He had dispersed the other three RPG7s outside his infantry positions. Their firers were holed up in camouflaged scrapes to east and west of the road, forward of his own location. They would fire their rounds and then bug out for the river, hopefully stalling the enemy armour and perhaps forcing the Ugandans to bring their infantry forward to spare the tanks any further casualties. That was the plan anyway.
The enemy had learned from the débâcle of yesterday. They had fanned out in attack formation, the tanks leading the way and the armoured personnel carriers powering along behind them. How far away now? Twelve hundred yards maybe. Almost within range of the forward-posted RPGs.
Three sudden flashes of light on the hillsides above the Ugandan armour. Fraser thought he could almost see the streak of one missile as it roared towards its target. Yes! Two enemy tanks had ‘brewed up’. One was a complete wreck, a fireball. The other had been hit in the running gear and was disabled. Not bad.
The Ugandans started doing their headless chicken routine again. If they’d had any sense they’d have cleared the route with infantry and kept the tanks in a supporting role, but Fraser wasn’t complaining.
Another tank exploded. They were firing back now, and the infantry were debussing. Good. Fraser turned and waved at Hill in his SF shell-scrape. The other SBS man nodded. A second later a stream of tracer went arcing down the road from the tripod-mounted GPMG, picking off the enemy infantry, bouncing off the sides of tanks, generally playing merry hell.
Fraser saw one RPG team bug out from its hiding-place. They didn’t get far before enemy fire cut them to shreds. There was no sign of the other two teams, but they had all done their job well. The enemy advance was disrupted, the Ugandans thrown off guard again.
Shit! Tank rounds were slamming into the ground all around him, hurling up huge geysers of dirt and stones and water. They must have spotted the infantry scrapes. The tanks were hanging back now, using their main armaments as support weapons for the advancing Ugandan infantry. That was showing a little more sense, Fraser thought, though he could have happily done without it.
He sighted down the RPG after checking that there was nobody to be caught in the back-blast, then fired the weapon at an advancing BRDM.
Bingo. The vehicle took the round squarely on the nose, and blew up. Fucking brilliant.
‘Jock! Jock!’ It was Hill.
‘What is it?’
‘The SF’s out of ammo.’
Fraser looked at the advancing infantry to his front. His company, or what remained of it, were firing down the road for all they were worth, but they lacked the ammunition for a prolonged battle. They had done enough.
‘Bug out!’ he shouted at the top of his lungs, dropping the RPG and picking up his AK47 instead.
He waved his men out of their shallow scrapes while the tank rounds walked up and down the position and the enemy infantry fire ripped up the sodden ground. Soldiers falling everywhere, a huge chaos of bright flame and muck and screaming men.
‘Come on!’ He waved them back, and they tumbled out of the scrapes and began running. These troops were green; he tried to get them to stop and use fire and manoeuvre but it was no use. Panic had infected them now that they were on the retreat, and all Fraser’s plans for an orderly, fighting withdrawal went for nothing. He cursed rabidly. Then a shell landed barely thirty feet from him and spun him through the air. He felt nothing but a lung-emptying impact along his left side and when he opened his eyes again the sky was blue and empty above him and the sounds of battle seemed far away, distant as a television in the next room.
He raised himself up on one elbow. His rifle had disappeared. The enemy infantry were barely fifty yards away, screaming like fiends and blazing away ammunition like it was going out of fashion. There was a pain in his gut. He looked down to see the coils of dirt-flecked and perforated intestine protruding from his ripped uniform, like a pile of greasy blue ropes.
‘Aw, shit,’ he groaned.
He drew his Browning to fire at the advancing enemy, but a burst of automatic fire thudded into him and threw him back again. He watched the blue sky once more, wondering what had happened.
Then the world went dark.
Willan heard the battle from where he stood in the middle of the Kagera bridge. The last stragglers were just crossing; he had two hundred men digging in on the southern bank, all that was left of the battalion. Gordon, Breckenridge and Geary, together with Okello and some of the better NCOs, were bullying the men into digging fresh trenches, getting together a detail to bring up the trucks from Kyaka.
The soldiers were like zombies or sleepwalkers. Most of them had had little or no rest for three days and nights. They were filthy and vermin-infested, bloodstained and ravenously hungry. Willan knew they were dangerously close to a transformation from military unit into mob. But there was little he could do about it. They had to fortify this position, hold it as long as they could. This time there would be no withdrawal. After the Kagera there was no defensive line for forty miles, and if the bridge fell, then the road would be open to Bukoba, one of Tanzania’s main ports on Lake Victoria. The war would be lost, and Amin would be more securely in power than ever.
So they must hold. But how? They had perhaps ninety rounds of ammunition per man and morale was low. They had no heavy weapons, no anti-tank capability and no logistical support. It was as if, Willan thought bitterly, they had been entirely forgotten by the outside world and were fighting alone and forgotten against the full might of the Ugandans.
He looked north again. It sounded like a bombardment up there. Jock must be making one hell of a fight of it. He hoped the little bastard came out of it OK. Hill too. It was a shock losing Tony Parker like that. They couldn’t even recover the body for his family.
No use in thinking like that. There were too many things to do here. Willan had already ordered the detail sent to collect the trucks to commandeer every gallon of petrol in Kyaka. He would do as the Hungarians had done, and fight Soviet tanks with petrol bombs if he had to.
He turned and looked south along the muddy road to Kyaka and beyond. If he faced facts, they had no hope of holding here longer than a few hours. But the last ace up his sleeve might yet appear. If Morgan and Kigoma could only get their fingers out and make an appearance. They would have the reserve ammunition, rations and the heavy Brownings of the M3s, as well as three hundred fresh men to call upon – if only those fucking trucks would just appear above the horizon.
He shook his head, then paused and listened again. The sounds of fighting to the north seemed to have sputtered out. The heavy guns had ceased booming and now there were only sporadic bursts of small-arms fire.
Geary joined him on the bridge, looking gaunt and filthy as a scarecrow in winter, his eyes sunk in his head.
‘Sounds as though Jock’s done a runner,’ he said.
‘I hope so,’ Willan answered him.
‘Well,’ Geary said, ‘he’s a tricky bastard. They’ll have their work cut out trying to nab him.’
‘Too right,’ Willan said. He knew that neither of them really believed what they were saying, but they had to say it.
‘I guess they’ll be on their way again soon,’ Geary went on.
‘Yeah. They’ll be right in our laps in an hour or so. Let’s get to work, Willy, and see if we can’t give them another nasty surprise.’
They walked back to where the battalion was digging trenches for its next stand.
‘What the fuck?’ Morgan demanded.
The heavy military truck in which he was travelling swerved wildly to avoid the white civilian car which had come tearing out of a side-road in front of it. The car’s horn was blaring madly and someone was waving out of the driver’s window. Waving him down, Morgan realized.
‘He wants us to stop,’ Kigoma said, puzzled.
The car slowed and then came to a halt. The Studebaker had no choice but to halt behind it. Behind the first truck, two dozen other vehicles laden with equipment and c
overed with armed soldiers squelched to a halt in the deep, water-filled ruts of the dirt road. Men jumped off the trucks to see what the trouble was. Morgan sprang out of the cab of the lead vehicle with an AK47 in his fist. He was seething with anger.
William Prentiss emerged from the civilian car, still waving.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ Morgan yelled at him. ‘Don’t you know we’re in a fucking hurry? We’re behind time and every second counts. Get that bastard car of yours out of the way or, so help me, I’ll fucking drive over it.’
The frustration of the past couple of days seemed to boil over in him. He knew that the battalion could be fighting for its life up in the north, and he was here manhandling ageing lorries through a sea of mud. And now this fucking spook wanted to stop for a chat. It was too much.
‘Calm down,’ Prentiss said sharply. ‘I haven’t stopped you for nothing. I have news you should know about.’
‘Spill it then.’
There was someone else in the car. Morgan caught a glimpse of a blonde head. But that was not important now.
‘The war has begun,’ Prentiss said simply.
‘What? When?’
‘Amin’s tanks crossed the border yesterday morning. They should have run into your lot by yesterday evening, if they made good time.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘My sources in Kampala, and the hurried telephone call of a man living in the village of Mutukula, near the border. He rang police headquarters in Bukoba, who relayed it to Mwanza and so on.’
‘You’re sure about this, Prentiss?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Morgan rubbed his chin with one large hand.
‘Do you have any idea how the fighting has gone?’
‘Some of the locals have been phoning anyone they can in the Tanzanian government or in any public services. The hospital at Bukoba has even been getting calls.’
‘And?’
‘Heavy fighting north of the Kagera. That’s all I know.’
‘Fuck,’ Morgan said viciously. ‘Jesus fucking Christ. Is the government doing anything about it, or are our men fighting alone up there?’
‘The militias are being mobilized, but it’s a slow business. I’ve been in touch with the Defence Ministry. They won’t be able to get any reinforcements up to the Kagera before tomorrow at the earliest.’
‘So we’re the only reinforcements Willan can count on,’ Morgan said, looking back along the line of vehicles and the men who were watching them intently from the truck beds.
‘In a word, yes,’ Prentiss said. ‘I’ve been trying to get more ammunition and equipment forwarded to you from Dodoma, but it’s a slow business. I wouldn’t count on it for a while. What do you have in the convoy?’
‘Three hundred men, the reserve ammunition, some RPG7s and a couple of Carl Gustav 84mms. Not a hell of a lot, but I’d best get it moving quickly. So thanks for the news, Prentiss, and now move that fucking car.’
‘No. Let me lead the way. I know a pretty good road that leads to the west of Bukoba. I’ll get you to Kyaka in a couple of hours.’
Morgan stared at him closely. ‘You’re on. Let’s get moving.’
The Intelligence agent got back into his car while Morgan clambered back aboard the lead truck in the convoy. Morgan pumped his fist in the air and the engines of the heavy vehicles all began to thunder into life. A few moments later they were on their way again, headed north towards the Kagera.
The survivors of Fraser’s company straggled across the bridge two hours after Willan had settled in the last of his own men. They were shattered, wild-eyed, many of them without weapons, others helping along wounded comrades. As the motley band hurried across the bridge, a filthy, bloody figure detached himself from them and stopped before Willan.
‘Hi, Sarge. I’ve brought back as many as I could.’
It was Hill, though he was hardly recognizable. He swayed as he spoke and the rings under his eyes made him look like an old man.
‘Where’s Fraser?’ Willan asked him.
‘Dead. We took out another four or five tanks, maybe a platoon of infantry. But the withdrawal was fucked. You can’t blame the men – they’re only youngsters, and barely trained. We left behind the SF and all but one of the RPGs. Sorry, Sarge.’
Willan gripped him by the shoulder.
‘You’re sure Jock is dead?’
‘Yes. A tank round got him. Shrapnel in the stomach. But we made them pay for it, the stupid bastards. They may have all the heavy stuff they want, but they’re a bunch of amateurs. Last I saw they were still reorging on the position, running about like old women. It won’t be long before they get their act together, though. It’ll be infantry they hit us with, I think – that lead regiment has fuck-all tanks left.’
‘You did good, Keith,’ Willan said. ‘Get behind the position and grab some kip, and if your lot have any ammo left, send it forward to the lads in the forward positions. We got water and some food out of Kyaka; it’s over by the trucks. Make sure you all get a bite to eat.’
Hill smiled tiredly. ‘It’s going to be a long day.’
‘Yes, it is.’
Hill staggered off.
Geary approached Willan.
‘Jock’s gone then?’
‘Yes. Shrapnel, according to Hill.’
‘Fuck. I always thought that little Scottish bastard was indestructible.’
‘Me too. How are the Molotovs coming along?’
‘We’ve got dozens of the things, and I’ve set up a few Elsies next to dug-in bottles of petrol on the approaches to the bridge.’
‘You always were an evil little shit, Willy.’
‘Yeah, well, it’ll scare the living hell out of their infantry, and it might fuck up an APC or two. Armoured vehicles and burning petrol have never mixed too well . . . Sarge, how long do we have to hold them here? I don’t want to piss on anyone’s parade, but the men are on their last legs. We’re down to less than two hundred effectives, we have maybe sixty wounded back in Kyaka, we’re low on ammo and we’re resorting to petrol bombs against T-55s. This isn’t Budapest, you know, or Prague for that matter.’
‘Okello tells me that the outfit we’ve been fighting is the Simba Regiment – the best they have. It’s the premier armoured formation in the country, and we’ve been knocking seven shades of shit out of it for two days . . .’
‘And getting it knocked out of us in return,’ Geary put in.
‘Yes, but they don’t necessarily know that. They must be tearing their hair out in clumps right now. They expected to roll over a few militia and instead they’ve been fighting every step of the way, and losing tanks left right and centre. I agree with Hill – they’ll use infantry against us next to save what armour they have left. That evens the score a little.’
‘What about the Tanzanian government – do they even know what’s going on?’
‘I’ve sent men to Kyaka to get the word out any way they can. But we can’t expect too much, not yet. We’re going to be on our own for a while yet, Willy.’
‘So where the fuck is that big cunt Morgan?’
‘God knows. Probably stuck in a ditch somewhere. He’ll be here, though, if he has to haul those trucks here by hand.’
But Geary did not seem to be listening. He held up a hand. ‘Sarge, wait a minute. Can you hear that?’
‘What is it, tanks again?’
‘No. It’s . . .’
Suddenly the noise became audible to Willan too. He swore, and went running for the shallow trenches the men were digging south of the bridge.
‘Take cover!’
A flight of three MiG 15s, their swept-back wings unmistakable, burst into view over the hills to the north. The sky was filled with the roar of their engines.
‘Incoming!’ Geary yelled, then threw himself into the nearest shell-scrape.
They were using 200lb bombs, and swooped low into a hail of small-arms fire to deliver them. The first landed in t
he river, raising up a mountain of foam. Two more landed to the south of the battalion position, carving huge craters out of the wet earth. And two landed on target.
The aircraft wheeled and screeched off to the north, their mission over. The storm of small-arms fire which had greeted them seemed to have done no damage.
The centre of Willan’s defences was a smoking ruin. Men were screaming and the cordite smell of the explosions choked their lungs.
At almost the same moment the first elements of the enemy armour appeared on the slopes of the hills to the north, the tanks standing back and laying down fire while the APCs roared on to their front.
Willan raised his head. He was half buried by soil, still deaf from the thunderous impact of the airstrike. He hauled himself out from under the debris, spitting dirt.
‘Come on. Stand to! Here they come!’
Dazed men were raising their heads all around them, amazed at still being alive. The two bombs had taken out a full platoon; at least two dozen men had been vaporized by their impact and a dozen more were still screaming in agony, some of them waving the red stumps of amputated limbs.
‘Jesus,’ Willan said. ‘Hill! Get your men forward! Start a casevac. The rest of you, look to your front!’
His radio was gone, obliterated by the strike. He could see other, higher-altitude jet trails in the sky heading out to the east. It seemed a full squadron of Ugandan planes was heading off on missions in Tanzania. Even over the crump of the tank rounds and the rattle of nearby small arms, Willan could hear the low thunder of bombing over the hills towards Lake Victoria. They must be bombing Bukoba. This was it then. This was their big push.
‘Terrific,’ he croaked.
While the battalion collected itself and the wounded were ferried to the rear, the Ugandan vehicles rolled at full speed down the hillsides towards the river. Swarms of BMPs and BRDMs, their vehicle guns flickering as they put down fire. There was nothing the defenders could do to halt them until they closed range.
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