed. 'We'll give the infantry a hand, eh Sergeant,' he shouted as Horsefield the driver stirred the Chieftain's twelve-cylinder engine to life.
He slipped the headset over his beret, ignoring the helmet strapped to one of the seat supports. The helmet was too uncomfortable to be worn for long, and it was bad enough fighting in an NBC-suit. He switched on the tank's intercom. 'Load HE, Sergeant…Horsefield, take it easy when we get near the infantry positions. They know we're coming down but it will pay to be cautious.' He didn't want some trigger-happy soldier to mistake the Chieftain for a T-80 and loose off a Milan missile in the heat of the moment. 'We'll use the long gulley at two o'clock. The infantry are about two thousand meters down the hill, and I don't want to charge straight over their positions.' He had checked the situation map before leaving the command post; Charlie Squadron and the infantry were close together. He would visit both and then work his way back around the lower side of the hill.
They had driven several hundred meters when he saw one of the battle group's APCs overturned at the side of the gulley, with several corpses amongst the wreckage. It's loss had been reported and Studley knew of the casualties, but it was still a gut shock to see the twisted metal and torn bodies that turned an impersonal radio message into brutal reality. He felt the hair on his neck bristle as though a chill breeze had caught him.
Horsefield avoided the debris of the APC and brought the Chieftain into the open ground of a fire-break. Two more APCs rested in the shelter of the bordering trees, their crews kneeling or squatting beside them, waiting until the infantry needed them again. There were craters in the narrow clearing, still hazed with smoke.
Studley halted the tank and signalled over a drawn-looking lance corporal who had been squatting beside the front of one of the APCs, his Sterling Mk4 tucked ready beneath his arm. The man smartened himself and saluted, recognizing the colonel.
'Much trouble, Corporal?'
'Mortars, sir. They got the APC on the hill, and we lost one of our own men, sir. We haven't seen a bloody Russian yet, sir.'
'I don't doubt you'll see them soon enough.' Studley was having to shout to make himself heard above the sound of the fighting lower in the wood. The heavier gunfire was now to the left, but there were mortar and grenade explosions no more than four hundred meters away.
'Are we holding them, sir?'
'Leading them, Corporal. Leading them.' Studley made himself sound cheerful. 'That's the way we're playing this game.'
There was no reaction on the lance corporal's face to Studley's words. He doesn't believe me Studley thought to himself. They had code-named the battle plan 'Hamlin' after the town where a mythical piper had once led away a plague of rats to the sound of his flute. Hold and withdraw, hold and withdraw; forcing the enemy to use maximum effort at all times, and turning the head of the thrust cunningly so that the enemy was drawn along a route already decided by the NATO forces. The final traps were the killing zones, minefields covered by all the fire-power the NATO ground and air forces could muster. He ordered the Chieftain on, then watched for a moment as the lance corporal saluted briefly and turned to hurry back to the cover of the APC.
The Chieftain had entered the fire-zone, the shredded trees, the mist of battle, the sounds of death. Studley saw his first Soviet infantrymen two hundred meters ahead; scurrying, half-crouched, to the cover of a low wall. He decided they must be part of an artillery observation team, known to operate well up with the assault troops. He gave their position to Riley, the gunner, and then watched with satisfaction as the HE shell destroyed a five meter section of the wall and tumbled bodies out into the open.
Riley said quickly, 'Traversing right one o'clock, sir.' He swung the turret and brought the Chieftain's gun to bear on a personnel carrier that was one of several thundering diagonally across a broad flat field that had contained root crops less than two weeks previously.
Studley switched the radio to the group net. 'Hullo Charlie this is Sunray Rover One.' He heard Captain Valda Willis, Charlie Squadron's leader, acknowledge. 'Charlie Nine, this is Sunray Rover One, expect Wolves twenty degrees right your position. BMPs, over.'
'Roger Sunray Rover One, we see them. We are engaging, over.'
'Roger Charlie Nine, out.' Damn, thought Studley. He shouldn't have interfered. Obviously Charlie Squadron hadn't been sitting there with their eyes closed; they would be all alert, keyed-up, waiting for targets. Now, they would probably think he had been keeping an eye on them, looking for an opportunity to criticize their performance.
'Sir…' Corporal Riley's voice drew his attention. The gunner was thinking that if he didn't get a shot in quickly, then the BMPs would be annihilated within the next few moments by the squadron's guns.
To the gunner's relief, Studley said: 'Take it out, Riley.'
The Chieftain kicked, and Studley watched the front of the leading BMP disintegrate, half of one of its tracks scything eight meters into the air. The vehicle burst into flames, then blew to pieces as the ammunition of its 73mm gun exploded. The Soviet attack, he thought, was a foolish waste of manpower and vehicles; to use unsupported mechanized infantry against deployed armour was suicidal.
Riley was seeking another target, but already a further three of the BMPs had been hit. A fourth the corporal was ranging on was demolished before he could fire.
Some of the infantrymen had survived the destruction of the vehicles, but the battle group's machine guns and rifles concealed in the woods were picking them off.
Studley was moving to join Bravo Squadron when there was uncharacteristic shouting on the group net by the Command RTO. It was incomprehensible gibberish. Studley heard the man yell wildly and the sounds of violent static before the net went dead. He tried to regain contact without success. There were a number of possibilities to account for the failure, but he knew simple breakdown could be discounted. It was more likely the command post was under fire. He called Bravo Squadron who were positioned closest to the command post, and ordered them back to the higher ground. They reported they were already under severe attack from Soviet self-propelled guns out of range of their own 120mms, and sounded pleased to be moved from the area.
Six hundred meters to the rear of the regiment's forward battle positions, Studley's Chieftain was attacked. It was unexpected, only a little way from the clearing where the infantry APCs had been stationed. Fortunately, Studley had the tank's hatches closed-down, but he didn't see the Soviet infantryman hurl his grenade which bounced off the deck of the tank and exploded close to the right track. The grenade was the light RGD-5 whose frag liner failed to penetrate the Chieftain's armour. Studley's driver swerved the tank instinctively. As he did so there was a heavy concussion to the rear of the vehicle and more metal sprayed the hull.
The woods appeared to be alive with green-clad infantrymen and there was little room for the Chieftain to manoeuvre. The driver hesitated as another grenade exploded against the thick armour below the main gun. Studley shouted: 'Keep going…and fast' He felt the Chieftain accelerate. Trees snapped beneath its weight as it crashed forward through the undergrowth. A group of men scattered thirty meters away and Studley followed them with a long burst of fire from the machine gun. He saw an infantryman run diagonally towards him from the left, the man's path curving through a patch of open ground as he ran to meet the Chieftain. His arm was already raised, and Studley caught a glimpse of a long-handled anti-tank grenade trailing its drogue towards the tank as the man threw himself flat. The grenade only fell short by a meter, exploding in the soft earth as the Chieftain reached the clearing where the APCs had been stationed; all that remained were their wrecked and smoking hulks, the crews dead, nearby.
'Don't stop…' There was no need for Studley's order, Horsefield was already pushing the Chieftain towards its maximum speed. It lurched and bounced across the open ground, crashing through a dense copse of young trees as the ground dipped towards the command position.
'Hullo Bravo Nine, this is Sunray Rover One…'Studley was being thrown around in his seat by the violent movement.
'Hullo Sunray Rover One this is Bravo Nine.'
'Where are you?'
'Four hundred meters south of Primrose…and still under attack, over.'
'Infantry?' questioned Studley.
'Armour. Two T-64s…wrong, three T-64s in position near derelict barn.'
'Barn?'
'It's on fire. There seem to be vehicles burning, too. The T-64s are downwind, in smoke.'
God, so that was why the RTO had sounded hysterical. The command post had been attacked, and by the sound of it, destroyed. Studley's immediate emotion was anger. 'Disengage, Bravo Nine. Russian infantry in woods to your left. Get through them Go to Firefly. Verify.' There was no response. 'Hullo Bravo Nine…Hullo Bravo Nine…verify, over.' Studley was dismayed to find he was directing his anger at his own men, and felt ashamed. He spoke again, more calmly. 'Hullo Bravo Nine…verify please, over…'
There was a lengthy pause, then a voice. 'Shit!' Another short break and then he recognized the voice of one of his junior lieutenants. 'Hullo Sunray, this is Colin…damn sorry, sir. We've lost Nine…lost contact…a lot of Soviet armour…Sunray. Go to Firefly, wilco…' There was a pause. 'It's getting warm here, Sunray…sorry, sir, over.'
'Roger Bravo…out.' The lieutenant was polite…terrible radio technique thought Studley. Still young for leadership of a squadron, he had sounded overwhelmed, temporarily confused. Keep your damned head, lad, Studley willed. There was no time for him to contemplate the destruction of the command post and the loss of the staff.
He called through to the Headquarters command Sultan. 'Hullo Ops, this is Sunray Rover One, have you been eavesdropping? Over.'
'Hullo Sunray Rover, this is Ops. Yes, we understand the situation.'
'Give me Amphora.' This was Max Fairly's code name. It was a small personal joke, a reference to the 2nd IC's slightly pear-shaped figure.
'Hullo Sunray Rover One. Reference Amphora; regret no can do. Amphora is MBK.'
Missing believed killed? Max? Perhaps he had misheard the Operations Officer. 'Say again. Over.'
'Hullo Sunray Rover One. Reference Amphora; regret Amphora is MBK. We have had a report on the incident from Kilo Nine.'
'Ops, take over. Send all to Firefly. I'll join you soonest.' He switched to the intercom. 'Horsefield…move us out.' He tried the group net a few moments later, but the Soviet jamming had taken over the wavelengths. It was more efficient than had been estimated, and was making communication difficult…at the moment impossible as the high-pitched whine cut deep into his head. He switched it off. Poor old Max…Max! Damn them! And how complete was the encirclement of the battle group? Total? If so, could the circle be broken? Studley realized he should have pulled back when his adjutant had suggested it earlier. Studley had erred in his decision that the group should hold its position longer. Everything had looked fine…no reason to suppose a breakthrough would happen so quickly. God, he had cocked it up, his first battle! He had made a mistake; a costly one.
The thought of the adjutant drew Studley's mind back to the overrun command vehicle. 'Horsefield…go right…more right…I want a look at the command APC's. And keep your eyes peeled…'
Corporal Riley interrupted him: 'Sir…traversing three o'clock.' Broadside on, not thirty meters away, was the green hull of a Soviet fire-support tank, the insignia of its parachute battalion clearly showing on its skirt. At point-blank range, it was impossible for Riley to rotate the turret fast enough to counter the forward movement of the tank. 'Halt the bloody tank, Horse,' Riley yelled fiercely. Horsefield dug both his feet hard on the brake pedal.
The turret stopped traversing. The fire-support tank was not more than sixty meters away, standing amongst the trees. Studley could see men moving near its rocket launcher, silhouetted against the skyline. It seemed a lifetime before Riley fired and the Chieftain echoed the instantaneous explosion of its shell against the hull of the Russian vehicle. Studley saw one body arc high into the air before the smoke obscured the wrecked tank.
Horsefield had no intention of remaining stationary longer than necessary, and began moving the Chieftain forward at a brisk pace. The smoke cloud from the wrecked vehicle was drifting across their path, a useful screen. Visibility was now less than forty meters; the smoke thickening. Studley could feel heavy concussions but couldn't hear the sounds of the explosions which accompanied them. The ground ahead was clearer, and he thought they must have reached the outskirts of the wood, only a hundred meters from the command position. A vehicle was burning, spurting red flames in the smoke. There were bodies hunched around it; he couldn't identify them, but thought the helmets were Russian. There was another wrecked vehicle, this time a British APC, and beyond it a burned-out Chieftain, its hull ripped open and its turret and gun missing. The ground was churned and cratered…more bodies. Horsefield swerved, found it impossible to avoid the corpses, and drove over them…he recognized their combat smocks as NATO-issue and hoped there were no wounded amongst the motionless figures he was crushing beneath the tracks.
There were dark shapes in the smoke not twenty meters away, closer, men moving. Studley identified a T-72, the nearer of the vehicles. 'Reverse, Horsefield.' The figures scattered as the Chieftain loomed out of the smoke behind them. The turret of the T-72 began moving. Horsefield crashed the gearbox into reverse so fiercely the tracks skidded. For a few moments the fifty-two tons of the Chieftain kept her slithering forward, then the tracks gripped. The muzzle of the Chieftain's 122mm gun was no more than four meters from the rear of the T-72 when Riley fired. The close proximity of the detonation twisted the Chieftain sideways and a billowing spray of burning fuel swept over its hull. Horsefield was trying to regain control when a second explosion tilted the Chieftain on to her side. It dropped back with a bone-jarring crash then settled. Horsefield began accelerating again. He couldn't see where they were going, and was hoping the colonel was watching to the rear. He locked the right track and hammered the Chieftain into forward gear, to swing her round. The Soviet RPG-7V anti-tank rocket, fired by an infantryman forty meters away, hit the Chieftain on the flat slab of armour directly beneath Horsefield's feet. The hollow-charge high explosive round punched its way through the metal as it exploded, killing Horsefield instantly, wrecking the driving compartment, and spraying the interior with fine shrapnel; a heavy scab of metal ricochetted from the floor and buried itself in Sergeant Pudsey's chest as a searing white flame leapt around the breech of the gun, the charge bins and the stacked ammunition. Studley's head felt as though it had burst. He could smell explosive, burning fuel. The air was unbreathable. He was choking.
He attempted to force open the turret, the hatch lever was jammed, but gave way slowly. Everything was confused, unreal. He was unable to focus his eyes, and when he tried to shout to the crew his lungs contained no air; his chest muscles and diaphragm were cramping in painful spasms. He grabbed at the edge of the turret and fell forward, sliding down the hull and landing on his stomach beside the track. He was immediately sick. He knew the Chieftain's ammunition might explode and tried to drag himself further away, flopping like a seal across the ground as his arms gave way beneath his weight. It was all night-marish…swimming in fine dry sand…the sour taste of bile in his mouth…throbbing pain…
He lay still.
He was thrown on to his back with a jerk that almost dislocated his neck. The brightness of the sky was blinding. There was a man's face above him; mist slightly clearing. He felt his NBC clothing pulled apart, roughly…hands searching his coverall pockets. The helmet? American? Russian! Cut high above the man's ears, grotesquely sinister. He was dragged on his back, his head jolting against the earth before he was hauled into a sitting position against a tree. He recognized an AKM rifle aimed at his chest, then vomited again. More hands searched him. He tried to say: 'Let me die in peace, in my own time,' but the only sounds he could make were deep rasping groans between his retchings. He collapsed on to his side.
They let him lie for a few more minutes, until the surging waves of nausea had passed, then pulled him back against the tree. He faced the smoking wreckage of the Chieftain, fifty meters away. Beyond it, a mass of twisted metal was all that remained of the Soviet T-72.
His breathing was easier now, and the throbbing in his head had lessened. He felt mentally numb, each individual thought leaden. One of the men who had been supporting him was kneeling beside him winding an olive-green field dressing around the lower part of his left leg. I'm wounded…wounded and they're dressing it…that means I'm alive…and they aren't going to kill me…not yet anyway…maybe they'll kill me later…I'm a prisoner…God, I'm a prisoner.
There was no sign of any others of the crew. He stared at the wreckage…how had he escaped? The others were still inside…dead! His stomach heaved again, but he managed to hold it.
He turned his head and spat his mouth clean. There was the iron taste of blood at the back of his throat. One of the soldiers shook a cigarette from a packet, lit it, and pushed it gently between Studley's lips. He had seldom used tobacco, but rested his head back against the trunk of the tree and drew in the pungent oriental smoke.
What now, he wondered? Dear God, what now?
'Charlie Bravo Two, this is Nine…' The voice was persistent in Morgan Davis's ears – Lieutenant Sidworth acting as mother hen to his diminishing brood. 'Charlie Bravo Two, this is Nine, over.'
'Bravo Nine, this is Charlie Bravo Two, over.' Davis's voice was shaky. The screaming to his left was continuous, and the Chieftain's engine was revving so high the whole tank was vibrating.
'What the hell's happened Charlie Bravo Two? I've been trying to contact you for the past four minutes, over.'
'I think we've been hit'
'What's the damage?'
'I don't know yet, Nine…'
'Then damn well find out. We're pulling back to Firefly. Make it quick…understand? Out.'
Davis shouted down into the fighting compartment but the sound of his voice was lost in the noise. He switched to the Tannoy. 'Hewett…what's going on down there?'
'Fuckin' linkage is jammed.' DeeJay's voice warbled, competing against the roaring motor.
'Get it bloody well unjammed. Inkester!' The Chieftain was full of swirling dust. Davis reached down and found the gunner's shoulder. 'Inkester?' The shoulder moved. 'Are you okay?' Inkester nodded, his head just visible in the dim light. The roar of the engine dropped suddenly and its sound reduced to a steady throb.
'It's clear, Sarge…it might jam again, but it feels okay.' The engine sound increased again and died as DeeJay tried the pedal.
'Shadwell? What the hell's the matter?' The screaming had diminished as the sound of the engine had lessened; almost as though Shadwell, hunched on his loader's seat, had suddenly become aware of the shriek of his own voice. Morgan Davis leant over and shook him. 'Shadwell…' The man moved and Davis could see his face, blood-spattered. 'Oh, Christ!' He twisted himself out of his seat and wriggled into the fighting compartment. 'Where are you hurt, lad?'
Shadwell held up his left hand, he was gripping it tightly at the wrist. Davis reached out as Shadwell groaned again. Three of his fingers were missing. 'Breech, Sarge. Fucking breech got me.'
The dust was settling, slowly. Blood was dripping from Shadwell's hand. Davis wrenched open the medical box and grabbed a dressing. 'Inkester, get across here. Fix Shad while I try to get us out of here…'
'There's a live shell on the floor, Sarge…' Shadwell's voice was shaky. 'By my left foot.'
Davis groped downwards and felt the smooth cold shape of the projectile. He lifted it carefully, slightly off-balance as he reached behind the breech. He knew it was a miracle it hadn't exploded, and the thought dried the saliva in his mouth. He would have liked to dump it outside, but it was quicker to get it into the gun. He moved to slide it into place in the breech, then hesitated. Shadwell's fingers hung on the mechanism, one with a heavy silver ring still in place below a misshapen joint. Davis clenched his teeth, balanced the shell with one hand against the breech, and snatched at the fingers. They felt like knobbly sausages. He stuffed them into the pocket of his suit and then slid the shell into place. 'Where's the charge?'
'Still in the bin.'
Davis completed the loading of the gun, prayed that the barrel was still clear, and worked his way back to his seat. Inkester squirmed past him. The only undamaged vision blocks of the episcope were obscured by something resting against them on the outside of the turret, and Davis found it impossible to open the hatch. It seemed as if the Chieftain might be buried. 'Hewett, try to get us out.' The Chieftain's engine surged and the vehicle swayed. Davis could hear the links of the track squealing. 'Try rocking us…and gently, lad, there's something lying on us…trees maybe.' He tuned to the troop network. 'Charlie Bravo Nine this is Charlie Bravo Two, over.'
'Charlie Bravo Two, this is Nine. Over.'
'Loader's wounded. We're bogged down…can't see what's holding us…I don't know the full extent of damage. Over.'
'We're coming to you Charlie Bravo Two…well be with you in about three minutes. Keep trying to free yourself, but don't make matters worse.'
'Thank you, Nine. Out' God Almighty, thought Davis, what a mess! The enemy was only a couple of hundred meters away, the loader was out of action and the Chieftain stuck. It wasn't how he had visualized war. It was chaotic, disorganized and dirty…bloody dangerous.
'Eric's okay.' It was Inkester nudging at his legs.
'Yes, I'm okay, Sarge.' Shadwell's voice was apologetic. 'I fucking messed things up, didn't I? He paused. 'I'm sorry I yelled.'
'Ididn't hear you,' lied Davis. Bravo Two was heaving as DeeJay tried to reverse, her engine throbbing, the hull picking up the resonance of the exhaust, making it sound as though she was moaning in frustration.
'Charlie Bravo Two, Nine here…we see you…you're wedged against a heap of rock and half-buried under a big oak. It looks as though the rock slid from the hill behind you. You'll have to go forward over the ridge. I think we can nudge the tree clear of your hull. Bravo Four will give cover as you move. Make it quick. There are seven T-80s moving this way across the lower fields.'
'Wilco Nine.' Davis used the Tannoy again. 'Hewett, keep going forward, get a move on, lad. Inkester check the gun.'
'Charlie Bravo Two this is Nine…traverse your turret right a full hundred and eighty degrees. Try to go forward at the same time…'
Bravo Two lifted herself slowly over the low ridge like a gross elephant pushing itself from a mud wallow. The lens in front of Davis's eyes partially cleared and there was more light in the fighting compartment.
'Charlie Bravo Two…can you see us now?'
'Yes, Nine.' The olive hull of Charlie Bravo Four was thirty meters to Davis's left; to the rear was Sidworth's Chieftain. 'Charlie Bravo Four this is Nine…cover us all…Bravo Two, move left to the woods behind the ridge…we'll be behind you. Get into a fire position about six hundred meters west. Bravo Four, when we get there you leapfrog us.' Sidworth was shouting his orders, his words clipped by anxiety, but remembering the need in tank movement always to keep one foot on the ground.
Davis heard Charlie Bravo Four acknowledge as he ordered Hewett to swing the Chieftain along the slope. There was still a lot of smoke on the plain and shell explosions in a small copse below and to the Chieftains right. A pair of Lynx helicopters were taking turns to dodge above the low cover, firing their missiles at targets which the smoke concealed from Davis. He couldn't see the other tanks of Charlie Squadron. They had to be somewhere, it was inconceivable they should all have been knocked out. Perhaps they had. already retired beyond the hill on to the lower slopes oft he moor.
'Charlie Bravo Two this is Nine…enemy infantry right…two o'clock.'
'Roger, Nine.' Davis saw the minute figures three hundred meters away. Their carrier was somewhere, hidden by the smoke. He brought round his cupola and pressed the firing button of the machine gun. Nothing happened. He tried again; the weapon was dead. He looked towards Sidworth's tank, the lieutenant was using his GPMG, the muzzle flickering orange flame. Davis felt frustrated; the infantry had scattered to cover and he could no longer see them.
'Charlie Bravo Two…get yourself into position and wait…Charlie Bravo Four, this is Nine…come and join us now, over.'
'Charlie Bravo Four, wilco Nine.'
Sergeant Davis didn't see the single Polish SU20 which swept down towards the troop, its pilot making a second circuit of the combat zone where he had been picking off the Lynx helicopters who were slowing the advance of the right flank of the Soviet division's armour. The Sukhoi was the only surviving aircraft of a squadron which had been brought down from Warsaw twenty-four hours before. The pilot had been reluctant to operate against the NATO forces, until he witnessed the loss of his friends in the first minutes of battle.
He had two Kerry missiles left in his pylons. As he dived from the north-west, the battlefront was a broad band of smoke across the plains. He could see the explosions of shells and rockets, and the spearhead of the Russian attack in the direction of the distant town of Braunschweig that was just visible on his horizon. On his first circuit his 30mm cannon shells had destroyed one of the Lynx helicopters; it had exploded violently and he had only just missed the disintegrating wreckage as it fell. He had seen the movement of the NATO tanks against the hill, and the chance of a shot at a new type of target was attractive. He cut his speed to sub-sonic and narrowed his turn, keeping the hill in his view as he did so. At first as he returned he could not see the Chieftains, then he spotted two close together and a third some distance to the east, moving through the scrub at the edge of the woods. He had little time for decision, and chose the tank on the left of the pair, cutting his speed further and holding the aircraft level. The target grew in his sights.
Several smoke shells had exploded on the lower ground ahead of Sergeant Davis's tank, the dense dark smoke swirling across the fields. Somewhere inside would be the Soviet armour in their familiar patterns of tight tanks, supported by the infantry carriers. Just ahead of the screen, in the lower woods, the artillery barrage had increased again.
'Charlie Bravo Four passing you now Nine…sixty meters to your rear. We'll go ahead another hundred meters and-cover you.'
'Roger Charlie Bravo Four…you still with us Charlie Bravo Two? Give Charlie Bravo Four a minute and…' In Lieutenant Sidworth's mid-sentence his Chieftain blew to fragments. Davis had been able to see it from the corner of his eye as he watched down the slope. One moment it was there, and the next the concussion of the explosion rocked Charlie Bravo Two, and the troop Leader's tank had become a mass of flying metal and flame.
The Sukhoi swung upwards. The pilot glanced behind and felt satisfaction at the sight of the orange ball of fire where his rockets had struck. He opened his throttle and pushed the SU20 into a spiralling climb, levelling out at 29,000 feet and turning east towards his airfield. He had flown three sorties since dawn, and hoped he would be allowed to rest for a few hours.
Davis was now in command of the troop; at least, in command of what was left of it…two Chieftains. 'DeeJay, don't go berserk, I want to see what's going on. Keep the speed down.' On the troop net: 'Charlie Bravo Two. The boss has bought it. We'll move back to Firefly and rejoin Charlie. And remember your training; keep a good overlap. Less than half gun range on each move…a foot on the ground, Sealey. Off you go, we'll hold here until you're in position. Out.' Christ, thought Davis, talk about unauthorized procedure? He could hardly have been more casual, but Sealey hadn't commanded a tank for long and there were the lives of two crews at stake. 'Hold it here, DeeJay.' There was a convenient fold in the ground which would hide the deep hull but still leave the gun turret clear.
Jamming was still total on Charlie Squadron net, isolating the two survivors of Bravo Troop. Davis had been in this kind of situation before, leading the troop when Lieutenant Sidworth's tank had been put out of action; only then it had been during the Defender 83 exercise, and the lieutenant had spent the next few hours drinking tea with fellow casualties, and discussing the remainder of the operation. And now Sidworth was dead!
Sod it, Davis suddenly thought. We're not supposed to be running, we're here to fight a bloody war. It's our job. 'Charlie Bravo Four, this is Bravo Two. Hold it where you are.' Sealey's tank was already three hundred meters behind them. Davis got his shoulders beneath the hatch and pushed upwards. For a moment he hesitated, remembering the danger of gas and considering fitting his respirator. Mentally he shrugged; if there had been gas around, then he would be dead by now. Bravo Two was pretty much of a sieve, he had been able to see daylight through the side of the hatch for the past hour, but she'd done a good job of keeping them all alive. He rammed open the hatch; it moved squeakily, one of the hinges twisted out of line. He stood and looked out. The air, though heavily tainted with gunsmoke, smelt fresh after the interior of the tank. He called down inside: 'Shadwell, do you think you can manage some fast loading with one hand?'
'I can try, Sarge. I'm not feeling too good, though.'
'How many rounds do we have left?'
'Twenty-three.'
Davis didn't remember using so many; it was easy to lose count. He would have estimated they had used only a dozen shells. 'You won't have to load that number,' he told Shadwell. 'Charlie Bravo Four this is Charlie Bravo Two. We're moving down the hill until we meet the road. Do you see it?'
'Affirmative, Sarge.'
'There's a cutting to the left of the small wood at four o'clock…got it?'
'Cutting to left of small wood. Right of the line of trees?'
'That's it. We'll get down there. When we're in position, you follow.'
'That's towards the bloody Russians.' Corporal Sealey didn't sound enthusiastic.
'DeeJay, head down the hill.' Davis felt a strange sense of exhilaration as the Chieftain swung itself around, the same feeling he had experienced the first time he had climbed inside one of the huge vehicles and heard the powerful roar of its engine. Familiarity had dulled his appreciation, now it had returned. He could see why his machine gun had failed to operate, the barrel was twisted down against the cupola, its casing shattered. The main gun appeared undamaged, but there were shrapnel scars on the hull and turret, some several centimeters deep. Half the camouflage paint had been burnt off; Bravo Two looked like a candidate for the breaker's yard. Whoever had decided to do away with the.5 calibre ranging machine gun was a bloody fool, decided Davis. It was a useful spare weapon. Now all he had apart from the main gun, which wasn't much use against infantry, were the Sterlings. Still, it was good to be out in the open again after hours closed-down. It might be dangerous, but it felt better, and his field of vision was greatly improved. The smoke was thickening again now they had moved down closer to the fields, but visibility was almost three hundred meters. DeeJay bucked a shallow ditch and then they were on the narrow roadway, barely as wide as the length of the tank. Opposite was a steep bank, just over a meter high. The gunner wouldn't be able to depress the gun fully, but that wouldn't be necessary. It wasn't too bad as a firing position Davis decided. There was reasonable protection for the hull, and not too much of it showing above the bank. With luck, the rising ground behind would help conceal them, though they would be vulnerable to air attack. He watched Bravo Four begin to move down to join them.
Almost three thousand meters above on the slopes of the hill, out of radio contact with both his squadron and the battle group headquarters, Charlie Squadron Leader Captain Valda Willis was watching the two Chieftains through his binoculars. He had just identified them as Two and Four of his squadron's B Troop. Willis, and another survivor of the squadron, had only a few minutes previously managed to force their way through the encircling Russian armour. It had been a close thing, with only a narrow corridor remaining clear. Willis had seen the two Bravo Troop Chieftains on the slopes, before they had turned off down the hill. Their manoeuvre had been unexpected. They were being driven straight towards the enemy as though going in for an attack! It was impossible for him to contact them by radio, his two aerials had been blown away by an HE shell explosion on his turret. The two Charlie Bravo Chieftains he was watching were now facing north-east, the bulk of the moor to the left of them. The Russian amour had occupied most of the woods on the eastern slopes of the moor and was encircling the lower ground to the south. He was surprised that any of Bravo Troop had survived; their position had been heavily shelled and then overrun.
He saw a line of Russian T-64s clearing the smoke. 'What's the range?'
'Three thousand five hundred, sir.' The gunner was following one of the lead tanks.
Sergeant Davis saw the leading T-64 just as Captain Willis' shell struck it below its main gun. He thought that Bravo Four must have fired as the tank was now in position some eighty meters to his left. But as he glanced towards it now, he could see no gunsmoke.
He was searching the ground for other British tanks when Inkester fired without warning. Davis had no time to duck into the fighting compartment. The blast almost deafened him. He dropped inside and jerked the hatch closed. 'You okay, Shadwell?'
'Yes.'
Davis noticed the loader struggling, and wished he was better positioned to help the man. It seemed an age before the breech slammed closed and Shadwell shouted; 'Loaded.' Inkester fired immediately. 'Two, Sarge. Two…one after another. How's that for bloody shooting?'
'Shut up. Bravo Four, you okay?' Davis's head was still ringing from the sound of the gun.
'Affirmative, Sarge.'
'Fuckin' hurry up, Shad.' Inkester was shouting, working the turret around to the left. The Chieftain bucked again.
'Okay Bravo Four, get moving, fast.' Sealey didn't need encouragement. He was imagining a dozen guns ranging on the spot where his tank rested. His driver spun the tank on the road, and felt relief as the tracks bit into the tarmac surface.
Get going you bastard, get going! Davis knew he had to give Sealey enough time to get well down the road and into another firing position. But he was finding it almost impossible to resist the temptation to follow him. There was movement on his horizon, a turret top below a ridge of ground.
'Bravo Two this is Four. In position.'
Inkester had been monitoring the net, and shouted at DeeJay. Bravo Two wallowed for a second and then spun, showering sparks from her tracks.
The road took the Chieftain diagonally away from the advancing Russian armour, its smooth surface giving them the edge in speed, while the bank at the roadside was good cover. An enemy gunner would have to be damned efficient to get a sure sight on their fast-moving turret, thought Davis. Pray to God there weren't any helicopters! He pushed up the hatch again. The road curved to the right and he could see Bravo Four. 'Okay Bravo Four, we're going on past you.'
Sealey shouted back in the radio, 'You're fucking mad. I'm not waiting here.'
Davis changed the tone of his voice. 'Bravo Four, this is Bravo Two. You make a move before I radio, Sealey you bastard, and I'll put a Sabot right through your bloody hull. Out.' There was no comment from the shocked corporal.
A thousand meters farther down the road Davis stopped the tank and swung the turret ninety degrees to the right before calling Bravo Four. A couple of minutes later Sealey's Chieftain thundered past them at almost thirty miles an hour, shaking the ground as it went.
'Bravo Four, this is Bravo Two. I'm holding here for a while. Get yourself well back, but keep us in range.'
'Wilco, Bravo Two.' Sealey sounded subdued.
There wouldn't be long to wait, decided Davis. The battle smoke was drifting parallel with the road, and the visibility in the fields was better than six hundred meters. 'Traverse right, Inkester. Hold it…there…BMP, alongside the hedge.'
'I see it…come on love, come on now…' Inkester was talking to the gun as he fired. He yelled: 'Hit…hit, Sarge.'
Davis missed the destruction of the troop carrier, but heard Inkester's shout of satisfaction. 'Shut up, Inkester…Bravo Four this is Bravo Two, we're moving again.' Davis was trying to find the road on his map. It curved north, taking them directly across the line of the Soviet advance! They would have to leave it and move across the fields towards the west. He stuffed the map between his legs and pressed his eyes to the sight. It was aligned on a T-64. He flicked on the times ten magnification just as Inkester's shell struck; it was impressive, watching it happen only a few meters away. 'Move, DeeJay. Get her rolling…Bravo Four as soon as we reach you, move off…we'll head west off the road and get out of here…'
'Wilco, Sarge…' Corporal Sealey acknowledged gratefully.
'BMPs…BMPs…' Inkester's voice rose. The computer locked to its target, adjusting the gun as the tank moved. Inkester fired.
'Go left now, DeeJay…keep with us Bravo Four…Inkester, BMP three o'clock…don't lose it…Bravo Four, stay close…we're heading west of the small wood ahead.' The gun roared once more. 'Okay, Inkester, leave 'em.'
A shell exploded a few meters ahead of Bravo Two just as DeeJay rammed her through a hedge and into the open field. He began jinking, maintaining the speed but driving in a series of opposing curves as he braked first one track and then the other. There were more explosions, one close enough for its pressure wave to slam violently against the hull. A few meters more and they would be behind cover. Don't let it happen…please don't let it happen to us…Davis was praying. It took an eternity to cover the few hundred meters, but the shelling eased and finally stopped. DeeJay straightened the course and rammed his foot down hard. He had been in action long enough, and now all he wanted was to get away as fast as he could. 'Steady…for Christ's sake, DeeJay!' Bravo Two was pitching dangerously, hammering her bow on. the ground as her suspension was strained near breaking point. 'Easy, lad…easy.' Bravo Four was in line with them now, a hundred meters to their left.
The panic which had gripped DeeJay gradually slackened. He managed to get himself and Bravo Two under control. For a few moments, the terror which he had kept contained during the fighting had overwhelmed him.
He could hear Davis's voice, calm, unemotional. 'Fine, DeeJay…keep it like that…nice and steady. Left a little…left…good…well done, lad.' The knots in DeJay's stomach muscles relaxed and he began listening to Bravo Two. Her tracks were slapping badly, needed adjustment…her engine was beginning to sound rough; he hadn't helped it by driving like a lunatic. She didn't deserve that kind of treatment. Her steering was getting difficult as well, he was having to use a lot more strength on the left lever. Everything needed servicing, and badly. Christ, the sergeant fitter would go bananas when he examined her. There was a strange rattle, a deep knock that reverberated through the driving compartment…an engine mounting? Bloody hell, that would be an they needed. He began to nurse her, encourage her.
Davis too was beginning to relax as the distance between Bravo Two and the advancing enemy increased. I've survived again, he told himself; survived for Hedda and the boys…so we can be together…God, when? Afterwards! Hedda? It would be good when he saw her again…Christ, it would be good! He tried to send his thoughts to her…I'll be back soon, love…just you take care of the kids, I'll look after my self…don't you worry…I'm okay…doing fine.
'Ahead…tank…'Inkester yelled the words just as Davis caught a glimpse of a partially camouflaged hull, close to the wood on their right. Inkester was swinging the turret trying to get the tank in his sights.
'No…it's one of ours…a Challenger,' warned Davis. 'Bravo Four…Challengers to our right.' The ground dipped unexpectedly in front of Bravo Two. DeeJay braked fiercely and swung left. There were a line of Challengers in the hollow, hull down, waiting. 'DeeJay, slow…okay, lad…stop her. Bravo Four come alongside us.' Davis opened the hatch and clambered out, trying to decide which of the tanks was likely to contain an officer. He recognized the skull and crossed bones insignia of the 17th/21st Lancers. A figure waved to them from a tank further down the line. He jumped down to the ground and was surprised his legs held him; they felt shaky, numb. He ran to the vehicle and climbed on to her hull. 'Sergeant Davis, sir. Bravo Troop, Charlie Squadron…Battle Group Cowdray One. We've got ourselves lost, sir. No radio contact.'
The officer's rank wasn't visible on his clothing, but Davis sensed he was a captain, possibly a major. 'You should be a mile further south, Sergeant. Your group is pulling back towards Warberg. You'll be reforming there. You can leave the Russians to us for a while. Get there as quickly as you can.'
'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.' Davis jumped from the Challenger's hull. The officer's voice stopped him.
'Sergeant…what was your name again?'
'Davis, sir. Morgan Davis.'
'You men have done a good job, Sergeant Davis. Head due south. You'll hit the Esbeck to Warberg road.'
'Thank you, sir.' He saluted, then ran back to Bravo Two. There were four helicopters coming low across the fields, Lynxs, heading towards the advancing Soviet armour. The sound of artillery was quickening; a flight of rockets howled away from a battery hidden in the woods. The war was catching up with him again. It was late afternoon, on the first day.