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 sh
ook 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!
Chieftains Page 8