Ellen had never yet killed, but all of his SAS training led him towards this end; he had no qualms about the task. In fact he was waiting impatiently for the opportunity.
Eight years previously, he had left his Ross school with two low grade Certificates of Education and no other qualifications. He had not been particularly interested in sport, nor shown any special aptitude for a trade. There was little employment in the Ross area at that time, and the general recession in industry had made matters far worse. The first summer after leaving school, he worked as a builder’s labourer; he bought a small motorcycle with the money he earned. He sold the machine during the winter, when he was laid off. It had not occurred to him to join the army until he saw the recruiting posters one Saturday afternoon after a visit to the Hereford Football Association ground at Ledbury.
He signed up for two reasons, boredom and bloody-mindedness; his father, with memories of National Service and wasted hours, had advised him against it.
Ellen signed for nine years with the Gloucesters, did two with the regiment, then completed a parachute training course and in euphoric bravado applied for transfer to the SAS. Selection was notoriously hard and he did not expect to be accepted, but for the next few days his status in the canteen bar was raised. He reported to the SAS barracks in a mood which wandered between apprehension and gloom; in a few days he would be forced to return to the regiment and admit his failure. He had already spent time inventing excuses.
To his amazement he found he enjoyed the tests. He was already very fit, and there was pleasure in being forced to push his body beyond the limits he had believed possible; a masochistic satisfaction in completing the tasks set for his fellow entrants and himself. Maybe he hadn’t always been able to beat the system, but he could certainly try to beat himself and others like him. Lying for hours half-submerged in icy water, or slogging twenty miles across the Brecon Beacons in deep snow, was easily tolerable if you were proving yourself tougher than the men weakening beside you. He passed all the tests and became a member of the unit. He had thought he was already an experienced soldier; the SAS proved him wrong, and began his training again. At the end of a further year he had trebled his number of parachute drops and learnt how to handle a dozen different weapons and explosives. He learnt how to canoe, and slide his way silently across a pebbled beach or through deep undergrowth. He could dive into a darkened room, and hit a man-sized target illuminated for only five seconds with four shots from a Browning pistol. But real action seemed to elude him. His unit was used several times during the next years; there were jobs for the SAS even in peacetime, but he was never chosen. It was the luck of the draw. He was promoted as his expertise increased. Four and a half years of dedicated training had led up to this particular moment. He was determined to enjoy it.
There were five Russian SPGs remaining in the woods. There had been eleven earlier in the day, but six had apparently moved on. Three SAS soldiers would deal with each vehicle. The orders were explicit; quick job and no noise. It was essential the Soviet radio operators should give no warnings.
The two men with Ellen were already in position, one crouched against the turret beside the gun and the second lying flat on his stomach above the driver’s hatch.
The Russian SPG commander Ellen was watching struck a match and lit a cigarette. In the fraction of a second that the match flared, momentarily blinding the man, Ellen was on his feet. As the man dragged on the tobacco, Ellen clamped his hand over cigarette and still-burning match and crushed them against the man’s mouth, at the same time driving the slim blade of his knife upwards beneath the ribs. The Russian struggled but Ellen pulled him off balance backwards, then cut his throat twice just above the stiff collar, using a quick sawing movement of the razor sharp blade. It was almost too easy; he had practiced it many times.
The two remaining crew members of the Russian SPG were already dead. Both killed while they slept. The driver’s back had been within reach of the soldier lying flat along the hull, while the gunner had taken no notice of the man who had silently dropped in through the turret behind him believing, if he had awakened at all, it was his returning commander.
Ellen lowered the Russian’s body to the ground. A non-smoker himself, he could smell the faint coppery scent of the man’s blood; it gave him a sense of elation. His hands were sticky, he wiped them on the dead man’s overalls. He had made his first kill. Never again would he have to stand at a bar and listen enviously to the tales of his colleagues who had been in action. Now he was truly one of them; a fully-fledged member of the elite corps.
Welbeck, who had been the one to tackle the gunner, seemed to be a long time inside the tank. Lance Corporal Ellen should have waited beside the track, but didn’t. He reached the turret just as Welbeck climbed out. Welbeck reacted instinctively to the dark figure that appeared unexpectedly in front of him. His bloodstained knife was still in his hands. He drove it straight into Ellen’s chest.
Ellen felt the blow, realized what had happened but felt no pain. He had time to say quietly: ‘You stupid bugger.’ Then his legs weakened and crumpled. He dropped to his knees and felt the cold of the metal against the palms of his hands… and then nothing. His body dropped backwards from the hull to land on the corpse of the Russian he had killed only a minute earlier.
‘Everything satisfactory, Sergeant?’ Lieutenant Hinton had been waiting beside the bunker’s secondary exit.
‘Yes, sir. The area’s clean. I’ve posted guards. One casualty.’
‘Wounded?’
‘Dead, sir. Lance Corporal Ellen.’
The first of many yet to come, thought Hinton. ‘How?’
‘Bloody carelessness, sir! Disobeyed orders.’
There was no point in delving further at the moment, and Sergeant Welbeck was obviously unwilling to volunteer details. Hinton knew he would learn in time. ‘Thank you Sergeant. Get the doors open will you.’ He gave a thumbs-up sign to Fellows and swung himself into the nearest of the APCs. The sound of the Scimitar’s Jaguar engines made the air of the bunker vibrate.
There was nothing that could be done to disguise the appearance of a FV 107 Scimitar; its sharply angled turret and sloping bow resembled no armoured vehicle used by the Warsaw Pact armies. Protection for the tanks and the SAS APCs was the night itself, their speed and manoeuvrability, and the direction of their travel — westwards towards the battlefront. From a distance, in the poor light, they might be mistaken for reinforcements moving forward in support of the Soviet advance.
Hehlingen was twenty kilometers from the bunker; little mare than fifteen minutes at top speed on a good road. There were no longer any such roads, and a fast direct route was impossible.
Fellows, standing half-out of his hatch, watched the night sky towards the west. Flashes of distant light flickered like summer lightning along the horizon, and the sky itself was coloured as though it reflected the illumination of a vast city. It was almost beautiful, smoke clouds glowing scarlet, violet and a continuous pyrotechnic aurora borealis shimmering above the fields. He was feeling alert, self-confident; it had been far more of a strain on his nerves while they waited cooped up in the bunker. He still found it hard to believe that this was war, though there was plenty of evidence. Every small village or even farmhouse they passed had been destroyed, tumbled and blackened stone, crazily-angled window frames, fallen roofs, deserted… still smoking. Wrecked vehicles, some unidentifiable, others which looked as though they had simply been abandoned, littered open fields. There were bodies, corpses lying awkwardly in the wreckage; a line of uniformed men arrayed beside a hedge, neat and tidy as though ready for inspection, weapons beside them, the night hiding the bloodstains and the wounds. Shell and rocket craters, dark irregular patterns in the fields; shattered tarmac and cobbles, sewer pipes and drains, burnt woodland.
He was surprised they had seen no Russians as yet. He had expected the odd patrol or company of Engineers, but decided they must be working further north, more directly behin
d the main stream of the 16th Guards’ attack.
Two kilometers east of Hehlingen he led the convoy into the shattered remains of a pine wood and deployed them amongst the few undamaged trees. Now that the engines were silent the sounds of gunfire were loud; only a few kilometers towards the west. The coloured sky which at a distance had looked attractive, was now heavy, ominous.
Hinton was waiting with his platoon. ‘Don’t hang about,’ Fellows told him. ‘I don’t want my Scimitars around here too long. In and out fast, that’s the name of the game. You’ve got two hours to find the exact location and report back to me, that should be enough.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Fellows watched the men jog silently into the darkness, fading like ghosts amongst the stumps of the trees. More waiting, he thought. The whole damned war for me seems to be waiting. He almost envied the men who had remained with the regiment or who were operating as recce squadrons; they would have been in action since the first shell was fired. But this waste of time, this waiting… waiting.
FOURTEEN
21.25 hours. Day One.
Master Sergeant Will Browning thought he now knew why the Black Cavalry Squadron’s counterattack had failed. During the past hours while he and the crew of Utah waited for darkness there had been time for him to think over the possibilities. When the squadron’s Captain Harling had given the order to advance, the intention of HQ must have been to strike at the flank of the Soviet spearhead. By ill-luck, poor intelligence or plain bad timing, and Browning was unable to decide which, the counterattack had met the head of the second echelon of Russian armour and, worst of all, at a point on the battleground where the enemy artillery could give it the best possible cover.
‘The second wave of Soviet tanks, reforming after crossing the river, had been fresh into battle and received sufficient warning to enable them to deploy in readiness for the counterattack. The Soviet divisions’ main artillery, still in its positions on the eastern side of the border, was able to treat the American armour in exactly the same way the Russian artillery had dealt with the British charge of the Light Brigade, at the historical battle of Balaclava. And with the same decimating results. The losses to the Russians had been negligible. Maybe it wasn’t entirely the captain’s fault after all, Browning decided. The officer was bluff, often blustery, but West Point didn’t turn out fools; and it certainly couldn’t be the troop lieutenant’s responsibility either, because he would just have obeyed orders like the rest of them. If a mistake had been made, then it was at headquarters. Wasn’t it always!
Browning peered at his watch. He could just see the glow of its luminous dial; it was twenty-one twenty-seven. In three minutes Podini would come down off the hill where he had relieved Adams as guard, and then it would be time for them to move out.
There was plenty happening. Adams had watched a build-up of Soviet logistics on the west bank of the river. The two bridges had been in constant use for the past four hours. It appeared, in darkness at least, that the Russians were unconcerned about the threat of air attack, although the movements of their supplies column should have shown up on NATO infra-red detectors. It suggested to Browning that the Russians were feeling very confident about the present lack of NATO air surveillance, and as he hadn’t seen any US aircraft overhead since late afternoon he thought that, for the moment anyway, their efforts must be concentrated on the forward combat zone.
Ginsborough nudged Browning’s arm urgently, and whispered, ‘Out there…’
Browning could hear noises on the hill twenty meters away, the rolling of a small stone through frost-dried leaves, the snapping of a thin twig. He aimed his Remington into the darkness, and eased off the safety catch.
An off-key blackbird whistled an unlikely first two bars of ‘John Brown’s Body’, and the scuffling on the slope above them increased.
‘Podini?’ It had to be!
‘Who else?’
‘You gink,’ swore Ginsborough, the tension had made him feel sick.
‘Will said half after nine, and it’s half after,’ hissed Podini.
‘What did you see going on over there? Browning asked.
Podini’s eyes glinted, catching the light of the rising moon. ‘Same as Mike said. They’re still building up. Man, some heavy stores!’
‘Like what?’
‘Rear service equipment. About twenty MAZ cargo carriers… fifteen tanners… ammunition I’d reckon, by the way they spaced them out. Plenty of trucks.’
‘Any armour?’
‘Nope… some artillery on the other side, waiting to get across. There’s an MTU laying another bridge. That’ll make three.’ He paused and then said casually, ‘I saw a nuke.’
‘A nuke?’ It was Adams, incredulously. ‘A nuke missile? You’re kidding!’
‘How d’you know it was a nuke? demanded Browning.
‘I don’t know. All I know is that it was one hell of a rocket.’
‘How long?’
‘I’m guessing… it ain’t too easy to see down there. Maybe ten meters, a big eight-wheeled transporter like a fire truck.’
‘It’s probably a Frog-7,’ said Browing, ‘with a conventional warhead.’
‘You and your fucking nuke,’ grunted Ginsborough. Podini seemed determined to make him throw up his rations.
‘Okay, let’s move out,’ ordered Browning. He wanted to get clear of the open ground before the moon rose any higher.
Gunthers was still smouldering, burning in places when the light brae stirred up ashes and fanned new life into the embers. Rubble spread across the streets from shattered houses and stores. The volunteer Bundesgrenzshutz infantrymen who had defended it with their Dragon and Milan missiles had drawn heavy artillery and tank fire, and because most were local men defending their own homes, they had fought bitterly. The bodies of many of them now lay amongst the ruins, but the wreckage of the Soviet tanks, twisted and blackened hulks in every street, was evidence of the ferocity of the battle.
Browning was feeling despondent. Now he was away from the Abrams, it seemed even more unlikely it could ever be repaired. Maybe it was best to write Utah off, and try to make it back on foot even though it might be difficult. The smell of war and death was getting through to him; it had done so at times in Vietnam. It was familiar, a recurring sickness that made him ill for a time, and like ‘flu he would get over it. Only there was no medicine he could take to ease his present discomfort. The only rapid cure he knew was in a bottle on the shelf of a bar, in some town as remote from war as maybe Las Vegas.
Adams was a few meters ahead, flattened against a crazily tilted wall that was overhanging the sidewalk. He was signalling frantically with his arm. When Browning reached him, he jerked his head towards the interior of the wrecked building. Browning listened. For a few moments he could hear nothing, and then there was a faint scratching sound.
Browning whispered: ‘Civilians, leave them.’
‘Maybe they can help us.’ Adams dropped to his knees and crawled over the rubble into the darkness.
‘Come back you damn fool,’ hissed Browning, but Adams ignored him. Browning squatted beside the doorway, his automatic ready; behind him Podini and Ginsborough waited tensely.
Adams was gone a full minute before he reappeared. ‘I was right,’ he said, ‘it’s a woman and some kids.’
‘If they’d been Russians, you’d have got us all killed,’ said Browning angrily. ‘Don’t ever do that again.’
‘They can help.’
‘Maybe they can help!’
It was a few moments before his eyes became accustomed to the darkness of the shelled building, then he saw them, huddled together in a narrow wedge of open space between a fallen wall and a staircase — a middle-aged woman and three young children.
The woman asked nervously, ‘Soldat… Amerikanish?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
’Gott sei Dank.’
‘Don’t thank me yet, there are only four of us. D’you speak English?’
‘I can speak.’ It was one of the children, a boy of about twelve, pale beneath the grime of brick dust that coated him.
‘We’re an American tank crew,’ explained Browning. ‘We got outselves knocked out this afternoon near the river. We need repair equipment. Can you show us where there’s a garage.’
‘All garage is bombed,’ said the boy, staring at him.
‘We know they’re bombed, son. We’re not looking for service. We need a metal cutter… a gas cutter… you know gas, big fires, very hot!’
‘Gas… I think I know.’ The boy spoke quickly to the woman but she simply shrugged her shoulders. ‘I come show you.’
‘What about your mom?’
‘Not mother… I come with you.’
‘Okay,’ agreed Browning. ‘But you tell this lady to stay put. We’re the only Americans there are around here. If she hears anyone else, they’re probably Russians.’ He saw the fear in the woman’s eyes as he turned away. He followed the boy to the doorway, then stopped and walked back towards her. He raised his automatic.
She misunderstood his action, twisting herself sideways to protect the two children beside her, shielding them with her body.
Browning spoke gently. ‘It’s okay, lady. Here…’ He reversed the pistol in his hand and held the butt towards her.
She relaxed, then smiled guiltily. She took the weapon slowly, then placed it in her lap. ‘Danke.’
‘Good luck.’
There was something wrong; Browning could sense it. It was the feeling that things had somehow got beyond his control. The boy was hurrying them despite Browning’s warning there might still be enemy soldiers in the area. As they moved into a broad alley between two old half-timbered barns, he realized it was a trap. The boy suddenly dived behind a pile of rubble, and shouted loudly. There was a quick burst of automatic rifle fire from the darkness ahead, the bullets hissing past them.
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