The Field Headquarters of the 1st Battle Group, British 4th Armoured Division, were two Sultans, modified as command vehicles and situated almost a mile to the west and rear of the regiment's battle positions on the eastern slope of the Grosses Moor. The FV 105s, slab-sided and wedge-nosed, had only single 7.62 machine guns for armament and relied on the regiment's armour for protection. They were parked tight beneath the pine trees, the overhanging branches assisting the camouflage netting which draped the hulls. Two Chieftains were at rest nearby, one belonging to Lieutenant Colonel James Studley, the other to Major Fairly, the regimental second in command. A third command Sultan, normally used by the second in command and the operations officer, was sited eight kilometers to the rear with the Headquarters Squadron.
Between the Field Headquarters' Sultans and the regiment's forward armour were a company of mechanized infantry; to the rear, the battle group's two batteries of Abbot 105mm self-propelled guns. On the lower ground of the Elm, where it bordered the plain, six FV-438s fitted with launchers for the Swingfire ATGW missiles were concealed amongst a plantation of immature pines.
The interior of the commander's APC was crowded. Much of its available space was taken up by its two map boards and the radio equipment. Its small penthouse at the rear of the vehicle had been erected and gave a little more working room to the command staff, but even so it was almost impossible to move without jostling someone.
For the hundredth time in the past three hours, Lieutenant Colonel James Studley stared down at the large scale map in front of him, as though its constant detailed perusal might uncover some hidden aspect of the Soviet battle plans. His action was little more than nervous habit; he knew the area as intimately as the Sussex village where his family had lived since his childhood. Knowledge of the terrain was one of the strengths of the NATO armies.
He also knew the positions of the other battle groups of the armoured division. They were all part of the plan, carefully deliberated, debated and practised over all the past years, and soon to be tested. He understood its place in the overall scheme of the defence of Western Europe, although the fullest details remained, for obvious reasons of security, in the hands of the operations staff in Northern Army Group Headquarters.
Flexible defence! He thought it almost Buddhist in principle. Bend like a reed before a gale, against a strong attack give way; but with increasing force turn the enemy in the direction you choose. Lead him unsuspecting to the cunningly prepared traps, the killing zones. And the killing zone for CENTAG was Hannover.
Intelligence indicated that a major enemy thrust was likely to be made at the point where the areas of responsibility of the German and British corps overlapped. Secretly, Studley disagreed. If he were a Russian general, he would base his attack along the highway system from Magdeburg, knowing full well that the NATO powers could not fire a single shot in his direction until the spearhead of his heavy assault armour had crossed the border into their territory – by which time it would have gained too much momentum to be halted.
But no matter where the Russian assault came, the plan was to channel the main thrust south of the Örreler Heide and the densely forested areas to the north of Celle which had been tank training grounds for the German army since the days of the Third Reich Panzers. With even more mountainous terrain on their southern flank the Soviet forces would find themselves trapped in a narrowing funnel terminating at the city of Hannover. The inertia of the attack would be absorbed, diminished until it was lost completely. Assaults on towns and cities digested incalculable amounts of men and machines, which the long and harried lines of Soviet logistics would find difficult to maintain. Valuable time would be gained for NATO reinforcement. Already the Reforger airlift was in progress, bringing more troops and materials to Europe from the USA, Canada, Australia, New Zealand and many other sympathetic nations. Every hour counted, and the next seventy-two would be critical. The longer the Warsaw Pact countries delayed their attack, or the more effectively it could be contained when it began, the better the chances of NATO victory.
Three types of weapons which would surely influence the outcome of the initial battles were enigmatic to Colonel James Studley. He had studied their use, and knew their capability and dangers. They were chemical, biological and nuclear. There had been public outcry in the British Isles against the development of the chemical and biological weapons, but the work had gone ahead in the United States, and amongst the munitions now stockpiled in secret dumps throughout the whole of Europe were shells, bombs and missiles with biological, chemical and nuclear capabilities. In theory, at the moment, they were to serve only a retaliatory purpose should similar weapons be used against allied troops or civilians. But a certain tactical nuclear weapon already deployed by NATO was in a different catagory in Studley's opinion.
Nuclear tactical weapons existed in a number of various forms and strengths, from the diminutive depleted uranium shell, the American XM774, which although it had been designated 'nuclear' by international pressure had been developed for the sole purpose of the effective armour penetration of a single vehicle, to the 400 kt MGM-31A Pershings with their range of over five hundred miles and delivery speeds of Mach 8-plus at burn-out. In between the two were a variety of nuclear missiles, shells and mines, and it was these mines in particular that concerned Studley. He had learnt of them by accident, and the thought he found unpleasant was that they were controlled not by the men on the battlefronts, but by politicians perhaps three thousand miles away from the combat zone. The mines were pre-laid nuclear weapons sunk into strategic positions in West Germany, hidden lines of defence from north to south! Studley did not know their locations. Concealed in special chambers, below the depths where they could be exploded by any accidental method, they were the ugly monsters held in readiness for the protection of Western freedom. He could only guess at the power each of the mines might contain; it would be pointless for them to be small. They must be capable of taking out not just a regiment but perhaps a complete division, unless it were widely deployed, and they would have been laid in sufficient numbers to make one vast tactical nuclear strike effective against a complete enemy army in NATO territory.
The use of the weapons involved the terrible risk of triggering off a full-scale nuclear war against military and civilian targets alike. With much of its army totally destroyed along a complete front, the enemy would be faced with the acceptance of defeat and subsequent negotiation, or a retaliatory strike which would of necessity involve allied civilians and probable further nuclear attack by NATO long-range missiles deep into the enemy's own territory.
The nuclear mines disturbed Studley's thinking. He had been a soldier for many years, trained in the belief that war was the province of experienced fighting men, not of clerks or planners far away in hidden offices, or protected in bunkers or converted aircraft hundreds, of kilometers from the front lines. When he had first learned of the mines he had pictured a map of Europe on some distant planner's wall, the sites of the nuclear weapons lighting up as men received the latest information from the battlefields and pressed the appropriate buttons to arm the mines in the areas of the greatest enemy concentrations. At some point, they received a President's orders and turned their firing keys. Without warning to the troops on the battlefront, friend or enemy, the ground erupted with volcanic force and destruction beneath them.
But where, and when?
The West German government claimed to be committed to the policy of not losing even a single foot of land to the East. How far then would they permit an enemy to penetrate before the use of the nuclear mines was considered necessary…and who would make the decision? Was the critical depth of penetration a matter of centimeters, or beyond some planner's line drawn from Hamburg in the north, to Hannover, Kassel, Nürnburg in the south? Perhaps there was no such line! The mines might simply have been seeded at vital strategic points, and would be detonated if it appeared the enemy advance could no longer be resisted by conventional warfare. He was certain of only one thing…the weapons existed!
These unpleasant thoughts were disturbed by the radio operator. 'Division Headquarters, sir.'
He took a headset. 'Hello, this is Sunray, over.'
'This is Nine, Sunray. First chukka imminent. Troop movement sector Marigold. Full Red Alert. Over.'
'Sunray Wilco. Over.'
'Nine. Good luck, Sunray. Out.'
'Good luck!'. Studley repeated the HQ benediction automatically, and handed the headset back to the operator. First chukka imminent! Why in God's name did everyone assume all cavalry officers played polo? Chukka was a code word but it still meant that someone, somewhere, had thought it appropriate. Studley didn't approve of the British habit of using sporting analogies in war; war was too serious to be likened to a game even by a figure of speech. 'Philip…' He caught the attention of his adjutant.
The adjutant looked up from the code lists he had been examining. 'Sir.'
'Order the group to stand-by, and tell them I want full radio silence on the UHF nets. Remind the squadron leaders I don't want the men using energy-emitting equipment for the moment.' Soviet locators would undoubtedly be pinpointing any source of energy as possible targets for their artillery.
'Yes, sir.'
'And when you've done that, I'd like the command vehicle moved to the derelict barn at Primrose. Ask the sergeant major to see to the new command platoon positions, and then get someone to do a stag for you…you haven't slept for over twenty hours. Try to get some rest while you have a chance.'
The adjutant nodded. 'Thank you, sir.'
'So it's on, James.' Max Fairly, the second in command had been listening, and Studley found the familiarity of being addressed by his first name unexpectedly reassuring. Max was a close friend, an efficient but easygoing man whom Studley liked, and perhaps more important, trusted. Max was a little more heavily fleshed than when they had first met some years before, but he still kept himself fit with daily games of squash. He was forty-three years old, just a year younger than James Studley, and Studley knew Max, his wife Jane, and their son, well enough to feel he was part of their family – if only in the case of the boy, as a kind of well-liked adopted uncle. Unmarried himself, he had taught Max's son how to shoot and fish, and now the boy had become a grown man; they had spent a leave together only a month previously on one of the best trout beats of the Hampshire Itchen. Memories of the week had saddened Studley during the past hours. He had encouraged Max's son to choose a military career, and he was now a subaltern in a detachment of the Devon and Dorsets, trapped in West Berlin since the city had been sealed by East German forces two days previously.
'It sounds like it, Max. If anything is going to happen today, then it will probably begin in the next few minutes. HQ have reported movement in our sector.'
'I suppose we should thank God for ground radar and electronic sensors. At least we get some warning.' The activity within the command Sultans had increased as the men prepared to move. Fairly lowered his voice and stepped closer to Studley. 'You know, I never expected this to happen…a war.' He made a wry, half-amused smile. 'Playing soldiers for real, Jane would say.' He was watching Studley's face. 'Don't worry, James, I'm not going to hide under the bed with my hands over my ears! I just can't believe what's happening that's all. We talk about civilization, and then somehow,allow this to develop.'
Max was thinking about his son, Studley realized. Jane's expression, 'playing soldiers for real', was the one she had used on the first occasion the boy had returned home in uniform. Although she made a joke about it at the time, her face had been strangely pale as though she had glimpsed her son's future. God, how could you defend Berlin? Leaving troops there in wartime was nothing more than human sacrifice on a political altar. They would make a good stand; the lads always did. But in the end it would be remembered as another Arnhem…a place of no retreat and no relief. He couldn't think of any suitable reply to his friend's words, so punched him lightly on the arm. 'Time you left us, Max, old lad.' The second in command should in fact have been at the rear of the battle group's positions, with the third of the command Sultans and the Headquarters Squadron. And James Studley knew his friend's request to be allowed to view the fire-points had been only an excuse for them to spend a couple of hours' together. 'Look after things back there.'
Max Fairly nodded, then smiled., 'Trust an Emperor's Chambermaid, James.'
Davis was apprehensive. Although it was claimed men could live for two weeks battened-down inside the hull of their Chieftain tank, breathing pure air through the NBC filter system, in practise he knew it wasn't that simple. Regardless of what they said, none of the tanks were completely air-tight and there was always the danger of seepage; the main gun, when it had been fired and was being reloaded, was just a hollow tube with one end out in the open air and the other inside the tank's fighting compartment. The crews had to expect to fight dressed in their NBC suits, hot, sticky, stinking and unpleasant. Like himself, most of the men would gamble comfort against their lives, and leave off their respirators until the last possible moment.
Thank God, he thought, at least they made damn sure you knew the drill. It was all about surivival in the event of germ or chemical warfare; even following nuclear attack when every dust particle in the area would become radioactive. Inside the tank you lived in the suits because the gas that could be outside was invisible, and there were no gas indicators amongst the tank's instruments; the only warning you might receive would be over the HF, by which time it could already be too late. If possible, you stored the crew's body waste in plastic bags and stuffed them out through the disposal hatch whenever you got the chance, but if the air was really contaminated then no one took off the NBC suits at all. For a time you might try to hang on, but in the end your body's natural functions always beat you.
Tinned compo rations! Three four-men packs to a tank! You heated them in the boiler. If the electrics packed up and it was still safe to get outside, then you could cook over tablets of Hexamine; otherwise, you ate cold. Fortunately, the boiler was usually reliable and also provided hot water for drinks.
If you were wise, he mused, you hap a flask of spirits tucked away somewhere out of sight; it was a small enough luxury, even though it was against regulations.
Davis had stayed closed-down once, for a full three day period; Bravo Two's fighting compartment had become a cramped and stinking prison, and clambering out of the Chieftain at the end of the exercise into the fresh air had felt like rebirth. Some of the men in the regiment hadn't been able to take it, the claustrophobic atmosphere and their own filth had become too unbearable. Those who failed the test had been transferred, some to the support vehicles. A few, disappointed, had applied for the civilian re-training schemes and left the army. Sergeant Davis had been pleased by the performance of the men of Bravo Troop. They had moaned, complained, bitched, but they had stuck it out; even better, he knew they would have gone on enduring the discomfort for another ten days if necessary.
Sergeant Davis had Charlie Bravo Two closed-down at the moment. It wasn't necessary, but it was cutting out the chill breeze that was now rippling the trees and shaking the moisture to the ground beneath. There was little warmth inside the tank and he was glad he was wearing a sweater beneath his coveralls and NBC suit. The interior lighting was off and Inkester the gunner was dozing just below Davis's knees, somehow wedged between the hard backrest of his seat and his equipment. Davis had his legs up across the breech of the gun. Deejay, the driver, was in his forward compartment and in his reclined position was also undoubtedly taking the opportunity to grab a few minutes' rest. Eric Shadwell, the loader, was to Davis's left, propped between the ammunition, the bag-charge bins and the breech mechanism.
Shadwell was awake and restless, his small padded seat in the fighting compartment supported him less than those of his fellow crew members. He stretched himself and pressed his hands into the small of his back. One of his legs had gone to sleep and was now tingling and sensitive as his movement restored the circulation. 'Bloody hell,' he swore softly. To occupy his mind he began mentally counting the ammunition; sleek evil-looking shells. Sixty-four of them in all, most situated in racks beside him. A few lay forward, stored to the left of DeeJay the driver, but they were difficult to reach if the tank was in motion.
Shells. Shadwell knew a lot about them. Bravo Two was carrying only two types at present: High Explosive Squash Head, abbreviated to 'Hesh', and Armourod-Piercing Discarding Sabot, officially 'APDS', but usually called 'Sabots'. He closed his eyes and pictured them striking the armour of an enemy tank. 'Bam…splat…' That was Hesh, exploding, flattening, sending a shock wave through metal that tore off a massive scab on the other side, splintering and ricochetting around inside the enemy's hull. 'Bam…zonk…' The Sabot, a tungsten steel bolt carried by a softer metal shoe which it left on impact, and then drove on through the armour as though it were nothing more than thin balsa wood. 'Bam, splat…bam, zonk…' He made the sounds again, and mimed the reloading of the gun.
The separate explosive charges which propelled the shells helped to make his life easier; no used shellcases came back into his compartment, everything was discharged forward. He could also select the appropriate power of charge, which assisted the shell's trajectory.
The Russians didn't use loaders in their tanks, he remembered. Sod that! The Russians had automatic-loading guns so they only had three men in a tank crew, but their system had a weakness. If the automatic-loading system failed, then their tanks became useless. NATO designers believed hand loading to be more reliable; Shadwell agreed with them. Besides, what the hell would he be doing if Chieftains only had three men to a crew? Bugger king a driver, or a gunner…and there would be fat chance of him making commander for a long while!
What else was there for him to count? Machine gun ammo? Six thousand rounds for the 7.62mm mounted above the cupola! Nice gun, you could aim and fire it from inside the tank. There used to be another…the point-five was used for ranging the main gun…obsolete now the Barr and Stroud laser range-finder was fitted. The range-finder was quicker to use, and more accurate.
He sighed.
It was surprising how big the interior could seem at times, like a bloody cathedral; especially when it was all in darkness. He could just see the dim outline of one of the crew's Sterlings in its clips on the other side of the compartment. It seemed a hundred yards away…too far…the other end of a long tunnel. Even Sergeant Davis's boots looked too small to be real, as though Shadwell was viewing them through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars.
Maybe I'm asleep, thought Shadwell. It's all a bloody dream this caper, I'll wake up in the quarters. No such sodding luck…I'm awake! Maybe everybody's dead? DeeJay's dead…killed by a secret death-ray…dead in his driving seat…his head lolling and his tongue hanging out! Inky's bought it, too…lying there with his eyes bulging in their sockets and his stomach swelling with gases. And Sergeant Davis…sitting there…just sitting…his hands on the cupola control, locked in a death-grip…clutching. Shadwell's thoughts were making him nervous. It was like sitting up alone, late at night, watching a horror movie. Shadows normally unnoticed, suddenly became threatening.
He spoke loudly, his voice echoing slightly. 'It's the same as bloody Suffield.' The remark was less of a genuine observation than a plea for someone to answer him. The fear was growing and he was feeling isolated, and lonely. Suffield was the site of the NATO tank ranges in Canada, where the regiment had spent some weeks earlier in the year. Neither the landscape nor the present circumstanced justified the remark. The only link was the time the men had spent on night manoeuvres, firing at targets through the infra-red sights…and it was dark outside Bravo Two now! Dawn was just a thin pale band above the eastern horizon.
Shadwell, as loader, saw very little of the external action when the tank was in battle. He had a periscope of his own, but there was seldom time to use it; often he saw nothing except his racks of shells, the charges and the breech of the gun. If he attempted to use his periscope, everything had already happened by the time he got his eyes re-focused to the longer distance or adjusted to the change of light. It didn't worry him too much. Sometimes he managed to see where the shells he loaded struck their targets, but if not he still found satisfaction in imagining the scene through the voices of the men on the radio or the Tannoy.
No one answered him, so he said bleakly: 'Well, not exactly like Suffield; at least we haven't had all our bloody gear shot to hell by our own infantry.' He was remembering an incident that had happened on their last visit to the Canadian ranges. On the night before a combined armour and infantry exercise there had been a bar-fight between men of the regiment and a number of the infantrymen. The next day when the tanks had been advancing across the ranges, accompanied by the infantry using live rounds in their rifles, the tanks themselves had become targets. All the personal gear carried by the crews in the storage boxes on the outside of the hulls had been shot full of holes.
There was still no reply. Desperately he changed the subject. 'There was supposed to be an old Clint Eastwood shitkicker in the barrack's cinema tonight. I was going with the corporal's daughter.'
Shadwell was a few months short of his twenty-first birthday, lightly built and thin featured. His home was a small council house semi on a Manchester estate. The youngest of a large family living in crowded conditions, his first night in army quarters had been an almost agoraphobic experience. He was a man whose friendships gave him as much anxiety as pleasure. 'Are you asleep, Sarge?'
Morgan Davis said, 'Yes.' He could almost hear Shadwell sigh with relief at the sound of a human voice. 'What's on your mind, son?'
'For Christ's sake,' groaned Inkester, the gunner, from below Morgan Davis's legs, 'why don't you take an overdose, Eric!'
Shadwell ignored him. 'You think we're going to have to fight, Sarge.' It was a statement, not a question.
Morgan Davis decided to be honest. 'Yes, I think so.'
'What's it going to be like?'
'Magic,' interrupted Inkester. 'We take a few of them out, then retire to a new position before their artillery can range in on us, then we brew up a few more. When the odds are reduced, we push them right back to the Urals. It'll be magic.'
'Be quiet and go back to sleep, Inkester.' ordered Davis. He spoke towards Shadwell in the darkness. 'No one knows what it's going to be like. It's a new kind of war. All we have to do is to obey orders, and keep our heads down.'
'My dad was in the last war,' said Shadwell, in an attempt to prolong the conversation. 'RASC. He got one home leave from Egypt in three years. Three bloody years, Sarge.' It seemed like a lifetime to the young loader.
'This war won't last more than a few days.'
'Just so long as I get a crack at a T-80,' said Inkester. 'Just one T-80 in my sight, broadside on…I dream of them, Sarge. A whole long row of them silhouetted on a skyline, moving along like ducks in a shooting gallery. Pop…pop…pop…there they go. Magic!'
The radio crackled. Sergeant Davis adjusted his headset, pulling it down tighter over his beret. 'All stations Charlie Bravo, this is Charlie Bravo Nine.' The troop leader's voice was penetrating. 'Stand to, and prepare for action. Load Hesh, and keep to your own arcs. Out.'
Davis acknowledged, and then switched on the Chieftain's Tannoy. 'Okay, lads, stand to. Shadwell, load Hesh.' He didn't give them time to question him. 'It sounds like we've got a war…'
Inkester's voice was pitched high with surprise: 'Christ!'
'Now take it easy…all of you. Inkester, no itchy fingers, wait for your orders. If someone's going to start something, it's not going to be Bravo Two.'
'Loaded,' bellowed Shadwell, his voice cutting through the still air.
'You daft pillock,' complained Inkester, loudly. 'You bloody near deafened me! We all watched you load a minute ago.'
'Shut up,' said Davis. 'Keep your eyes open, and stay alert. Hewett, everything okay your end?'
DeeJay revved the engine slightly and checked his gauges. 'It all looks good, Sarge.'
'Keep it that way.' Davis dimmed out the compartment lights and leant his head back against the rest. He reached out and touched the steel of the turret with his fingertips. It was cold, damp with the condensation of the crew's breath. He could feel the throb of the engine. Bravo Two! She was a good tank, reliable, responsive to the treatment she received from her crew. He remembered being told how it had been when the cavalry regiments lost their horses before the start of World War Two – men had wept as their mounts had been led away to be replaced by armoured vehicles. If the situation were reversed, Davis thought, he would have identical feelings…you got to know a vehicle, trust it, understand its likes and dislikes. He had never owned a horse, but three-quarters of a million pounds worth of Chieflain took some beating. The womb-like darkness and security of Bravo Two's fighting compartment was comforting.