The platoon commander gave the last of his instructions, ‘One and Two section will bring up the front, Three stay back with Ev in reserve. Let’s go.’
We crawled forward on our bellies in a long extended line made up of two sections side by side, with ours on the left and Corporal Jones’ section on the right, maintaining a five metre gap between each man. The move forward was painfully slow and rapidly became exhausting. My respirator motors whirred as they battled to keep my visor from fogging up due to my heavy breathing.
After what felt like an age of crawling, I noticed that directly in front of me the sea of green was dissected by a dark black line that ran off in either direction. I knew it was the trench and stopped.
‘It’s right in front of us,’ I whispered to Westy.
‘Yeah, roger that, I see it. Go firm lads.’
My heart was racing, and not just from the exertion of the crawl. The opening to the trench was as silent and menacing as the gaping tunnel that had led us into the warrens. A few hundred metres to my left the shouting and gunfire continued as two platoon continued their clearance, and I knew that soon that would be us. To my left, a kilometre or so away, the fire support continued their onslaught, while ahead of me the once beautiful Jersey City burned once more. A friendly saucer swooped over the city, dropping its payload in a string of explosions.
Like my old section had done in the farmland ditches, we waited in comparative calm, as if we sat within the eye of a storm, untouched but surrounded by its destruction. I clutched my rifle tightly, its weight and bulk was reassuring. I often seemed to clutch and squeeze my rifle when I was scared, I realised. Like a child does his teddy, I thought, and chuckled quietly to myself. It was a pretty odd time to start finding things funny, but then if you didn’t laugh you could only cry I suppose.
I rolled to my side quietly and then gently unbuckled a grenade from its pouch around my waist. I brought it up in front of me, removing the safety pin and priming the dial to two seconds. I didn’t want too much delay on detonation in case somebody down inside the trench saw it and threw it back. I glanced to my left and right, checking the others were in line with me.
‘Andy, grenade, set the time short,’ Westy whispered so quietly the intercom barely carried his message.
‘Roger,’ it was already in my hand. I knew what had to be done.
‘Boss?’ Westy was asking for permission to assault.
‘Wait for One section,’ was the reply.
‘One section is ready,’ Jonesy’s message came only seconds after. We were set to assault.
A burst of gunfire sounded off to my right, causing me to jump. It had come from the trench. A foreign voice shouted something.
‘Contact!’ a voice screamed over the rain, and the right hand side of our line began to fire into the trench. The Chinese had heard us.
‘Contact, contact!’ Jonesy’s voice was fast and barely intelligible over the intercom; he had been surprised and was flapping.
‘Man down!’
‘Two section, GO!’ The boss ordered without hesitation.
‘Do it, Andy!’
I tossed the grenade. As it left my hand the mechanical fly off lever sprung away from the main body, activating the timer. My headset beeped as a warning, as everyone else’s would as the grenade bounced and rolled into the trench along with another grenade thrown by Westy.
The two grenades detonated almost simultaneously, and like an athlete waiting for the gun to set him free at the start line, I bolted forward.
I didn’t shout or make a sound as I charged for the kill, I knew now that there was no need. Instead I ran forward in silence, not giving the enemy the chance to hear me as I closed in with him.
I crouched at the lip of the trench, my rifle up in the shoulder. There was a man curled into a ball at the bottom ten metres to my right. I couldn’t make much out through my visor, but I was pretty certain he was dead. Brown put a couple of darts into him anyway.
We slid down into the trench on our arses, keen to get out of the open as the fire fight around us intensified. A deep puddle of water splashed beneath my boots as I landed.
The trench looked recently constructed; it had no drainage and hadn’t been sandbagged to prevent the walls from crumbling. It was just under shoulder height and about as wide as a warren tunnel.
‘Boss,’ Westy panted, ‘We’re in, one enemy dead!’
‘Roger, see if you can get your section round to attack the enemy in front of Jonesy from the left flank,’ the boss was urgent, but hadn’t lost his cool.
‘Roger,’ Westy looked to me, ‘Andy, keep our rear covered and move up with me.’
‘Okay, mate,’ I nodded and turned to my fire team, ‘Daniels, cover the rear, Brooks, watch out toward the city, in case the pinkies try to come in from the top. Got it?’
‘Okay,’ Daniels replied. They moved up toward me and took their respective positions, covering out over the top of the trench and to the rear.
The section moved quickly along the trench. The lead pair moved in a similar fashion to the lead pair in Warren clearance, with one at the front in a half crouch and one stood off to the side, both able to fire in the enclosed space. Westy had paired himself with Brown at the front; he didn’t trust Stevo. I’m not sure if I did either.
Between me and the lead pair Stevo walked, scanning over the top of the trench like my fire team did behind me. A section can become too focused with trench clearance and forget the bigger battle; there is nothing to stop the enemy assaulting back into the trench from above. It was as important to keep eyes on outside the trench as it was within.
The trench turned to the right and then almost immediately back to the left. But as soon as we rounded the second corner Westy and Brown opened fire.
‘Shit!’ Westy cursed as the pair almost fell over each other in their effort to get back around the corner. A spray of darts peppered the rocky wall where they had stood only moments ago.
Westy held his rifle around the corner and launched a grenade. Even with the grenade being guided, and the rifle optics being connected to his visor I doubted his accuracy, but thankfully the grenade detonated within the trench and not on top of Jonesy and his section.
‘There’s loads of the bastards,’ Westy shouted back to me.
‘Pinkies in the open!’ Brooks shouted suddenly, ‘Running away!’
I raised my head and looked over the top of the trench. Sure enough, enemy were running away from where Westy had fired his grenade, probably three or four of them. One was limping.
‘Well shoot them, then,’ I ordered, angered at his stupidity. Did he really need me to tell him?
‘Okay,’ Brooks opened fire with his mammoth, cutting two of the soldiers down with a single sustained burst.
I looked to my left and saw that Stevo was just staring at me.
‘Stevo, fucking shoot them!’
Stevo jolted, as if waking up from a dream. He took aim and fired. It was a turkey shoot, none survived.
‘If you see enemy run away, they’re not running off to get the next shuttle to Beijing,’ I spat scornfully.
‘Sorry, Andy,’ Brooks sounded hurt, but he got the message, no mercy. Stevo said nothing.
‘I’m going again, Andy,’ Westy said and he rounded the corner along with Brown before I could reply and fired up the trench, ‘Boss, this is Westy, I’m clearing along your front now, do not fire, do not fire!’
‘Roger,’ the boss answered, ‘I can see you,’ his own visor would mark our progress.
We followed Westy around the corner and further up the trench, stepping over bodies as we went. I stabbed each with my bayonet as I passed them, just to be sure, heartlessly and systematically. Stevo glanced back at one of the bodies and then at me, as if in surprise at my actions. I suspected behind his visor his face would be one of horror or disgust. Perhaps mine should have been too.
‘Be aware I’m sending Jonesy forward to you,’ the boss warned.
&nbs
p; ‘Friendly forces coming in from the south,’ I repeated to the lads.
As we pushed ever forward Jonesy emerged over the top of the trench ten or so metres behind us, crawling over the lip and slipping down to the ground with a splash. He hurried his men to come down. Sergeant Evans chattered on the intercom with the boss about bringing casualties forward and into the trench, but I was too busy to hear how many there were.
The trench turned to the left at a sharp angle and Westy paused at the bend whilst Brown prepped a grenade. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.
Suddenly darts cracked over my head, and somebody punched me on the helmet. That’s what it felt like, anyway. I span like a ballerina on one foot and then landed in a heap on the floor.
‘Contact left!’ Daniels screamed, and Brooks fired a burst over the lip of the trench.
The section stood up along the trench and fired at an unseen enemy. I lay face up at the bottom of the trench and watched as the boys fought, my body in shock. I felt cold water running down my back and soaking into my armour.
A respirator appeared in front of me, scaring me half to death until I realised it was attached to a comrade’s head. My dazed mind could faintly recognise the features behind the visor screen.
‘You okay, Andy? Andy!’ It was Brown, his brow furrowed in concern.
‘I’m okay…,’ I said cautiously, ‘I think?’
Brown ran his hands over my respirator and then round the back of my head, searching for blood or holes as above us the fire fight continued. Boots slapped in the water as a section of troopers charged past us.
‘I think I’m alright, mate,’ I repeated.
Brown shook his head disbelievingly, ‘It hit you, I saw you go down!’ Eventually he checked my helmet, and stopped, ‘Jesus Christ, mate!’
‘What?’ I was worried. I felt fine, what could possibly be wrong with me?
‘There’s a chunk missing from your helmet, mate! Some pinkie must have missed you by a centimetre!’ Brown sounded amazed.
I felt the side of my helmet. Sure enough, a deep gouge ran along the side where a round had struck and deflected slightly away from my head. How the impact hadn’t broken my neck I’ll never know.
Brown laughed, ‘Get up, you lizard.’ He was genuinely relieved, and his relief raised my spirits so much that I laughed with him.
‘Andy, get up here and suppress!’ Westy hollered, ‘Let’s go!’
As I picked myself up I could see Three section crawling into the trench where Jonesy’s section had entered, dragging with them the platoon casualties. Sergeant Evans shouted orders at them.
I took aim over the top of the trench to see what we were firing at. My visor could only identify enemy a few hundred metres off to my left, and they appeared to be locked into a fire fight with two platoon. The whole section were engaging a much closer trench twenty metres to our front, but I couldn’t make out any enemy along its length; they were probably keeping their heads down. Meanwhile Jonesy’s section had been sent to attempt to clear the rest of our trench to the right, and potentially come around and attack the enemy in front of us from the flank.
Troopers were getting through their magazines quickly, every time one was expended, the firer took cover to change it, instinctively shouting ‘magazine!’ to warn his comrades that he was out of the fire fight.
We were firing rapid, which amounts to about one round every two seconds. It’s the fastest accurate rate of fire that could still allow the firer to recover his aim after the weapon’s recoil. The only drama with rapid fire was the speed you could get through ammunition. Maintenance of the section ammunition was the section 2ic’s main role in combat, and that meant me.
I crouched low and tapped on my wristpad screen, which then glowed dimly from behind droplets of rain. It had been Sam’s, and before Sam another unfortunate section second in command had carried it. The rain had washed off most of the blood.
‘Daniels, how many mags have you fired?’ I called over the intercom.
‘One!’
‘Brooks?’
‘Two!’
With each response I tapped figures into the wristpad to get my final total of magazines and mammoth available to my section. The final total would then be sent up to the platoon sergeant who maintained a constant vigil on the platoon’s ammunition totals. He could then request a resupply from the company sergeant major when needed, or redistribute the ammunition within the sections, giving more to where it was needed. Apparently the Chinese used a fully automated electronic system that managed their ammunition, making platoon sergeants and sergeant majors little more than glorified medics and anti-air sentries. Our electronic warfare teams had a field day with it.
I sent my total up to Sergeant Evans and then stood back up to join in with the battle.
‘Westy, we’ve cleared the rest of our trench,’ the boss was panting over the intercom, ‘I’m taking One section around to assault the trench in front of you, be aware of friendlies to your front and prepare to switch fire. You should see my forward line now!’ The boss was panting again. He would be up with Jonesy’s section, the platoon commander always stuck close to the front of the battle, as all good leaders should.
Our visors clearly marked the friendly troopers as they moved along our front and into our arc of fire.
‘Switch, fire left!’ I shouted over the intercom. The section repeated the order and obeyed, switching their suppressive fire to further along the trench. Wherever the enemy were, they weren’t coming up to play, which meant we were doing our job.
A grenade detonated in the enemy held trench, followed by bursts of gunfire. I heard Jonesy shouting for someone to move.
‘Check fire, check fire!’ The boss shouted and we obeyed, repeating the command onto our own section intercom.
‘Observe your arcs, boys!’ Westy ordered.
We watched over the top of the trench for One section’s progress, and more importantly any further enemy positions within the trench system. I could see two helmets poking out, identified as friendly by my visor.
‘That was mental,’ Brown exclaimed, elation in his voice. I shared his sentiment, even though the battle was far from over I was in good cover and I was alive. However brief it might be we could take a breather.
‘Mate, I thought that was me,’ I said, feeling the gouge in my helmet.
‘So did I, mate, you went down like a sack of shit, ha-ha!’
‘Why are you laughing, mate?’ I asked with mock hurt.
‘Err…. Coz you’re a sack of shit?’ Everyone laughed, including Westy, which was unusual; I hadn’t really heard him laugh or joke since we left Challenger.
‘Ev, it’s the boss, keep Westy back in reserve and send up Three section, please.’
‘Roger, they’re already on their way. Westy! Keep your section where they are, I need a work party to extract casualties!’ Casualty extraction was part of the 2ic’s job, and that meant me.
‘No worries,’ Westy looked to me, ‘Take two, mate.’
I chose Brown and Daniels because I couldn’t take both mammoths away from Westy and I didn’t trust Stevo. We ran back to the entry point, where Sergeant Evans and his launchers remained with the casualties. Three section charged past us on their way into the battle. No doubt there would be depth positions within the trench system, plus there had to at least be a couple of burrows as well.
Sergeant Evans waited with the casualties while his two smart gunners scanned the skies, ‘Moralee, you need to hand these casualties over to the sergeant major. Happy?’
I glanced down at the casualties; one had been shot through the stomach, and looked in a very bad way, barely conscious, probably through loss of blood. His stomach had been packed with a clotting foam and then wrapped in bandages. The other had received a dart to the thigh, and was lucky he still had it attached. His armour had been cut away and a bandage applied to his injury; obviously the automatic response had not worked properly. He had been administ
ered morphine, you could tell because the used injector pen had been attached to his helmet as a simple marker for medics. Both had already been moved onto collapsible stretchers.
‘What about the dead?’ I asked. The body of one of our fallen comrades had been sat up against the wall of the trench, his head lolling back unnaturally.
Sergeant Evans was clearly in a rush, ‘Don’t worry about him, he’s been stripped of his kit and he’ll get picked up at the re-org anyway. Just get those casualties out or they won’t make it. I need to make my way forward. Happy?’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
‘Let’s go then,’ Sergeant Evans was off, running up the trench toward the battle with his smart gunners in tow.
The three of us lifted the two casualties on their stretchers out of the trench. The man with the morphine moaned drowsily, but otherwise they barely made a sound. The trooper with the abdominal injury cried with pain, his injury was such that morphine could not be administered or it might kill him.
‘Don’t worry, mate,’ Brown said reassuringly as we heaved him onto the lip of the trench, ‘You’ll be fine.’
‘I don’t want to die,’ the casualty said weakly, and sobbed.
‘You’re not going to die mate,’ Brown laughed and patted the casualty’s shoulder as he lifted himself up alongside him, ‘You’ll barely even get much of a scar from that! What’s your name?’
‘Jackson.’
‘I promise you you’re fine, Jacko.’
As I lifted myself out of the trench I marvelled at how Brown sought to set the trooper’s mind at ease, something I could never have imagined him doing only two days ago.
I saw that the sergeant major had marked himself and his work party on my visor display with a bright blue crosshair. They were only about fifty metres away in a slight dip in the ground that barely concealed them from the enemy. Several troopers from the work party appeared to be arranged into a defensive formation around the sergeant major’s buggy, a tiny little two-seater with a trailer and little more than a roll cage as protection. He beckoned to us furiously.
C.R.O.W. (The Union Series) Page 28