‘Thank you, sir. But the crew, sir. I’d like to keep my own… just need a new loader, sir.’
‘It’s not always wise with a promotion, Mister Davis.’
‘I understand, sir. But I know these men; they’re good.’
Willis smiled again. ‘Very well. Use them’
Dusk came early as the sun dropped below the thick pall of smoke that seemed to form the horizon in every direction. Shortly afterwards the squadron moved north-west to its fresh positions behind the River Schunter. The war was more obvious again, much closer, with the undersides of some of the clouds lit by explosions on the ground beneath them. Warrant Officer Davis knew what it was like here, knew what he had to expect again within the next short hours; the turmoil and confusion, the sounds, the heaving ground, and death. It hadn’t been too bad the first time, not knowing; and then it had all happened so quickly there had been little time to think. Now, it was different. He had survived once, while a lot of men had died; many of his friends were there, behind the enemy lines, still in the wreckage of their tanks. Could he make it a second time? He would damn well try! What the hell was the use of a promotion if you couldn’t enjoy it? He wanted to be with Hedda and the kids; wanted them to share the pleasure of a new uniform, his new rank and the privileges it would bring. There’d be more money, too… a better car, maybe.
The new Chieftain’s engine was throbbing softly. The position was on level ground six hundred meters behind the narrow river, on the outskirts of the village of Süpplingen. Davis’s tank was in a small garden, with a rising bank between it and the river giving some protection against artillery. The radio nets were silent.
The replacement loader, a nineteen year old, Henry Spink, was fussing about in the fighting compartment. He seemed to be polishing the gun. Davis let him get on with it; the lad was nervous. It wasn’t surprising.
DeeJay was whistling softly down in his driving seat, feeling a little happier with a full stomach and a couple of hours sleep behind him. He hadn’t enjoyed leaving Bravo Two standing forlorn and battered under her netting beneath the trees. He had felt he was deserting her. It took a conscious effort to turn his back and walk away. The new tank hadn’t even smelt right; he had run up the engine, gunned it hard for several minutes, listening to it and trying to spot weaknesses or faults before allowing himself to rest. He knew Inkester had experienced similar doubts about the gunnery equipment. A tank is only a tank, DeeJay kept telling himself; one bit of army equipment is the same as the next. His own arguments didn’t convince him. He tried thinking of other things. ‘Inky?’ He shouted over his shoulder, his voice distorted by the engine vibration and the metalwork of the new Chieftain’s hull.
‘Yeah?’
‘Ah’ve been considerin’,’ DeeJay yelled. ‘Considerin’ warrant officers!’
‘Oh yeah,’ answered Inkester.
‘Well, I reckon t’ be warrant officer, tha’s got to have more brains than a sergeant.’ The northern accent was deliberately heavy, broad.
Davis was going to interrupt the banter, and then decided to let DeeJay finish. He didn’t want to appear sensitive about his sudden promotion.
‘Well, yeah, that’s probably right.’
‘In that case, stands to reason Inky we got to be better off than this morning, ain’t we? Cus, we’ve got a warrant officer with us now.’
‘How would you like some fatigues instead of R and R when we get out of this, Hewett?’ Davis thought a little controlled annoyance might be beneficial.
‘There y’are, Inky. Our warrant officer said "when we get out". See… warrant officers are bloody optimists, too!’ DeeJay began whistling again, this time ‘Colonel Bogey’.
Inkester twisted around in his seat. ‘That’s meant to be a joke, sir. You know DeeJay.’
‘I know both of you; that’s why you’re with me.’
‘We’re bloody glad we are, sir.’
The moon was beginning to rise and Davis could see movement a few meters away across the corner of the field. He watched carefully. There was a hedgerow to the right, neatly trimmed, below a row of poplars that had been planted as a windbreak for the crops. A fox! He could see it better now, stalking a rabbit that was feeding a few meters out in the stubble. Everything is killing everything else, he thought. One day there’ll be only one living thing left on earth, and it’ll be so lonely it will have to kill itself, and that will be the end of it all. The earth might be a better place then. Green, lush, peaceful, soundless. Green? If everything killed everything else, it wouldn’t be green. It would be brown… dry rock and sand… mud. It would be the battlefield again.
Davis’s new troop in Charlie Squadron had retained its designation ‘Bravo’. Davis wasn’t sure if it was deliberate or accidental, but somehow it seemed to indicate continuity; it certainly made life easier for himself. All he had to remember was that his new Chieftain was Charlie Bravo One, and that as troop leader, he might use the call sign Nine. Captain Willis’ voice was on the squadron net now. ‘All stations, Charlie, this is Shark. Wolf griddle five seven six zero nine two. Out!
‘Charlie Bravo One. Roger, Shark. Out.’
The radio clicked to silence again. The shorter the time a sender spent on the air, the less likely the call would be intercepted or its source located by enemy listening posts.
Wolf. That was the code name for a Soviet recce battalion. The numbers were a coded grid reference. Davis worked it out on his knee-pad, and then found it on his map. God, they were less than three kilometers away, and a recce battalion could move quickly in their light vehicles.
‘How long?’ asked Inkester. His voice seemed to have aged in the past hours. Perhaps it was only fatigue.
‘Depends. They could try to cross north or south of us. Unless they’re delayed, they should reach the river in twenty minutes to half an hour.’
‘The minefields will slow them.’
Slow them! Inkester had learned fast, thought Davis. This morning he would have said: ‘Stop them’. Sometimes it seemed nothing would ever stop the Russians; they’d keep rolling right the way to the Channel.
‘Well get plenty of support,’ Davis said. At least that was true. They hadn’t intended to hold them close to the frontier, only slow them down, inflict as many casualties as possible to the armour. Here, it was different. The defences were much stronger, the minefields denser and deeper. There had been a little more time for preparation, and information on the enemy’s movements and tactics was clearer.
‘You been keeping score, sir?’
‘Score?’
‘Kills.’
‘No,’ admitted Davis. Christ, trust Inkester! The lad thought he was Von Richthofen. The first opportunity he got, he would paint a line of red stars on the side of the turret.
‘Me neither.’ Inkester sounded disappointed. ‘I got as far as five, and then I lost count. It was more than that though, maybe eight.’
Eight, maybe eight, thought Davis. Better than the odds against them. If every NATO tank took out eight Russian tanks in the battles, then the Russian advance would soon be too costly for them to continue. Eight for one… no, God, not even eight for one. Better than that; he and the crew were still alive, still fighting. At least, three of them were. And the Chieftain was reparable. She was probably back in the workshops now, being serviced. She could be in action with another crew in twelve hours, perhaps less. Eight Russian tanks; three men to a vehicle. That was a lot of dead Russians. There were more — he remembered a BMP exploding, and that would have been carrying its full load of infantry besides the crew. Perhaps thirty men, all told. And this morning he had never killed anyone. How many things had he ever killed in his life, before today? Insects. Everyone killed insects… except perhaps Buddhists, and they probably killed some by accident. Davis could think of a dog he had killed once. An officer’s dog. Ran straight under the track of the Chieftain as he drove it across the tank park at Bovvy. That wasn’t intentional so it hardly counted. And there had been
a squirrel under the tyre of his car, one early morning; Hedda had been upset, and one of the twins had cried. Apart from those, thought Davis, I haven’t killed anything. Now, thirty men. Thirty, that was mass murder! Crippin, Jack-the-Ripper, Heath… none of them had killed that many. He would never tell Hedda about them, she wouldn’t be able to understand. She knew you had to kill in wartime, she wasn’t stupid, but she would blank out the fact that her husband was one of the men who had done it. Perhaps it wasn’t a bad thing, because it would be terrible for a woman to have to hold someone in their arms if they knew he had killed so many men.
He wondered what Hedda would be doing. It was past the children’s bedtime. It seemed years since he had spoken to her; he had wanted to telephone her when the regiment had received its orders, but there were long queues at the call boxes. She would have taken the boys to her sister’s house at Ahlerstedt; it was well away from the city. They had discussed the possibility of war a few months previously, and he had tried to persuade her to agree to join the other British wives on evacuation flights to Britain if a war developed, but she had refused. She had become stubborn and rejected all his arguments. Ahlerstedt was wd to the west of Hamburg, and south of the Elbe estuary; it was bound to be safe there… there was nothing to bomb. Eventually he had agreed with her. But now, what if the Russian advance wasn’t held? What then? What would happen to her and the children? Would they stay on her sister’s smallholding, or join the thousands of refugees who would certainly move westwards just as those on the road had done this afternoon? It would be bad if that happened. What if he lost them? Families got split up in Europe in wartime, and sometimes never found each other again. They starved. Women sold themselves for food for the children. Momentarily the thought of Hedda being forced to make love to some Russian peasant soldier made Davis feel sick. She was too proud he told himself, it would never happen. Somehow, she would manage; she was a capable woman. Her family were all there, and they’d stick together. One thing about German wives, they made protective mothers.
A bright orange light illuminated the woods a kilometer beyond the river, there was the doppler effect of a full battery salvo of rockets passing overhead, then the rolling shock of the multiple explosions as they reached their target.
There was a shrill mewing sound beside Davis. He looked into the fighting compartment. The lights were dimmed but he could see the new loader, Spinks, huddled down between the gun and the charge bins, his arms wrapped tightly over his head, his knees drawn up to his chest.
‘Spinks!’
‘What’s going on?’ It was Inkester calling above the increasing volume of gunfire. ‘Oh, shit! That’s all we bloody need.’
‘Spinks…’ Davis struggled down beside the gun and grabbed the loader by the hood of his NBC suit, dragging him upright. The man kept his face hidden in his hands. ‘Spinks, you’ve got a job to do, and by Christ, you’re going to do it.’ Davis shook him.
‘We’re going to die…’ Spinks’ voice was a wail. ‘Oh God…’
Davis jerked Spinks’ head back and slapped him hard across the face, then he pushed him back into the seat. Spinks was sobbing. ‘You load every time that gun is empty,’ Davis roared. ‘You load, you understand you bastard… you load. Make one mistake and I’ll kill you and throw your body outside.’
Spinks nodded, fearfully.
Davis climbed back up into the turret. He was shaking with rage. Cowardice was something he hadn’t bargained for. Worse, he knew his threat to kill Spinks was real.
THIRTEEN
There was a gentle shuffling within the Scimitar unit’s concrete bunker; the sound of the men preparing to move out, nothing metallic, only the brushing of cloth against cloth, webbing against cotton, the pad of rubber-soled boots on the dusty concrete. Teeth gleamed in sharp contrast against camouflaged skin as the men grinned at each other in anticipation of action after long hours of waiting, their conversations were whispered.
Captain Fellows had been watching the parked Soviet self-propelled guns since a little before dusk, hoping they would move on. As the evening light had faded there had been some activity in the line of vehicles, but the hull of the nearest was still silhouetted against the night sky.
He had commented to the SAS lieutenant: ‘They’re still out there.’
‘Probably a reserve battery. They don’t matter, we can easily get rid of the crews later.’
Bloody cocky, Fellows had thought. The damned SAS always thought they wm little gods… pink Range Rovers… good God, they even sold plastic model kits of them in toy shops. SAS. They claimed to shun publicity, but somehow managed to grab more than anyone else.
He checked his watch. Twenty twenty-three. ‘Sergeant!’
‘Sir.’
‘Keep an eye on the RTO will you? The orders will be through shortly. For God’s sake make sure he doesn’t send out a signal… no acknowledgement.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Mick Fellows hooked off his beret and ran his fingers through his short wavy hair in one movement. Wearing a beret for several hours at a time always made his scalp itch and gave him dandruff. He had washed and shaved earlier, and changed his shirt. It made him feel fresher, more alert. He had noticed that Lieutenant Hinton had not bothered, and there was already a dark stubble on the man’s cheeks and chin. It rankled with him; he would not tolerate slackness in appearance in his own officers, no matter the circumstances. Carelessness in dress and bodily cleanliness indicated a similar attitude towards soldiering; a smart soldier was invariably efficient.
Hinton didn’t even look like an officer… at least, not a cavalryman. A Sapper, maybe. He was too bulky, squarer, bull-necked enough to appear the archetypal Prussian soldier of the First World War. In mess kit he would look like an all-in wrestler in fancy dress. Fellows had taken a dislike to the man the moment they had met. Hinton’s rough palms during their handshake had felt like those of a labourer.
‘Sir… Captain Fellows, sir.’ The sergeant was beckoning from beside the radio operator. Fellows hurried across and picked up a spare headset. There were a lot of metallic clicking sounds, atmospherics, cracklings.
The strength of the transmission was fluctuating, but they could make out the distant operator’s voice, each word ennunciated sharply and positively. ‘Magpie this is Wizard. Apex Echo. Trophy Bacon Sunset Juliet. Repeat: Apex Echo. Trophy Bacon Sunset Juliet. Out.’
A ten second transmission, thought Fellows. It would have been damned easy for a careless radio operator to miss. The RTO had switched off the unit’s set the moment the message had ended; it would remain silent for another six hours.
It pleased Fellows to think that his German CO would sweat a bit now, hoping the message that would initiate his pet project had been received. Only future events would confirm it.
Hinton was standing nearby waiting, so Fellows translated the code from memory. ‘The Russians have advanced a long way. They’re at Wolfsburg.’ Apex was the head of the Soviet thrust, Crown the city of Wolfsburg. ‘Wizard has given us one K west of Hehlingen as the approximate location of the Soviet Divisional HQ!
‘The Russians must have taken the whole of the Werder,’ commented Hinton, sourly. ‘The bastards haven’t wasted time!
‘It’s only just begun,’ Fellows reminded him curtly. ‘And it’s obvious they’re already malting mistakes.’
‘Mistakes?’ Hinton looked puzzled. To accuse the enemy of errors without knowing their total battle plan was naive.
‘Look at the map. If their 12th Guards Army are now in Wolfsburg, then it’s certainly a mistake to put a main HQ so close to the front… it’s too vulnerable, and not even normal planning tactics. It’s more the position far a Forward Command HQ.’ Fellows paused for a moment to allow Hinton to digest this observation. ‘If we assume their attack has otherwise been in character, then the 12th Guards Army will have advanced on a-narrow front; at most only five or six kilometers in breadth. They will have attacked in echelon, backed by strong reserves
to exploit mints of success. The forward command would be up-front and the main headquarters somewhere to the rear of their second echelon. But this isn’t the case, Hinton… and why?’
Hinton was resenting the manner in which Fellows had arrogantly turned the briefing into a staff college lecture on tactics, but he kept his feelings hidden. ‘They could be over-extended.’
‘Yes, Hinton, perhaps. I believe their thrust has been a little too fast… deeper and quicker than they anticipated. Normally their divisional depth would not exceed thirty-five Ks… but if it were much greater… perhaps as much as fifty, and with the second echelon lagging or depleted by an air-strike… then the main headquarters might have been moved up. Alternatively…’ Fellows hesitated for effect. ‘They have actually lost their Forward Command HQ; that being the case, Hinton, if I can take out the main HQ, then the 12th Guards Army won’t know its eyeball from its backside for the next twenty-four hours.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Hinton was pleased he was only serving temporarily with Captain Fellows.
‘Your chaps ready to deal with the gentlemen outside?’
‘Quite ready, sir.’
‘Then I think you should make a move.’
Lance Corporal Mark Ellen of the 22nd SAS lay with his face only an inch above the ground. He was twenty-four years old, the son of a Ruardean lorry driver. The smell of rotting beech leaves, damp with night dew, usually reminded him of time spent poaching in the Forest of Dean, in his schooldays; tonight he was too preoccupied for memories. The air was chill after the muggy warmth of the bunker, condensing to glistening beads on the metal hull of the Russian SPG ahead of him. He was watching one of its crew leaning against the sharp bow of the tank. The man was wearing his corrugated leather helmet and had the collar of his overalls buttoned tight to his neck for warmth.
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