'Charlie Bravo Two...get yourself into position and wait...Charlie Bravo Four, this is Nine...come and join us now, over.'
'Charlie Bravo Four, wilco Nine.'
Sergeant Davis didn't see the single Polish SU20 which swept down towards the troop, its pilot making a second circuit of the combat zone where he had been picking off the Lynx helicopters who were slowing the advance of the right flank of the Soviet division's armour. The Sukhoi was the only surviving aircraft of a squadron which had been brought down from Warsaw twenty-four hours before. The pilot had been reluctant to operate against the NATO forces, until he witnessed the loss of his friends in the first minutes of battle.
He had two Kerry missiles left in his pylons. As he dived from the north-west, the battlefront was a broad band of smoke across the plains. He could see the explosions of shells and rockets, and the spearhead of the Russian attack in the direction of the distant town of Braunschweig that was just visible on his horizon. On his first circuit his 30mm cannon shells had destroyed one of the Lynx helicopters; it had exploded violently and he had only just missed the disintegrating wreckage as it fell. He had seen the movement of the NATO tanks against the hill, and the chance of a shot at a new type of target was attractive. He cut his speed to sub-sonic and narrowed his turn, keeping the hill in his view as he did so. At first as he returned he could not see the Chieftains, then he spotted two close together and a third some distance to the east, moving through the scrub at the edge of the woods. He had little time for decision, and chose the tank on the left of the pair, cutting his speed further and holding the aircraft level. The target grew in his sights.
Several smoke shells had exploded on the lower ground ahead of Sergeant Davis's tank, the dense dark smoke swirling across the fields. Somewhere inside would be the Soviet armour in their familiar patterns of tight tanks, supported by the infantry carriers. Just ahead of the screen, in the lower woods, the artillery barrage had increased again.
'Charlie Bravo Four passing you now Nine...sixty meters to your rear. We'll go ahead another hundred meters and-cover you.'
'Roger Charlie Bravo Four...you still with us Charlie Bravo Two? Give Charlie Bravo Four a minute and...' In Lieutenant Sidworth's mid-sentence his Chieftain blew to fragments. Davis had been able to see it from the corner of his eye as he watched down the slope. One moment it was there, and the next the concussion of the explosion rocked Charlie Bravo Two, and the troop Leader's tank had become a mass of flying metal and flame.
The Sukhoi swung upwards. The pilot glanced behind and felt satisfaction at the sight of the orange ball of fire where his rockets had struck. He opened his throttle and pushed the SU20 into a spiralling climb, levelling out at 29,000 feet and turning east towards his airfield. He had flown three sorties since dawn, and hoped he would be allowed to rest for a few hours.
Davis was now in command of the troop; at least, in command of what was left of it...two Chieftains. 'DeeJay, don't go berserk, I want to see what's going on. Keep the speed down.' On the troop net: 'Charlie Bravo Two. The boss has bought it. We'll move back to Firefly and rejoin Charlie. And remember your training; keep a good overlap. Less than half gun range on each move...a foot on the ground, Sealey. Off you go, we'll hold here until you're in position. Out.' Christ, thought Davis, talk about unauthorized procedure? He could hardly have been more casual, but Sealey hadn't commanded a tank for long and there were the lives of two crews at stake. 'Hold it here, DeeJay.' There was a convenient fold in the ground which would hide the deep hull but still leave the gun turret clear.
Jamming was still total on Charlie Squadron net, isolating the two survivors of Bravo Troop. Davis had been in this kind of situation before, leading the troop when Lieutenant Sidworth's tank had been put out of action; only then it had been during the Defender 83 exercise, and the lieutenant had spent the next few hours drinking tea with fellow casualties, and discussing the remainder of the operation. And now Sidworth was dead!
Sod it, Davis suddenly thought. We're not supposed to be running, we're here to fight a bloody war. It's our job. 'Charlie Bravo Four, this is Bravo Two. Hold it where you are.' Sealey's tank was already three hundred meters behind them. Davis got his shoulders beneath the hatch and pushed upwards. For a moment he hesitated, remembering the danger of gas and considering fitting his respirator. Mentally he shrugged; if there had been gas around, then he would be dead by now. Bravo Two was pretty much of a sieve, he had been able to see daylight through the side of the hatch for the past hour, but she'd done a good job of keeping them all alive. He rammed open the hatch; it moved squeakily, one of the hinges twisted out of line. He stood and looked out. The air, though heavily tainted with gunsmoke, smelt fresh after the interior of the tank. He called down inside: 'Shadwell, do you think you can manage some fast loading with one hand?'
'I can try, Sarge. I'm not feeling too good, though.'
'How many rounds do we have left?'
'Twenty-three.'
Davis didn't remember using so many; it was easy to lose count. He would have estimated they had used only a dozen shells. 'You won't have to load that number,' he told Shadwell. 'Charlie Bravo Four this is Charlie Bravo Two. We're moving down the hill until we meet the road. Do you see it?'
'Affirmative, Sarge.'
'There's a cutting to the left of the small wood at four o'clock...got it?'
'Cutting to left of small wood. Right of the line of trees?'
'That's it. We'll get down there. When we're in position, you follow.'
'That's towards the bloody Russians.' Corporal Sealey didn't sound enthusiastic.
'DeeJay, head down the hill.' Davis felt a strange sense of exhilaration as the Chieftain swung itself around, the same feeling he had experienced the first time he had climbed inside one of the huge vehicles and heard the powerful roar of its engine. Familiarity had dulled his appreciation, now it had returned. He could see why his machine gun had failed to operate, the barrel was twisted down against the cupola, its casing shattered. The main gun appeared undamaged, but there were shrapnel scars on the hull and turret, some several centimeters deep. Half the camouflage paint had been burnt off; Bravo Two looked like a candidate for the breaker's yard. Whoever had decided to do away with the .5 calibre ranging machine gun was a bloody fool, decided Davis. It was a useful spare weapon. Now all he had apart from the main gun, which wasn't much use against infantry, were the Sterlings. Still, it was good to be out in the open again after hours closed-down. It might be dangerous, but it felt better, and his field of vision was greatly improved. The smoke was thickening again now they had moved down closer to the fields, but visibility was almost three hundred meters. DeeJay bucked a shallow ditch and then they were on the narrow roadway, barely as wide as the length of the tank. Opposite was a steep bank, just over a meter high. The gunner wouldn't be able to depress the gun fully, but that wouldn't be necessary. It wasn't too bad as a firing position Davis decided. There was reasonable protection for the hull, and not too much of it showing above the bank. With luck, the rising ground behind would help conceal them, though they would be vulnerable to air attack. He watched Bravo Four begin to move down to join them.
Almost three thousand meters above on the slopes of the hill, out of radio contact with both his squadron and the battle group headquarters, Charlie Squadron Leader Captain Valda Willis was watching the two Chieftains through his binoculars. He had just identified them as Two and Four of his squadron's B Troop. Willis, and another survivor of the squadron, had only a few minutes previously managed to force their way through the encircling Russian armour. It had been a close thing, with only a narrow corridor remaining clear. Willis had seen the two Bravo Troop Chieftains on the slopes, before they had turned off down the hill. Their manoeuvre had been unexpected. They were being driven straight towards the enemy as though going in for an attack! It was impossible for him to contact them by radio, his two aerials had been blown away by an HE shell explosion on his turret. The two Charlie Bravo Chieft
ains he was watching were now facing north-east, the bulk of the moor to the left of them. The Russian amour had occupied most of the woods on the eastern slopes of the moor and was encircling the lower ground to the south. He was surprised that any of Bravo Troop had survived; their position had been heavily shelled and then overrun.
He saw a line of Russian T-64s clearing the smoke. 'What's the range?'
'Three thousand five hundred, sir.' The gunner was following one of the lead tanks.
Sergeant Davis saw the leading T-64 just as Captain Willis' shell struck it below its main gun. He thought that Bravo Four must have fired as the tank was now in position some eighty meters to his left. But as he glanced towards it now, he could see no gunsmoke.
He was searching the ground for other British tanks when Inkester fired without warning. Davis had no time to duck into the fighting compartment. The blast almost deafened him. He dropped inside and jerked the hatch closed. 'You okay, Shadwell?'
'Yes.'
Davis noticed the loader struggling, and wished he was better positioned to help the man. It seemed an age before the breech slammed closed and Shadwell shouted; 'Loaded.' Inkester fired immediately. 'Two, Sarge. Two...one after another. How's that for bloody shooting?'
'Shut up. Bravo Four, you okay?' Davis's head was still ringing from the sound of the gun.
'Affirmative, Sarge.'
'Fuckin' hurry up, Shad.' Inkester was shouting, working the turret around to the left. The Chieftain bucked again.
'Okay Bravo Four, get moving, fast.' Sealey didn't need encouragement. He was imagining a dozen guns ranging on the spot where his tank rested. His driver spun the tank on the road, and felt relief as the tracks bit into the tarmac surface.
Get going you bastard, get going! Davis knew he had to give Sealey enough time to get well down the road and into another firing position. But he was finding it almost impossible to resist the temptation to follow him. There was movement on his horizon, a turret top below a ridge of ground.
'Bravo Two this is Four. In position.'
Inkester had been monitoring the net, and shouted at DeeJay. Bravo Two wallowed for a second and then spun, showering sparks from her tracks.
The road took the Chieftain diagonally away from the advancing Russian armour, its smooth surface giving them the edge in speed, while the bank at the roadside was good cover. An enemy gunner would have to be damned efficient to get a sure sight on their fast-moving turret, thought Davis. Pray to God there weren't any helicopters! He pushed up the hatch again. The road curved to the right and he could see Bravo Four. 'Okay Bravo Four, we're going on past you.'
Sealey shouted back in the radio, 'You're fucking mad. I'm not waiting here.'
Davis changed the tone of his voice. 'Bravo Four, this is Bravo Two. You make a move before I radio, Sealey you bastard, and I'll put a Sabot right through your bloody hull. Out.' There was no comment from the shocked corporal.
A thousand meters farther down the road Davis stopped the tank and swung the turret ninety degrees to the right before calling Bravo Four. A couple of minutes later Sealey's Chieftain thundered past them at almost thirty miles an hour, shaking the ground as it went.
'Bravo Four, this is Bravo Two. I'm holding here for a while. Get yourself well back, but keep us in range.'
'Wilco, Bravo Two.' Sealey sounded subdued.
There wouldn't be long to wait, decided Davis. The battle smoke was drifting parallel with the road, and the visibility in the fields was better than six hundred meters. 'Traverse right, Inkester. Hold it...there...BMP, alongside the hedge.'
'I see it...come on love, come on now...' Inkester was talking to the gun as he fired. He yelled: 'Hit...hit, Sarge.'
Davis missed the destruction of the troop carrier, but heard Inkester's shout of satisfaction. 'Shut up, Inkester...Bravo Four this is Bravo Two, we're moving again.' Davis was trying to find the road on his map. It curved north, taking them directly across the line of the Soviet advance! They would have to leave it and move across the fields towards the west. He stuffed the map between his legs and pressed his eyes to the sight. It was aligned on a T-64. He flicked on the times ten magnification just as Inkester's shell struck; it was impressive, watching it happen only a few meters away. 'Move, DeeJay. Get her rolling...Bravo Four as soon as we reach you, move off...we'll head west off the road and get out of here...'
'Wilco, Sarge...' Corporal Sealey acknowledged gratefully.
'BMPs...BMPs...' Inkester's voice rose. The computer locked to its target, adjusting the gun as the tank moved. Inkester fired.
'Go left now, DeeJay...keep with us Bravo Four...Inkester, BMP three o'clock...don't lose it...Bravo Four, stay close...we're heading west of the small wood ahead.' The gun roared once more. 'Okay, Inkester, leave 'em.'
A shell exploded a few meters ahead of Bravo Two just as DeeJay rammed her through a hedge and into the open field. He began jinking, maintaining the speed but driving in a series of opposing curves as he braked first one track and then the other. There were more explosions, one close enough for its pressure wave to slam violently against the hull. A few meters more and they would be behind cover. Don't let it happen...please don't let it happen to us...Davis was praying. It took an eternity to cover the few hundred meters, but the shelling eased and finally stopped. DeeJay straightened the course and rammed his foot down hard. He had been in action long enough, and now all he wanted was to get away as fast as he could. 'Steady...for Christ's sake, DeeJay!' Bravo Two was pitching dangerously, hammering her bow on. the ground as her suspension was strained near breaking point. 'Easy, lad...easy.' Bravo Four was in line with them now, a hundred meters to their left.
The panic which had gripped DeeJay gradually slackened. He managed to get himself and Bravo Two under control. For a few moments, the terror which he had kept contained during the fighting had overwhelmed him.
He could hear Davis's voice, calm, unemotional. 'Fine, DeeJay...keep it like that...nice and steady. Left a little...left...good...well done, lad.' The knots in DeJay's stomach muscles relaxed and he began listening to Bravo Two. Her tracks were slapping badly, needed adjustment...her engine was beginning to sound rough; he hadn't helped it by driving like a lunatic. She didn't deserve that kind of treatment. Her steering was getting difficult as well, he was having to use a lot more strength on the left lever. Everything needed servicing, and badly. Christ, the sergeant fitter would go bananas when he examined her. There was a strange rattle, a deep knock that reverberated through the driving compartment...an engine mounting? Bloody hell, that would be an they needed. He began to nurse her, encourage her.
Davis too was beginning to relax as the distance between Bravo Two and the advancing enemy increased. I've survived again, he told himself; survived for Hedda and the boys...so we can be together...God, when? Afterwards! Hedda? It would be good when he saw her again...Christ, it would be good! He tried to send his thoughts to her...I'll be back soon, love...just you take care of the kids, I'll look after my self...don't you worry...I'm okay...doing fine.
'Ahead...tank...'Inkester yelled the words just as Davis caught a glimpse of a partially camouflaged hull, close to the wood on their right. Inkester was swinging the turret trying to get the tank in his sights.
'No...it's one of ours...a Challenger,' warned Davis. 'Bravo Four...Challengers to our right.' The ground dipped unexpectedly in front of Bravo Two. DeeJay braked fiercely and swung left. There were a line of Challengers in the hollow, hull down, waiting. 'DeeJay, slow...okay, lad...stop her. Bravo Four come alongside us.' Davis opened the hatch and clambered out, trying to decide which of the tanks was likely to contain an officer. He recognized the skull and crossed bones insignia of the 17th/21st Lancers. A figure waved to them from a tank further down the line. He jumped down to the ground and was surprised his legs held him; they felt shaky, numb. He ran to the vehicle and climbed on to her hull. 'Sergeant Davis, sir. Bravo Troop, Charlie Squadron...Battle Group Cowdray One. We've got ourselves lost, sir. N
o radio contact.'
The officer's rank wasn't visible on his clothing, but Davis sensed he was a captain, possibly a major. 'You should be a mile further south, Sergeant. Your group is pulling back towards Warberg. You'll be reforming there. You can leave the Russians to us for a while. Get there as quickly as you can.'
'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.' Davis jumped from the Challenger's hull. The officer's voice stopped him.
'Sergeant...what was your name again?'
'Davis, sir. Morgan Davis.'
'You men have done a good job, Sergeant Davis. Head due south. You'll hit the Esbeck to Warberg road.'
'Thank you, sir.' He saluted, then ran back to Bravo Two. There were four helicopters coming low across the fields, Lynxs, heading towards the advancing Soviet armour. The sound of artillery was quickening; a flight of rockets howled away from a battery hidden in the woods. The war was catching up with him again. It was late afternoon, on the first day.
NINE
There was sufficient aggressive determination in the voice of November Squadron's Captain Harling of the US Black Horse Cavalry, to convince Master Sergeant Will Browning that the man was a homicidal megalomaniac and that he'd conceived some sadistic plan that would lead to the extermination of his whole squadron.
Chieftains Page 9