Napalm had ignited much of the forest on the eastern side of the border territory, and the strengthening breeze from the south-east was sweeping the fires northwards across the Soviet supply routes, and forcing them continuously to move their close artillery support. The immediate effect had been to take the pressure off the northernmost flank of the American Armoured Division.
Mike Adams was gunning the motor like some twitchy racing driver at the start of a Grand Prix. Browning was about to tell him to cool it when he heard the lieutenant again. ‘Okay Indians, let’s roll.’
India Troop came out of the woodland in line abreast and for a few seconds Browning felt naked, then the other tanks of November squadron were with them, and Browning was happier. Christ, he thought, war’s changed… even as I remember it! You no longer saw lines of weary infantrymen trudging their way up to the front and into battle. Now they travelled right to the battlefield in their armoured personnel carriers… they arrived fresh and unsullied. At least, that was the principle. The infantry were with them now, only a couple of hundred meters behind the leading tanks, well-protected in their XM723s, sufficiently weaponed to be capable of fighting their way forward with the main amour, each of the personnel carriers equipped with TOW missile launchers and 25mm cannon; inside, twelve infantrymen and the crew.
The appearance of the small village of Gunthers startled Browning. He had driven through it legs than thirty hours before. It had been tidy, neat and spotless; the houses with their steeply pitched roofs smartly painted, their verandahs and windows decked with carefully tended boxes of bright scarlet geraniums and ferns. The men had been hurrying about their business with the usual Teutonic dedication, as though their ignoring the increasing tension so close to their homes would encourage it to go away. The women had been at the shops, the children in school. Browning had slowed his vehicle to watch a group of boys, supervised by a tracksuited teacher, playing soccer. Browning didn’t understand the rules too well, but it was increasing in popularity back home in the States, and it looked active enough to be interesting. Now, it was all an area of terrible desolation and smoke-blackened wreckage. Not a single building was left standing above its first level. They were a thousand meters to the east of it.
Hal Ginsborough said quietly, ‘Will you take a look at that! God almighty!’
‘Mother-fuckers…’ It was Podini.
‘Shut up,’ snapped Browning. Who needed comments to emphasize the civilian horror? He couldn’t see a living soul in the wreckage, though doubtless there’d be some. Somebody always survived, no matter how bad it looked; he’d seen it happen many times in Nam, but it was always hard to believe. Maybe some of the villagers would have left before the battle began, but he doubted if all would have quit their homes. Some did… but many didn’t. They sat in the cellars and waited, praying desperately that the war would pass them by. He knew what the wreckage of the buildings would smell like; it would be worse in a few days. Someone, perhaps him, would eventually have to help dig out the bodies, hoping all the time they might find someone alive, some kid perhaps, protected by a beam of timber, a collapsed wall. The smell… the stink, and the flies. There would be rats… Jesus, why was it so many of them seemed to escape destruction? Lean, starving dogs; worse, cats that could sometimes look obscenely well-fed, licking themselves clean amongst the tumbled and bloodstained rubble! There were fires in the wreckage, and a heavy layer of smoke drifted above the remains of the village like a shroud.
The lieutenant’s voice was on the troop net again: ‘Best speed, Indians, but maintain your formation. Good luck, guys.’
Best speed! ‘Step on it, Mike,’ he ordered, and felt the Abrams surge forward, bucking over the uneven ground, as the roar of the engines increased. Sound was always relative to discomfort in a tank, he thought wryly. The only good thing was you didn’t hear most of the noises of battle. It was still there, though; not far in front of him now. Five thousand meters… closer. Much closer!
He saw the explosion of a shell two hundred meters ahead. It looked like an error, or an optimistic ranging attempt by some distant gun crew. Mike Adams had seen it too, and he steered the Abrams in a series of sharp but uneven zigzags that shook Browning’s head from side to side as the direction continuously changed; a few hundred meters of driving like this and he would begin to feel travel sick.
It was barely possible to distinguish the riverbank several hundred meters to their right. Like everywhere else the ground seemed to be on fire, the grass and trees smoking, hazy; wreckage, twisted and spewing Mack fumes. Far ahead were the remains of a small wood on a low hill, and a few scattered and blasted farm buildings at the foot of the rising ground.
The barrage began to increase in intensity. Where the hell was the American smoke, Browning wondered? It was madness charging straight into enemy guns; the only protection they were getting was from the smoke of the Soviet shell explosions. The horizon was blurred, but the advancing American tanks must be obvious targets to the enemy gunners. Browning couldn’t pinpoint their positions, but had the ghastly feeling he was being driven into the heart of a maelstrom of artillery fire.
Two heavy calibre shells bracketed the tank, forcing Adams to correct the steering. Hell seemed to open its doors ahead of them; shell-bursts as dense as forest trees were columns of fire leaping up from the ground. Was the squadron getting air support? Browning thought he caught a glimpse of a line of gunships above him. If it were imagination, it helped a little; he had lost sight of the other tanks. He was experiencing a growing sense of indecisiveness and terror. Should he order Adams to slow down… increase his speed? Should he tell him to swing the Abrams out of line, try to get away to the side where the barrage might be lighter? Get the hell out of here… that was important… chances of survival were nil… it was only a matter of time… seconds… and they’d be hit… this was crazy… madness…
The lieutenant was shouting on the troop net, static punctuating his words. ‘Indians engaging… Indians engaging…’
Adams swerved the XM1 again as the burning hulk of a Russian T-80 loomed through the smoke. Someone, something, had hit it… visibility was little more than forty meters. The corpses of a Soviet mortar team were strewn across the path of the Abrams, their bodies blackened and twisted by napalm, still smouldering. The XM1’s tracks churned them into the filthy earth.
Infantry. They would be around somewhere, hidden, waiting, as deadly as howitzers with their anti-tank rocket launchers. Was the barrage easing? Browning sprayed the area ahead with his machine gun… keep the bastards’ heads down. Ginsborough was doing the same… and experiencing identical fears. Browning knew Podini would be seeking targets for the main gun, but there seemed to be none. There was a Soviet BTR-60 personnel carrier to the Abrams’ right, but its wheels had been blown off and its tyres were burning. He saw movement beside the hulk and swung the .50 towards it, firing before he aimed, a line of heavy bullets ripping a deep seam across the ground. He concentrated a long burst on the rear of the carrier and saw green-suited figures stagger and fall. Ginsborough’s 7.62 was chattering… short regular bursts that seemed to be timed to the pulse in Browning’s temples.
Adams was yelling in the intercom: ‘Jesus… oh Jesus… Jesus Christ… Jesus Christ!’ He wound the Abrams through a field of craters, the wreckage of vehicles and men, its speed little more than jogging pace. The smoke was thinning, visibility increasing.
There was a heavy blow on the side of the XM1’s turret which sent a violent shockwave through the fighting compartment and rang the metal of the hull as though it were a vast bell.
‘Shit!’ Ginsborough was swearing. In the gloom of the interior the side of the turret was glowing dull red where an armour-piercing shell had failed to penetrate as it glanced off the thick steel. The ground was rising more sharply, smashed woodland lay ahead, stumps of distorted trees, pitted earth, gaunt roots. A thin hedge ran diagonally across the landscape to the left, partly destroyed, the bushes torn and scattered.
Browning saw another group of Soviet infantry eighty meters in front of the Abrams. There were the sounds of light machine gun rounds against the hull, pattering like hail on a barn roof and ho more effective. He brought the Abrams’ Bushmaster Cannon on to the target by remote control, but before he could depress the firing button the Abrams’ M68 gun roared and the infantrymen were lost in the burst of the 105mm shell only fifty meters ahead.
Browning was angry. ‘Save your ammo, Podini… leave the infantry to me.’
‘What infantry?’ Podini sounded exasperated.
The Abrams had reached the rubble of a low wail where the main gun’s shell had exploded. The tracks were grinding harshly, the hull bucking. A couple of meters to the right of the bodies of the Soviet infantrymen were the twisted remains of an ASU-57, its light alloy armour ripped and torn by the blast, its gun barrel buckled. ‘Sorry, Podini… nice work.’
‘Yeah, thanks!’ Podini’s sarcasm was lost on Browning.
ASU-57, an airborne assault gun, mobile and light. So that was how the bastards had got across the river! A quick airlift of men and light armour to establish the bridgehead and give the heavy tanks cover while they forded. God almighty, the thing had almost wiped them out. A few degrees’ difference in the angle of impact and the Russian shell would have penetrated, and the Abrams and its crew been wasted. Only Podini’s quick shot had prevented the Russian crew getting a second chance!
There’d be others… Jesus, where?
The Abrams was slithering, tracks churning. Much of the surface earth of the woods had been stripped from the stratas of damp limestone, greasy with shattered roots, branches and fallen leaves.
‘Left, Podini, eleven o’clock on the ridge, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Got it… I see it…’ The Abrams’ turret was swinging. Fractionally above the brow of the hill, Browning could distinguish the domed turret of a T-62, badly camouflaged, its gun moving against the skyline. Its commander had chosen a poor position but it had been protected until now by the battlesmoke. ‘Yeah… yeah… yeah’ Podini fired and the T-62 burst into flames. ‘Yaheee…’
Adams was having difficulty moving the XM1. She could climb an obstacle a meter high but facing him was a steep limestone shelf, its edges soft and crumbling. The Abrams was bucking like a mule, lurching as the driver reversed her and repeatedly charged the greasy slope. Browning tried the troop net. ‘November India this is Utah… India this is Utah… come in India Leader…’ he paused, waiting. There was no response. He repeated the request for contact but there was only silence. The XM1 was jerking, swaying, as Mike Adams kept butting the limestone like a demented steer. ‘Cut it out, Mike… hold her where she is.’ The tank settled and the engine roar decreased. Browning tried the troop network again.
There was a howl of electronic interference from a Soviet jamming station, and a voice, distorted, barely distinguishable. ‘Utah… India… where the hell…’ The pitch of the oscillations rose. ‘Utah… read… Utah we don’t…’ Interference drowned the network completely. Browning tried the alternative wavelengths but the Soviet jamming covered the entire range. The artillery had stopped and he could see no movement on the hillside. He opened the hatch slowly. and stared around. There were no accompanying American APCs in sight… nothing moved within the mist of the battlefield, nor in the woods above.
He dropped back into the fighting compartment. ‘Get us the hell out of here, Mike.’
‘The Abrams rammed the shelf of rock again with a jolt that nearly dislocated Browning’s spine. ‘Backwards, you asshole; go out backwards!’
There was a scream of metal sheering metal, and the Abrams swung broadside to the limestone and stopped abruptly.
‘Track.’ Podini’s and Ginsborough’s voices shouted the word in unison.
‘You creep, Adams… you stupid no good black son of a bitch…’ It was Podini.
‘Knock it off! Mike, try and ease her forward, see if you can get the track free.’ Browning knew it was probably hopeless, but it was worth a try. The Abrams shuddered as the right-hand track brought her back a little. The Left stayed jammed. ‘Hold everything.’ He levered himself out on to the deck and jumped down. The left track was half-off the driving wheel at the rear. He put his hand on the links and swore. They were too hot to touch. He could see the upper run of the track, as taut as a steel bowstring between the front bogey and the drive-wheel.
Adams was leaning out of the driving hatch, his dark face streaked with sweat. His eyes asked the question.
‘Utah’s not going anywhere,’ Browning told him. ‘The track’s off the drive.’
Ginsborough’s head was above the deck. ‘The networks are all jammed. How did they jam HF? Oh God!’
‘Keep trying. We want a recovery vehicle.’ There was gunfire some distance away, but the immediate area was quiet, the silence adding tension to the situation. The landscape was so shell-sculpted it had an artificial lunar quality. Wisps of smoke drifted through the broken woods or hung in the craters. The air stank of diesel fumes, burning rubber and explosive… alien.
It was the same feeling Will Browning had experienced as a child, closing his eyes and counting to a hundred before searching for his friends; discovering they had run away in the woods and left him alone. The impression was strong now, undeniable.
He was trying to think, to reason. Losing radio contact was one thing, but losing your entire squadron another. When they had all entered the smoke and the artillery barrage, Idaho, Oregon and the lieutenant’s tank, Nevada, were all stationed to Utah’s right. And beyond the troop had been the remainder of the squadron; behind them, Browning assumed, the mechanized infantry support. He had listened to the shouted conversations, the orders and comments on the troop and squadron radio networks as they had advanced. He had heard them right through until… until when? Until the noise of battle grew too loud, the jamming had begun, when everything was confusing and demanding his total attention, and all sound had become white and unintelligible. Had he heard them only in his mind?
‘What the hell are we going to do?’ Podini yelled from the fighting compartment. Podini always sounded as through he were on the verge of panic, but never quite got there. Browning accepted it as a characteristic of Podini’s Latin background; the gunner made up for it in plenty of other ways.
‘You want to start walking back, alone? No? Then dry up!’ The smoke of the battlefield had thinned to the kind of watery mist that the master sergeant liked to associate with New England valleys on fall days, but this mist stank of war. In scattered places on the landscape fires burnt, spiralling dense and evil thunderheads in the warm afternoon air. Occasionally in the fires there would be small firecracker explosions, but the sounds of battle no longer surrounded them. The noises were still there, but for the time being they belonged to someone else.
Undulations in the ground made it difficult for Browning to see far beyond the first three hundred meters. He climbed back on to the tank and swung himself down into the turret. ‘Get your head out of the way Mike. Podini, bring the gun around.’ He switched the lenses to full magnifications as the electric motors began humming and the turret moved. ‘Slow, I want a real easy scan.’ The lenses were concentrating the smoke mist and exaggerating the mirage effect of the sun’s heat on the damp ground. The landscape was hazy, shimmering. ‘Stop… hold it.’
There was wreckage.
‘Russian T-60,’ said Podini, dryly. He moved the turret a couple of degrees to bring the wrecked vehicle to the centre of the lens, then checked the range with the laser. ‘Two thousand six hundred meters.’
‘Okay, go on some more.’
The turret revolved slowly, then stopped. ‘XM1… an Abrams.’ There had been no change in the tone of Podini’s voice; it was flat, mechanical. ‘Two thousand nine hundred meters.’
‘Confirmed.’ The hull of the squadron’s Abrams was torn open at the side, exposing the still-smoking fighting compartment.
‘It’s Idaho.’ There was
more emotion with Podini’s recognition of the vehicle.
‘How the hell can you know that?’
‘It’s Idaho… Acklin’s wagon… you think I’m dumb?’ Podini’s voice level was rising.
‘Okay, okay. Take it round again.’
In the next two minutes they identified nine more of the squadron’s XM1s. There were other wrecks, too far away for either of them to be certain they belonged to friends or enemy. And no living thing moved on the battleground.
‘He always has to be first,’ Podini complained loudly and bitterly. ‘Adams has to be first every time. Adams, why the hell you want to be first, always up-front? Why aren’t you last sometime, like ordinary people?’
‘Fuck off, Pino. I only drive to order.’
Browning knew that the squadron’s counterattack had failed, destroyed by the power of the Russian barrage from across the river in East German territory, and from Soviet positions ahead of the US armour. What little smoke there had been was no protection against the BM21 rockets fired from behind the border where they had obviously been deployed in battalion groups capable of landing more than seven hundred missiles on a square kilometer of ground in twenty seconds. Coupled with conventional artillery fire, it had blanketed the area occupied by the XM1s and their support. Shell and rocket craters were so close together in places on the battlefield that they overlapped. Sometime, while Browning’s XM1 had been grinding its way through the inferno, jinking the shell explosions with its crew deafened by the howls and shrieks of the missiles, the radio useless with interference and jamming, there must have been an order for the survivors to withdraw. He hadn’t heard it.
‘I guess we’re up to our eyeballs in shit,’ commented Hal Ginsborough.
Adams called up from the driving position, ‘Well, at least we ain’t dead!’
‘But you tried, man, you sure tried,’ taunted Podini.
The Podini versus Adams duelling didn’t bother Browning; it was part of the two men’s friendship. It worried outsiders who didn’t understand that it was an essential feature of their communication process. Only a few days previously, Adams had rescued Podini from a bar fight that developed when a black artillery corporal had tried, uninvited, to defend Adams’ dignity.
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