by FARMAN, ANDY
Before ‘Civilisation’ was again fully restored; the major intended to be Europe’s wealthiest. It was this dream he was focussing on when he suddenly noticed a middle aged, and apparently unarmed British captain had entered the thicket and was glaring at him and his men. Incongruously the British officer did not appear to have a personal weapon with him, and he wondered what kind of fool ventured out unarmed during a battle?
“Who is in charge here?”
The major allowed a surreptitious glance toward the enemy APC before answering, and noted that its turret was still facing to the front but a figure in its turret was looking towards this section of undergrowth with a pair of binoculars. His men had paused in their digging, and two were eyeing their weapons that lay close by, but by a barely noticeable shake of the head he conveyed to them that they were to make no sudden moves. Under the current circumstances, killing this man had to be an act of last resort.
“That would be me, sir.” The Russian officers accent was pure East End of London, and the captain was unaware he was conversing with the enemy, but he wasn’t done with the major and his men either. The slightly portly captain was looking hard at him.
“And just who is “Me, sir”…I don’t recognise you, Corporal?”
“Corporal Brown, sir.” The major let a hand slide behind his back, where the fingers curled around the hilt of an ugly looking fighting knife with a serrated blade that he wore on his belt. “This is what’s left of my section; we are all that remains of 40 Commando, sir.”
Although the Padre had the greatest respect for the fighting qualities of the Royal Marines, there was something unsavoury, and distinctly seedy about this individual.
“The only survivor’s Corporal, or just the fastest runners?”
The major allowed the right amount of indignation to show in his response.
“We was ordered out sir, ordered to evacuate these wounded.” He nodded at the two stretchers, covered by ground sheets so that just the boots of the occupants protruded.
“They died before we got here, so we’ll fight on with your unit sir.” He gestured towards his men.
“That’s why we’re digging in…so we can give those bastards some payback!” He saw a hint of uncertainty in the captain’s eyes.
“If we’d run sir, wouldn’t we just carry on going?”
The captain considered those words, and the Spetznaz officer felt a sense of satisfaction when he saw the other nod in apology and begin to turn away. His fingers relaxed their grip on the knife hilt, but then the captain paused and asked who his officer was?
That the captain wanted a name was obvious, and for all the Spetznaz officer knew this Britisher might well be on first name terms with every damn officer in the Royal Marines, so he picked a name at random and hoped his run of luck would carry him through.
The Padre had thought that he’d find some confused or even shell shocked stretcher bearers stumbling around when he had first spotted these men, but having got to them it had occurred to him they may have ‘done a runner’ from their own unit once the going got tough. The marine corporal however, was looking him straight in the eye as he stated their intention to fight on beside his own unit, and the Padre regretted his earlier impression. He was about to leave when it occurred to him that a mention in the regimental diary might not go amiss at a later date.
“Who is your officer, corporal?”
“Second lieutenant Chartridge, sir…” The Padre knew only two RM officers and both were colonels so the name of a ‘Subbie’ meant nothing to him, but then the marine ended the sentence with, “…he’s our platoon commander.”
The Russian knew that somehow he’d screwed up because the British captain’s eyes narrowed.
“The marines don’t call their sub units Platoons corporal, they call them Troop.” With surprising agility he suddenly sprang across to the stretchers and hauled off the ground sheet covering the nearest one.
“Good God above!”
The British officer was transfixed by the sight of the severed pair of legs and the laser designator lying upon the canvas instead of a dead body, and the major leapt, aiming for the British captain’s throat but missing it, slicing into the side of his neck instead. A look of shock came across the captain’s face and he jumped backwards, a hand pressing against the wound in an effort to stem the stream of arterial blood that was fountaining from it. The major couldn’t let this man raise the alarm and went to grab him, to stop him from getting into the open, but the stretcher tripped him. One of the major’s men bounded after the mortally wounded captain who was still moving backwards towards the edge of the thicket, his free arm extended towards his attackers in an effort to ward off further injury.
The loader saw the Padre stumble backward into view and then another figure appeared, swinging an entrenching tool with both hands. The flailing arm failed to parry the blow aim at the neck, and the loader shouted in alarm whilst reaching for the pintle mounted GPMG.
Alerted by the shout, the RSM raised his head above the rim of the turret hatch in time to see the Padres headless body topple over and his attacker dashing back into cover.
The Spetznaz major in the guise of a Royal Marine corporal was no longer speaking in the tones of east London, he was cursing in gutter Russian as he waited for someone on the other end of his radio to acknowledge the fire mission he had just requested.
The first burst of fire from the Warrior did nothing accept punctuate the fact that the jig was definitely up for the Spetznaz team. Pieces of bark and an amputated branch fell to the muddy ground but the Russians were all lying flat. The diggers pulled back on their equipment, lying on their backs to struggle into the webbing before turning back onto their stomachs. The major ceased his attempts to raise the gun line by radio, rolling onto his side and pulling a smoke grenade from his pouch instead.
“Boys, when this goes off we all run like hell into the trees uphill from here, the cannon on that fighting vehicle can’t elevate above ten degree’s and it is only equipped with iron sights so they will be firing blind.” He had been their officer for over four years and they trusted him to get them out of this spot, he could see that trust in each man’s eyes and it bothered him not one iota that he was lying to them now in order to save his own skin.
“Keep the trees between you and that machine gun, and keep on up to the top of the hill, we’ll RV there and I’ll lead the way through a gap in the lines I noticed earlier…any questions?”
They could see the Warriors turret traversing as the 30mm cannon was brought to bear, and in the headlong flight triggered by the detonation of the WP grenade, none of the runners noticed that the major was not with them.
The dense smoke proved to be no obstacle to Rarden’s thermal sight, and the two soldiers not brought down by the first cannon shells were higher than the paltry ten degrees the major had told them of when the second burst of 30mm caught them.
Arnie was not familiar with the Rarden cannon so he relegated himself to the position of observer, and because he was not focused solely on the fleeing shapes in the smoke he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye.
The major had waited a few seconds until he was sure his running men had the full attention of the NATO troops, before snaking away on his belly in the opposite direction. He now needed to put some distance between the action and himself, so it was a little frustrating when a webbing strap became snagged on the lower branches of a sapling. The sinewy growth, barely six feet in height, bent slightly and the tiny branches and leaves at its apex dancing a wild jig under the influence of the majors efforts to free himself before springing back into the fully upright position.
On the hillside, three still forms dressed as Royal Marines lay in the mud whilst the other three thrashed and screamed, of these one would make it whilst the other two would succumb to their wounds.
Arnie memorised the spot where he had seen the agitation in the undergrowth before taking in the situation on the hill, the wounded
were calling out in Russian so it didn’t take a genius to work out what the Padre had stumbled upon. The six who had broken from cover were out of the fight, but there could be more of them.
“Gunner, cease fire…100 metres, half right, in the thicket, watch and shoot.”
“Rog’”
“Driver, back up…stop, turn right…stop.” The Warrior had pivoted about its axis and now the turret swung back until its 30mm faced the same direction as the vehicle. “Driver, take us forward slowly.”
Arnie was relieved that the Padre’s head was lying face down when they reached the body, but he spared the gruesome sight the merest of glances anyway. They passed the Padre, and the Warrior nosed into the bushes and saplings that had provided cover for their enemy. The weight of the armoured vehicle either crushed the undergrowth, or the younger and suppler growth bent to the inevitable, only to emerge from beneath the vehicles rear end and slowly straighten once more.
In the scramble to buckle on webbing and gather up their weapons, the contents of both stretchers had been bared to view by the Spetznaz troopers and the Warriors driver deviated from course slightly in order to crush the laser designators he could see upon them before continuing.
The major had paused momentarily on hearing the British armoured fighting vehicles engine alter from its low idling murmur. It rose in pitch as it approached and the major felt the first tinge of panic, and his features took on a hunted expression as he looked about desperately for a hiding place. He assumed that the commander of the vehicle would debus the infantry section it was designed to carry before driving on down to the bottom of this slope. The infantry, he thought, would then spread out in a line and like beaters, and drive him on to the Warriors guns.
A short distance ahead was a thick, chest high bramble patch some fifteen metres across with a tunnel-like badger run just visible and he crawled rapidly towards it. The webbing was a hindrance and so he rolled onto his side to unbuckle, and then shove it out of sight deep beneath the brambles before easing his head and shoulders into the run. The barbs caught at the material of his camouflage smock and trousers, pierced the palms of his hands and left bloody scratches in his skin, but he forced his way on, ignoring the pain and the barbs tore free. The run almost pierced the heart of the bramble patch before curving around to the down slope side where the major suddenly found himself staring at the entrance to the badgers set. It was an old and well-established habitat that many generations of badger had occupied. The creature that had first chosen this spot had found granite lay beneath the earth but had persevered, tunnelling down at an angle, following a slab of the rock for yards before it gave way to manageable earth, as such the rock formed the floor of the tunnel and now bore the marks of its occupants claws, past and present. Over the years the elements had played their part in eroding away at the exposed entrance, the upper reaches however, were reinforced by the mesh of roots of the overlying undergrowth and had therefore resisted better than the bottom and sides, so it jutted above the entrance like a shelf. The Russian majors feeling of panic gave way to one of relief when he took in the dimensions of the excavation, and he wormed his way inside to where it tapered down to the sets proper entrance, and four feet of deep shadow lay between himself and the open.
Regimental Sergeant Major Moore had not dismounted his handful of Guardsmen, he did not know what numbers or weaponry they faced, except that they probably had no anti-armour kit or they would have used it already. Arnie was at the ready with the Gimpy in the commander’s hatch from where he had the advantage of height to observe, peering down into the brush, seeking out his quarry with a finger applying first pressure to the weapons trigger. He was getting queries over the air from the nearby platoons wanting to know the reason for the gunfire, coming as it did from the ground lying between the left hand depth and forward companies, so he gave a brief sitrep followed by a terse
“Wait Out!”
The major smiled to himself in the darkness when he heard the throb of the approaching engine and wiped at the sweat which had beaded his forehead before resting his face against the cool granite he was laying on. Only a diligent search by men on foot could have discovered this hidey-hole, so he was safe for the time being and with luck the hunters would assume he had slipped away and so abandon the search, so he could afford to relax.
The Warriors driver brought the fighting vehicle along slowly, stopping whenever the RSM told him to but these stops were fleeting, allowing Arnie only to satisfy himself that they had not overtaken their prey. On one such pause however, the twenty-four tonne Warrior had settled, quite suddenly to one side as the ground gave way beneath the left-hand track. Arnie grabbed the side of the hatch to steady himself but after the initial list to one side the vehicle now seemed stable. Looking over the side of the turret he saw that some animal or other had apparently made its home beneath the bramble patch their fighting vehicle had entered and the weight had collapsed its tunnel. The Warrior obviously wasn’t going to tip over so he ordered the driver to proceed and transferred his attention back to the job at hand.
The collapse had grounded the Warrior; the brambles were crushed between its armoured belly and the earth. Its left track spun around, churning at the soft earth until it was able to find solid traction, but Arnie did not see the soft earth it churned at turn to a red paste speckled with white bone fragments. The Warrior continued on down the slope until reaching the line of field defences before the company in depth, but no sign was there of any other infiltrator’s.
Soviet artillery was beginning to fall on the forward companies now. Arnie reasoned that the movement he had seen was probably that of a rabbit or a fox startled by the cannon fire, so he ended the hunt by ordered the driver to take them back to the position covering the stream.
Pat Reed came off the air from a conference call with the brigade commander and received a handful of messages from a signaller, which updated him on several incidents taking place whilst the brigade commander had held his attention. None of the items were awaiting a decision from him or needed him to okay the appropriate action; they were being dealt with already. The 155mm self-propelled SA90s of 40 Field Regiment were firing a mission against the sunken lane, its rounds fused for airburst to best deal with the enemy infantry there. A damaged Army Air Corps Gazelle carrying a Royal Artillery officer had set down in a clearing behind the in-depth companies, it had been spotting for the guns when a Fulcrum had come within a hair of splashing it with a missile. It occurred to Pat that thus far they had neither seen nor heard of any close air support by the Soviet’s against either the Royal Marines or themselves today, so maybe SACEUR’s ‘forlorn hope’ had paid off? More good news was that two of his best snipers, Stef and Bill, had regained the battalion lines via 3 Company. Stephanski had ensured that the CP knew the enemy infantry were not only fighting unhampered by the wearing of respirators or gas masks, but also they were not even wearing their version of NBC suits over their conventional combat attire. It was a fairly good indicator, though not iron cast, that the enemy either had no stocks of chemical weapons at hand anymore or they did not see the need to employ them. This information was passed up to brigade as well as to the individual units and sub units in 1CG’s area of responsibility. Pat also received his snipers brief account of the final moments of 40 Commando, relayed to him by another signaller.
“One of 3 Company’s Milan crews is tracking the tank sir, it is still in clear view and they asked for permission to move forward to extreme range and engage?”
Pat knew damn well that they had in all probability already gone along the correct chain of command and had been refused.
“Three Nine knocked them back because he quite rightly didn’t want his assets exposed too soon, so do they honestly think I’m going to overrule one of my company commanders just because their blood is up?” Pat left the signaller to pass on the rebuke, and carried on reading, his eyes skimming over the words and taking it all in. The RSM’s report of infiltrators and the
death of the Padre were both saddening and alarming, but none of the emotions he was feeling could be read on his features by anyone watching at that moment.
“Has this infiltration business been acted upon, Timothy?”
The Adjutant was on the radio to Major Venables and he raised a thumb above his head without looking around, confirming that he had it in hand but then winced as Soviet artillery impacted none too far away from the CP. As the rumbles died away he took the radio headset off and glared at it in disgust, but the radio operators were already removing the various radios antennae coax cables and replacing them with others that led to an alternative antennae farm. Pat listened as Tim re-established communications with the Hussar squadron’s commander and explained that artillery had just taken out one of the antennae farms.
All in all, Pat considered that things could have been far worse by now, but he mentally kicked himself for tempting fate because another message was handed to him. The Guardsmen and Paratroopers in the forward companies had been receiving artillery for the past twenty minutes, but not in a concentrated fashion, that had just changed now as both company CP’s reported a drastic increase in the weight of incoming fire. Lt Col Reed could only guess at how long the enemy was planning to soften up his unit before continuing the assault.
23rd Czech MRR went firm on the positions formerly held by the British 40 Commando, in expectation of one of the Romanian regiments passing through to take up the assault, but any hopes of a breather were dispelled when 23rd ‘s commander gave his sitrep. 23rd MRR still had adequate fighting strength remaining and were ordered to carry out a quick reorg whilst the next NATO position was ‘prepped’ by artillery. Once the reorganisation had been completed, they would step off over the rise and cross the 3 kilometre wide valley to fight through to the summit of Vormundberg. The commander of the 23rd knew he had just had one easy victory and was ready for more, he knew the Spetznaz team had crossed over into the next enemy position, securing him the sunken lane, a route safe from direct fire down into the valley that a company of mounted infantry in BDRMs and a tank company could use.