Another new troop. New men. They weren't even from his own regiment…unless you counted some of the reserves who had reached the division in the past few hours. Strangers, all of them. Maybe it was better like that. If he thought about them too much Davis knew he would go crazy as they got themselves killed off. They were really only replacement equipment, not men with faces and names; limited-life equipment, lacking durability, intended to be used and discarded. When they had reported to him, he had tried not to look at them too closely. Their names were on his list, but he had not even attempted to remember them.
'If you ask me what's going on once more, Inkester, I'll crown you. You've heard the orders, and you've got eyes like the rest of us.' He was getting snappy…testy. No damn wonder. 'Spink, what are you up to?'
'Reading, sir.'
Reading. God, twenty-four hours ago the lad was a breathing disaster area, and now he was cool enough to read a book while they waited for an enemy attack. He realized he knew nothing at all about Spink; not even his age…nothing about his background. Did he even have a christian name? Inkester and Hewett, he knew them; everything about them, faults, weaknesses, good points, what made them both tick. But Spink? 'Spink, how long have you been in the army?'
'Eight months, sir.' There was the sound of his book, some paperback, closing.
'Where are you from?' A few minutes ago he hadn't wanted to know the new men, and here he was questioning Spink. It was different though with your own loader, he told himself. If Spink was going to buy it, then the odds were that he would too. And it was necessary to work close to your crew, understand them.
'Winchester, sir. Hampshire.'
'I thought that was the home of the Green Jackets. Why didn't you join them?'
'Don't like walking, sir.' There was a touch of humour in the lad's voice.
'What were you doing before you signed on?'
'Insurance, sir; clerk. It was dead boring.'
Insurance clerk. 'O-levels, Spink?' You would need reasonable educational qualifications in an insurance company.
'Yes, sir, six.'
'Six O-levels and you want to be a loader.' Six O-levels were enough for a commission!
'No, sir. I want to be a troop leader.'
Saucy young bugger. Davis smiled to himself; Spink might do it. Perhaps quicker than he anticipated if the war lasted, and if he stayed alive.
Another dawn; the third of the war. There was the familiar smell of diesel fuel, oil, stale explosives and the crew, inside the Chieftain. They were sited facing south-east, fine rain making it difficult for Davis to see through the episcope as the breeze caught the mist and swirled it against the hull. It was barely wetting the surface of the ground yet; he wanted full torrential rain, the kind of downpour the dark night clouds had promised earlier.
The gusty breeze was moving the brown leaves of a tall beech to the Chieftain's left, billowing the soggy camouflage netting that broke the outline of the hull. To their rear a thousand meters away was the River Oker, running north-west towards the Hahnen Moor. They were hull-down behind the low railway embankment that led from Braunschweig to a nearby cement works; there would be no more trains for a long while, the track was destroyed in a hundred places, the lines twisted and curled, distorted, the embankment blasted flat. Davis's visibility was less than two thousand meters,
He had been eavesdropping on the different radio wavelengths, hoping to obtain some reasonable idea of what was happening along the front. Many of the conversations meant nothing, but he could follow the battles taking place somewhere in the mist and low cloud; seven kilometers ahead. The sounds were there when he opened the hatch, the noises of war dampened by the low cloud, but closer, woolly. The rain wouldn't slow them much…bloody Scotch mist! Still, with luck, it might cut down the air activity.
'Charlie Bravo Nine this is Zulu, over.'
'Charlie Bravo Nine, over.'
'Everything okay?'
'Yes, sir.' What was the new captain's name? DeYong! Probably Dutch; he had an accent that was difficult to identify.
Davis had sited the Chieftain carefully during the night; optimistically hoping for heavy rain. He could remember a time a few years ago on exercise when a troop of the regiment, sent to defend positions near a river, had remained stationary for almost. twenty hours in a downpour. When the time came to move, they couldn't. Every one had sunk in the soft earth and had to be towed out by recovery vehicles with kinetic ropes. You didn't make errors like that in this situation; not if you wanted to live.
Was the rain getting heavier? Rain. It would turn the broken ground, churned by the shell and rocket fire ahead of the advancing Russian armour, into a swamp. It would restrict air activity, and enable the NATO reinforcements more time to be brought up to the front. Every road in the abandoned territory which might have been useful to the Russians had been destroyed, but many behind the NATO lines were still in reasonable condition. Rain favoured the defenders.
Visibility? It seemed less. A thin line of poplars he had been able to see clearly only minutes ago, was hidden. Was it increasing mist, or was the drifting smog of the battlefield already closer?
He saw four simultaneous explosions, the flames brilliant white, the smoke and debris hurtling upwards before merging into the low cloud and the grey background a thousand meters ahead. Armour was moving close to a narrow roadway, skirting a plantation of young larches; NATO armour pulling back. He recognized a squadron of West German Leopards with their distinctive wedge-shaped hulls and low profile, black crosses on the sides of their turrets; tanks of the Heer covering the movement of several of their Marder personnel carriers. The sound of NATO artillery was increasing, the shells shrieking overhead, deep banshee howls of the rocketry, explosions now felt and heard, but mostly unseen.
DeYong's voice was guttural with anticipation on the squadron net: 'All stations standby, fire as targets show, out.'
'Wilco. Out.'
Nothing visible in the mist. The air was shaking, concussions thumped against the hull like waves battering a ship in a storm.
'I'm blind down here,' DeeJay complained loudly.
Inkester was making co-ax traverses of the gun, scanning the open ground through his sights; Spink's hand already rested on the next live shell in the racks.
Were there gunships above the cloud? Davis thought he caught a glimpse of a line of dark shapes moving eastwards. Lynx? He was guessing. If they were NATO helicopters it was dangerous work for them, operating at low level in almost zero visibility. They would be picking their targets by the infra-red emissions from the engines of the Soviet ground vehicles. To Davis it meant that all NATO armour was already safely back out of the way.
'Gas, gas, gas…November, gas, gas, gas!' Unnecessary warning, for the tanks had been closed-down since standby at battle stations. So much for the Geneva Convention, Davis thought.
'Masks on, lads,' he ordered.
'It's ours…must be our gas…' Inkester's voice was surprised. 'Wind's drifting the smoke back towards the bloody Ruskies…can't be their own gas…wind's the wrong way for them!'
Ours. Retaliatory, they had always promised. Why not? The Russians had been using it for the last couple of days. What kind? Nerve, blood agent, corrosive? It didn't really matter…they said mustard gas was the nastiest, the most painful, blistering deep into your skin, burning out your lungs…one way or another they all killed. The Geneva Convention ruled you couldn't destroy a man with gas – what difference was there between death from that, or the smashing, pulping, tearing of a high-powered bullet or white-hot shrapnel in your stomach, the seconds of screaming agony within the hell-fire of napalm? Were the latter more humane, he wondered? Christ, animals chosen to die in a slaughterhouse were given more consideration.
A huge ball of flaming material roared down through the low cloud and exploded three hundred meters ahead of Davis's Chieftain.
'Christ!' Inkester gave a startled exclamation as his vision was obscured by billowing smoke.
'Aircraft!' said Davis. Whose aircraft? There was no way of telling. Men and equipment dying together; he could imagine the terror of the last terrible moments, as the plane went out of control too close to the ground for survival…Survival, that was what war was all about. Survive a battle, anticipate the next…no, try not to anticipate…just survive every minute; count only the ones behind you, not those still in front waiting to be survived.
So many of!he dead he had seen in the past days appeared to be smiling, grinning at him; an illusion, ragged lips surging from teeth, flesh shrinking on the bones. Why would they smile? Was there humour for them in death?
'Why are we waiting…' Inkester began singing, but with a nervous tremor to his voice: bravado.
'Zulu this is Alpha, we are engaging.'
'Roger Alpha.'
Alpha! Alpha Troop somewhere to Davis's left, beyond his sight. Engaging!
'Zulu, this is Alpha' Voices urgent; responses immediate. 'Soviet BRDM-2s…we see four…recce patrol…'
Davis tried to pick out their guns against the tumult of sound and the deep throb of the Chieftain's engine. It was impossible.
'Zulu, this is Alpha…we've taken them out…' The voice jubilant. 'All four!'
'Good work, Alpha…any casualties?'
'No casualties.'
Four taken out. Made them sound like sitting ducks. BRDMs…wheeled recce vehicles. Maybe the Russians were having trouble with the softening ground; Alpha had been well-sited, undetected until it was too late. A trap well-sprung.
'All stations, this is Zulu, expect contact.'
What was happening to the rain he had prayed for? It was lighter; had stopped. Davis could see the line of poplars again, some now broken, one tilted and resting on its neighbour.
Rocket explosions drew lines of deep craters across the open ground closer to the troop position, the field became an instant forest of black smoke columns, alive, growing, spreading.
'Charlie prepare for action…' Davis used the troop net.
The shells were exploding closer, some just behind the Chieftain; heavy stuff plunging deep into the ground before it detonated, each hurling several tons of earth skywards.
'Charlie Nine, this is Zulu, do you have contact?'
'No contact yet.'
The sound of the combined NATO and Soviet bombardment was now so great that Davis found it necessary to concentrate to prevent the dislocation of his thoughts. It was a monstrous duel, with the divisional armour at its centre. A shell landed five meters away, making the Chieftain shudder, splattering the hull with day and thin mud. The woods to the left were being systematically demolished by a creeping barrage climbing the steep hillside, turning ancient trees to chaos.
Davis saw blue sky through the smoke as more heavy artillery shells landed nearby, rocking the tank violently.
'Hullo Charlie Nine this is Black Dog…target, over…' An infantry request to Davis for support.
He replied, 'Charlie Nine, send, over.'
'Black Dog…missile launcher moving into position…your gun barrel two o'clock northern edge of poplars. Will fire burst for your reference, watch for tracer. Over.'
'Charlie Nine, wilco. Out.'
'Got your eyes on the position, Inkester?' Davis watched the left end of the poplars. A few seconds later he saw a line of tracer bullets pass between the first and second of the distant trees, towards the ruins of a small farm building. 'Okay, let's get on it' Inkester brought the gun round and Davis saw the building in the sights. Inkester's first round exploded, but even with the ten times magnification Davis was unable to see the result.
'Hullo Charlie Nine, this is Black Dog. Left twenty reduce fifty, over.'
'Charlie Nine, wilco. Out.' The miss had been due to the difficulty in calculating the exact target of the tracers fired from cover away to the Chieftain's left. Davis made the necessary corrections. He enjoyed working with the infantry, it was like playing to an audience. The Chieftain lurched as Inkester fired again, and this time the explosion of the shell was more spectacular.
'Hullo Charlie Nine…this is Black Dog…you are on target, out.'
On target. One more kill, thought Davis, coolly reported as if it were a dummy on a range.
'Tank,' shouted Inkester.
Davis had seen it simultaneously. 'Zulu, this is Charlie Nine…T-62 eleven o'clock, am engaging, out'
'Zulu, roger. Out.'
The smoke ahead was denser now, but Davis could still see the outline of the first tank as Inkester lined it up and fired.
The attack, fiercer and more determined than Davis had experienced in the past days, lasted almost four hours before dying away. But, for the first time, all the NATO tanks had remained in position and there was no withdrawal. Squadron after squadron of Soviet armour and mechanized infantry had hurled themselves against the NATO line and been repulsed. Ahead of Davis the smoke fog was drifting away towards the north-east, unrolling the devastated landscape of the battlefield in front of him, uncovering the obscene carcasses of wrecked vehicles, the corpses of men.
Inkester shouted a wild, jubilant cheer.
'We've beaten them off, sir…' There was enough of Spink's face visible through the eye-pieces of his mask for Davis to know the loader was grinning.
Davis just nodded. He had learnt too much in the past days to be anything but cautious in his hopes. He was feeling satisfied that the line had held, but knew it must have been as costly for the NATO forces as for their enemies.
He checked his troop on the network. There were no casualties, and the feeling of relief warmed him further. There might well be losses amongst the squadron, but at least he had managed to keep his own team intact. Team. With dismay he realized his original intention to avoid establishing close ties with his replacement crews was already falling apart. He knew it was a weakness he might well regret.
The sky had brightened and the cloud was now broken so that patches of sunlight drifted across the open ground, chasing the columns of dark smoke spiralling from the battle debris. He could see only one living being amongst it all; four hundred meters away a solitary Russian infantryman, still wearing his mask and protective clothing, wandered aimlessly in the open. Others must have seen him, but none fired. After a few minutes the soldier turned and stumbled slowly away until he was lost in the distance, a lonely bewildered man, perhaps demented, insane. The medical officers called it battle-fatigue.
'What are the Russians up to, sir?'
'Inkester, you must have been a bloody aggravating kid!' Davis leant back in his seat. To his right, through his episcope, he could see the sector at the rear of the NATO defence lines, sparsely wooded country that was little more than a long sweeping plain until it met the outskirts of Hannover some forty kilometers away. He deliberately allowed his thoughts to drift, encouraging them away from the jaggedness of war, using memories to soften reality. He was with Hedda and the boys at Hamburg Zoological Gardens. The afternoon was warm, the children sticky-handed and the animals lethargic. The children were more interested in a playground than the animals; he and Hedda sat in the shade while the children exhausted themselves, shrieking and laughing. He couldn't remember how many Cokes he had bought, it seemed like a dozen, plus an equal number of ice-creams. When they had returned home the exhausted children were pleased to get to bed, and Hedda had brought him a beer on the apartment balcony. It had been a happy day, a family day, and the evening was good, too. It was satisfying just sitting there, drinking the beer and hearing Hedda prepare supper, knowing the kids were asleep in their room. It was the best part of being a father, a husband. Hedda had been in a loving mood; it had been a good day, all round. There were others like it to think about.
His eyes were half-closed and he was almost asleep. There was a sudden bright glow of light which penetrated his eyelids like the burst of a photographic lightbulb; he could feel intense heat on his cheeks. The light did not die away but increased rapidly until pain forced him to react. He ducked. The interior of the Chieftain was lit by sharp-edged beams flooding through the vision blocks in the turret.
The twenty kiloton nuclear warhead of a Soviet SS-1 Scud missile exploded close behind the NATO front line, its skyburst destroying all unprotected living things beneath it for an area of two and a half square miles.
Davis's mind had grasped and interpreted the brief warning. He attempted to shout but no sounds would come from his throat. For the first time in his life terror completely overcame him. He tried to scream to dispel the agonizing fear which twisted at his intestines, but his years gagged him.
The silence broke with the sudden roar of the pressure wave which lifted the stern of the Chieftain's fifty-two ton hull three meters from the ground, tilting the bow against the embankment until the tank was near vertical, the muzzle of the gun driving deep into the earth as the crew were hurled forward on to the instruments and controls.
The flame-blackened debris of uprooted trees, shrubs and buildings blasted past. The Chieftain's hull dropped, the suspension units shearing from their mountings as it bounced crazily.
A second vast concussion, the implosion, spun the tank sideways as though it were weightless, shaking it like a dog with a rag before discarding it, the thunderous roar dying only slowly.
The terror remained with Davis; it was night outside the Chieftain, swirling dust clouds thicker than the densest battle-smoke. The ground beneath the tank was no longer solid, quivering, rippling as it transmitted the shock of more distant nuclear explosions.
Spink, supporting himself against the breech, managed to switch on the fighting compartment lights; fine dust and fuel droplets haloed them in miniature rainbows until the wiring shorted and the tank was in darkness again.
He had seen Morgan Davis briefly; reaching forward to pull Inkester back into his seat. The gunner's head, his respirator torn away by impact with the sharp edges of the Chieftain's equipment, was cut and bleeding; his eyes were wide, staring like those of a hare cornered by a dog.
'Hewett…Spink?' Morgan Davis shouted the men's names, his voice urgent. There was a burst of red flame neat the ammunition locker. Spink tried desperately to open the hatch above him, but the hatch lever was jammed. He heard Davis again: 'Hang on, lads…it's over…it's all bloody over!'
The flames were growing, spreading along the floor beside the charge bins, scorching Spink's legs. He turned quickly towards Davis's cupola, the only escape route left. The warrant officer was sitting motionless, Mocking his way. The bright reflection of the fire made a halo around him. Like a painting on an icon.