by James Rouch
‘Right, post a couple of sentries, everyone else is to give a hand moving the casualties. If a Swedish patrol boat goes past now we’ll stand out like a damned neon sign. Soon as that’s organised I’ll want the other sledges found and their loads transferred to the house or the launch sites. OK, let’s move. There’s lots to do and not too many of us to do it.’
‘What about them?’ Andrea indicated the slumped, immobile forms occupying several seats.
Revell knew her well enough to realise she didn’t feel the slightest concern for what became of the bodies. She was probing him again, testing him for his reaction, his response to a situation. Just for once he found himself thinking her way. ‘Leave them.’ It was what he added that marked the difference between them. ‘The living come first.’
Standing at the top of the bank down which the cabin had made the final plunge, the bitter wind plucked at them. The snow was beginning to settle, gathering in the ruts gouged out of the grass slope by their descent and softening the harsh outlines of the partially demolished house twenty feet above their heads.
The clattering, clinking noise they’d heard was less noticeable now, as the sea refroze and bound together the shattered slabs of ice.
It had been Libby’s idea to use one of the seats from the cabin as an improvised litter on which to hoist their casualties to the top. With three men hauling from above, and two climbing alongside to prevent it tipping, the contraption had made the task of moving the fracture cases to the higher ground easier, and much faster, than it otherwise would have been.
‘That was the last of them, Major.’ As Libby sought a large block of rubble to which he could secure the rope, a tottering chimney hanging over the ruin finally gave up resistance to the wind’s pressure and fell.
Tumbling over the mound of debris, the heavy mass of battered brickwork bounced down the bank, narrowly missing Dooley, who was arranging a corner of the camouflage netting draped over the cabin. It skidded across the ice-crusted gravel at the water’s edge and on to the frozen sea, breaking through and disappearing. The fragments of ridge-crossed ice closed over, and the trail of bubbles that rose to the surface was trapped by the lace-like layer that filled the gaps between the pieces.
Revell tugged his hood closer about his face, pulling the fur over his mouth and breathing hard into it so that it warmed his lips. The sensation was quickly lost. He felt the fur harden to frosty spikes the instant it was touched by the wind. That weather forecast, bad as it was, must have been on the optimistic side, it was far colder than he’d expected: far colder even than anything he’d experienced on exercises in the Arctic, and he’d thought them tough at the time.
They’d got off to a bad start. The effective strength of the artillery contingent had already been halved, and their command structure wiped out down to the level of a bombardier. There would be a lot of work for those who were left, and much of the responsibility would fall on the gunner NCO. If he shaped up, it would take some of the load off himself, Hyde and Lieutenant Hogg; but if he didn’t, then nursemaiding him would be yet another burden. Even as he speculated the bombardier appeared at Revell’s side.
‘Casualties have all been transferred, Major. I’ve got my men sorted and I’d like to get cracking and find our equipment as soon as possible, sir.’ That had been unexpected. The bombardier had slipped on the mantle of command very quickly ... too quickly? It was tempting to give him his head, but Revell decided that until he knew the youngster’s capabilities it would be sensible to restrain, or at least contain, his enthusiasm. ‘We’ll be doing that in just a minute. What’s your speciality?’
‘Radar and fire-control systems, sir.’
‘OK, pick what men you need, as few as possible, and stick to that. The rest of us will take care of moving and sighting the launchers.’ For a fraction of a second it seemed that the bombardier might dispute the order, his face had fallen when most of his men had been removed from his command; but he obviously decided against it, executed an impeccable salute and departed.
Checking his watch, Revell noted that they only had nine hours of darkness left. If they couldn’t get finished they might have to risk working during the day. Speed was everything now. ‘Sergeant Hyde, stop those men clowning about and get them up here, now.’
Hyde had already observed the antics of Dooley and York as they attempted to mount the slippery bank. They were hauling themselves up by the rope, but even so, making hard work of it. His annoyance was increased substantially by the fact that the American officer had noticed and commented on the charade before he’d done so himself.
‘Get a bloody move on, Dooley. You’re the one who’s supposed to be super fit, the muscle man. I’ve an old grey-haired aunt who could climb that faster.’
Reaching the top, Dooley paused before attempting the final heave that would pull him on to level ground. ‘I’ve already been up and down the fucking thing a couple of dozen times, shoving that crappy seat and its passengers. Shit, even I run out of puff sometimes.’ The sergeant’s boot hovered above his fingers, threatening to crush them into the frozen soil. ‘But maybe I can summon up a little extra,’ he added as he saw the danger to his precarious handhold.
Still clutching the rope, unable to climb past Dooley’s obstructing bulk, York started complaining.
‘Shut your racket.’ Hyde reached down and jerked the radio-man to his feet as soon as Dooley was out of the way. ‘Useless pair of buggers, join the others.’ For a moment York thought he might risk a reply, but Revell was close by, and though he might have chanced it with the British sergeant, there was no way he’d take the same risk with his own officer. Hyde was hard, but Revell was just plain cruel. Even a tough nut like Dooley never tried anything with the major around.
Before he started out for the house, York made a final examination of their handiwork. That was a good job they’d made of camouflaging the sledge and cabin. With the snow beginning to fall heavily, sprinkling the mottled fabric strips sewed to the net, the whole thing was starting to merge with its surroundings. It would already be virtually invisible to the naked eye at more than a few yards.
For the next couple of hours there would be sufficient residual heat from the bodies for the cabin’s temperature to remain above that of the terrain surrounding it. Revell knew it wouldn’t be much, but it would be enough to stand out on the infra-red screen of any patrolling Swedish or Russian craft doing a sweep of the islands. It was no longer sufficient to hide an object from sight, and camouflage of that sort was not always worth the vast effort frequently involved.
Multi-spectral surveillance made it virtually impossible to keep anything from the prying lens and sensors of the latest photographic and electronic detectors. It was crazy, but maybe the time had come when it would be better to leave important installations such as radar sites and headquarters out in the open. With an enemy like the Communists, who never took anything at face value and who attributed the same evil cunning to others that they practised themselves, maybe they’d get away with it. It was a tempting idea ...possibly a bright-eyed young staff officer back at the Pentagon was already pushing such a proposal ...but as he stood beside York surveying the cabin, he was well aware it was an experiment they dare not try here and now. As it was, in this frozen landscape their every move would stand out like a neon sign. The odds stacked against them were long enough already, there was no reason to help them lengthen.
Eight dead and nearly twice that number injured, with the severity of their wounds varying in degree from Lieutenant Hogg’s broken nose to the gunner who’d lost his forearm. Revell knew the calculations as to the minimum numbers of men necessary to carry out the mission had been finely worked out. Now there was a double, a triple workload for those still fit to do it. As he turned into the wind, felt his face smart and his eyes start to water, he could only hope that the worst misfortune likely to befall them before they went into action was now out of the way.
It was their sniper, Clarence, who bl
amed a malevolent God for everything that went wrong. Not that he had much time for religion himself, but Revell had a feeling that in this war God was neutral, had seen the horrors of the Zone and washed his hands of it. There were many mere mortals inside the Zone who wished they could do the same.
‘I’ve had it. I’ve fucking had it up to here.’ Burke picked up a piece of track plate and shied it at the growing pile of broken weaponry. ‘You just wouldn’t fucking credit it, would you. I get dropped from the back of a ruddy plane, watch blokes getting smashed to bits all around me. I flog meself to bleeding death carting the poor sods to cover, get dragged out into the wilds of bloody Scandinavia to hunt the sledges before I’ve even had time for a sodding fag, and now I bloody find the reason I’m bloody here in the first place don’t ruddy exist any more.’
‘The rocket launchers and the electronics equipment is intact, that is all that is important.’ Andrea had hardly paid any attention to the shattered remains of tractor unit. She was sorting through the scattered debris of the sled and its load, joining the others in search of the squad’s support weapons and ammunition.
‘We’re lucky the whole lot didn’t just go up on impact.’ Dragging aside a .twisted girder that had braced the underside of the sledge, Libby scrutinised the battered contents of a crushed ammunition box by torchlight. ‘If this stuff alone had gone off,’ he removed a mangled anti-tank missile from the tangle of two others, ‘the Swedes or their Commie mates would have been down on us like a ton of steaming shit. They’d have had us pinpointed in seconds.’
Burke took in the overturned tractor and the splintered remnants of its packing case load, sticking out from beneath the broken track-festooned wreck. ‘Sod it. What am I going to do?’ To Burke’s mind the sole redeeming feature of a mission concerning which he’d always had the very deepest misgivings had been torn from him. He wasn’t about to find consolation in Libby’s words.
‘How’s about you stop blubbering over that old bus that you can’t put together again anyhow, and start giving a hand with some of the chores. This stuff gets kinda heavy after the first three.’ Staggering under the weight of the cased ammunition already in his arms, Ripper had to accept a fourth heavily-dented box from Hyde before he was allowed to totter off towards the house.
‘It’s no good, Sarge.’ Hardly bothering to glance at it, York tossed a machine gun on to the stack. ‘This is just a waste of time. What wasn’t mashed on impact got bent when the tractor broke loose and turned over. Look at it.’
He held up one of the decoy mortar-discharger?, all six barrels were now decidedly oval.
‘Keep looking. Everything repairable must be salvaged, and everything else must be gathered up into one place, so we can get it ready for effective demolition. We can’t go round sticking a couple of ounces of plastic on each individual chunk of rubbish.’ Diving on the butt of a machine gun, Hyde dragged it from beneath the crushed tractor cab: but that was all there was, the barrel and body of the weapon had been torn off and pounded into the ground.
‘It was the chutes.’ Carrying part of the rigging, Re veil led Clarence and Dooley into the clearing.
The two men were having difficulty with the huge bundle of canopy silk. It kept trailing and snagging on the ragged stumps of silver birch that had been felled by the sleds’ high-speed impact.
‘One of the shits didn’t deploy properly, must have wrapped itself around the others.’ Dumping the voluminous folds of fine fabric on the pile, and weighting them down with anonymous hunks of metal, Dooley pulled a face. ‘Good job this set weren’t on our rig, we’d have gone straight through that fucking house and on out to sea.’
‘We’d have been alright with York around.’ The radio-man treated Libby’s comment with suspicion. ‘And why’s that?’ ‘With that big mouth of yours, you could have drunk it dry and we’d have been able to walk home.’
‘Piss off.’
‘That’s what you’d have been doing, for fucking years and years and years.’ Dooley might have added more, but the major’s torch beam flicked his way, and he caught its warning.
Andrea heard, but didn’t listen. The conversations, the jokes, the arguments, all washed over her, she took no part and no interest in them. It wasn’t contempt that made her ignore the men, not even fear that familiarity of any description might be interpreted as encouragement - to her they were simply not important.
In battle, yes, or when the discussion became serious•and had to do with their work, then she listened, but not to this trivia. It was a constant surprise to her how men such as these, whose minds were full of thoughts of sex and drink and whose mouths spilled crude humour and obscenities, could when necessary weld instantly into a ruthlessly efficient fighting unit, capable of taking on an enemy force superior in numbers and machinery and defeating it or mauling it so badly it was left easy meat for others.
She had learnt something more about fighting from each of them. The sniper, Clarence, had taught her much and she’d absorbed all the skills he’d unknowingly passed on. And now she had tagged on to Dooley, from whom she was finding out all there was to know of hand-to-hand combat.
There was still so much to absorb, and there would be others among them who could teach her; but the hardest lesson of all would be the skills of command. Revell and Hyde both practised it as a fine art, yet in totally different ways. She hadn’t yet decided which was best, but some day, one of them would also become her teacher.
‘Shit, this don’t leave us much to fight with if we tangle with a bunch of Ruskies.’ York pulled out an M60 machine gun from the splintered remains of a case. Although obviously damaged, it looked a marginally more likely candidate for repair than any other retrieved so far.
‘Cheer up.’ Using his bare hands, Dooley partially straightened the thick tubular legs of a machine gun bipod, until they snapped, and he hurled them from him in disgust. ‘If the cruds chop off your hands and feet, you can still pee on them and drown them.’
‘With that great donger of yours, I reckon you could always club them to death.’ Andrea wasn’t listening.
FIVE
From the top of the bell tower of the tiny church, Bombardier Cline could see much of the southern half of the island, by the light of the pale and watery dawn, though at times the snow made it indistinct as the last eddies of the dying wind pushed thick flurries around the building. The locations of the three sites for the launchers were just visible. The weather didn’t matter. When the time came the radar and low-light TV would give him better eyes than his own with which to follow the progress of the Russian warships, and direct the rocket artillery’s fire.
He gave a final twist to the clamp securing the miniature camera to the parapet. The instrument that had failed on test and that he’d just replaced was flying at his feet. The cold was numbing his hands, and had made him clumsy. Fear of dropping their last spare camera had made him work even slower.
There were other similar instruments set in trees along the shore, giving a healthy redundancy factor. Even if the Russians retaliated to their first salvo with a saturation counter-bombardment it was unlikely they could take out all the cameras, so long as they stuck to conventional warheads, that was. If the Communists got stroppy and used a low yield nuke, they’d be able to wipe this comparatively featureless island as clean as a billiard ball at one go.
It had been a good operation for Cline so far. He’d survived the touchdown, found himself instantly elevated to command of the artillery contingent and felt he’d acquitted himself pretty well in the eyes of the Yank major and his horror- show NCO. All he had to do was stay sharp and he’d come through this with a promotion. That would be a handy short cut, save him a lot of tiresome face- stepping and back-stabbing. It was a real bugger, trying to make your mark, get noticed, among the mass of other sods in the battery who were keen to do the same thing. But now, now he had golden opportunity to save a lot of boot licking, he’d get that commission yet…
‘You still fix
ing that?’ Libby clambered up through the trap. ‘I thought you said that was only a two-minute job. You’d better get back to the house and start checking the other circuits that have been hooked in, before the major comes after you.’
‘Just who the hell do you think you’re talking to?’ In the armourer, Cline had recognised someone who might take a share of his glory, diminish its shine. It’d be best to put the bloke in his place early on, like now.
Unconcerned, Libby leant out and brushed snow from a ledge, watching the large soft lumps fall silently to the roof of the porch twenty feet below.
Stung by Libby’s apparent indifference, Cline repeated his question, prodding him in the back to emphasise each word.
Slowly, as though reluctant to concern himself with the matter, Libby turned and faced the gunner. For a long moment, as the junior NCO bristled on tiptoe, Libby looked him up and down, adopting an expression of weary contempt as he completed the inspection.
‘Shut up, you jumped-up little prat. While you’ve been piddling about with these lightweight peripherals, me and the others have been harnessed like a bloody dog- team hauling the bulk of your electronic gear to the house. The others are out there now, pulling ruddy great launchers and reload ammo fit to bust. I’m shagged, and I’ve not been made any happier by having the Sarge send me chasing after you, like a bleeding company runner. So take this as fair warning, it’s the only one you’ll get. You ever lay a finger on me again and I’ll snap it off, then shove you off here to see if you bounce.’
Despite the cold, colour rushed to Cline’s cheeks, but the visual effect of his bottled indignation was spoilt by his inarticulate spluttering. ‘You… I’ll… I’ll… have you… a charge… the…’
‘Oh, piss off.’ Bored with the whole affair, Libby returned to contemplating the wall of the tower and the thin cable that ran from the camera, down its side, and was lost in the snow as it snaked away. He didn’t watch Cline’s angry departure, but he did allow himself a small smile, when shortly after the trapdoor slammed, he heard the bombardier’s swearing as he slipped on the ladder.