Chieftains

Home > Other > Chieftains > Page 10
Chieftains Page 10

by Robert Forrest-Webb


  The captain's exaggerated Texan enthusiasm bordered on hysteria as he made a wild speech over the squadron net about pride, the need to sacrifice and the old-fashioned spunk of true-grit American fighting men when faced with some difficult, if not impossible, task. Harling intended it to make the men of his squadron forget they might be about to die – it had the opposite effect. Those who had not remade their wills in the past few days now regretted the omission; more than a couple of the nervous were reduced to mental wrecks of no fighting use whatsoever, and they needed long and real encouragement from their individual commanders to combat Harling's damage to their morale.

  It had come only a short while after the end of a series of attacks on their positions, which November Squadron had successfully repulsed. The nerves of the survivors were already ragged; the earlier artillery bombardment had been fierce. The lull, when it came, had been welcome. Then the captain's lengthy bullshit pep-talk.

  He had ended: 'I can't tell you not to think about KIA...but I tell you, men, when they do a body count out there, there are going to be one hell of a lot more Popskis than Johnstons.' That was great, mused Browning, one of the November drivers was a Mike Popski! 'We're going right back in. We held the head of their assault my, and beat 'em. Now we're going after them, into their flank.' Harling had suddenly remembered security and switched to code after a fit of coughing. 'H minus 1237 Shark Fin. You get...' The squadron network picked up a steady howling interference that drowned out Harling's voice. Browning didn't hurry to retune to a different wavelength. Shark Fin...counterattack...so that was what all the bull was about. H...that was the datum time, so H minus 1237 meant it would all begin to happen in around ten minutes.

  'How come we held the head, and we're about to attack their flank?' began Podini, incredulously. 'The guy's a nut!'

  The troop radio net interrupted him. 'Utah, Idaho, Oregon?' The troop lieutenant's voice, easy and relaxed. 'What you got left?' Will Browning heard the ammunition count and added his own. 'Thirty-nine rounds; mixed. Smoke unused. Machine gun ammo okay, out.'

  'H minus 1233 we move, okay. They've got a bridgehead over the Ulster a kilometer north of Gunthers. Avoid the hundred meter strip near the river, it's heavily mined. There are some T-80s ahead of us, but according to information the captain's got, they're thin on the ground, and we believe they don't have much infantry support now. The rest of November will be on our right. We'll keep to the open ground to the west. Out.'

  Six minutes? There were only five left now! Browning was trying to collect his memories of the past hours; the barrage spreading south until it had engulfed them and finally passed on. There had been no casualties then in the squadron, although the infantry and one of the artillery batteries had suffered. The squadron had moved forward a thousand meters to battle positions on lower ground, and fought the enemy massed on the shallow slopes on the far side of the river Ulster. It had been long-distance warfare at first, maximum range, indistinct targets hidden behind smoke as the Soviet assault force attempted to gain a foothold on the western bank. The river defences had been hard pressed, yet they had held...but not, it now seemed, everywhere. Browning had seen the temporary military bridges blown in the first few minutes of the initial attack, demolished by the charges of the US Division's Combat Engineers. There had been several attempts by the Soviet troops using BTR-50 amphibious troop carriers to cross the river, but these had all been foiled by the artillery on the western hill overlooking the valley, and steady mortaring and small-arms fire had wasted the enemy infantry. A renewed artillery barrage by Soviet long-range field artillery had again failed to displace the US Division, and full daylight provided the Army Air Corps' gunships and Thunderbolt Threes with a wealth of targets. The US Command's plans that their ground forces should always be able to fight under a canopy of air superiority was paying off in the sector. There had been no time so far, in the battle, when Browning and the men of November had found the sky clear of American aircraft of one type or another. It had been comforting.

  Napalm had ignited much of the forest on the eastern side of the border territory, and the strengthening breeze from the south-east was sweeping the fires northwards across the Soviet supply routes, and forcing them continuously to move their close artillery support. The immediate effect had been to take the pressure off the northernmost flank of the American Armoured Division.

  Mike Adams was gunning the motor like some twitchy racing driver at the start of a Grand Prix. Browning was about to tell him to cool it when he heard the lieutenant again. 'Okay Indians, let's roll.'

  India Troop came out of the woodland in line abreast and for a few seconds Browning felt naked, then the other tanks of November squadron were with them, and Browning was happier. Christ, he thought, war's changed... even as I remember it! You no longer saw lines of weary infantrymen trudging their way up to the front and into battle. Now they travelled right to the battlefield in their armoured personnel carriers...they arrived fresh and unsullied. At least, that was the principle. The infantry were with them now, only a couple of hundred meters behind the leading tanks, well-protected in their XM723s, sufficiently weaponed to be capable of fighting their way forward with the main amour, each of the personnel carriers equipped with TOW missile launchers and 25mm cannon; inside, twelve infantrymen and the crew.

  The appearance of the small village of Gunthers startled Browning. He had driven through it legs than thirty hours before. It had been tidy, neat and spotless; the houses with their steeply pitched roofs smartly painted, their verandahs and windows decked with carefully tended boxes of bright scarlet geraniums and ferns. The men had been hurrying about their business with the usual Teutonic dedication, as though their ignoring the increasing tension so close to their homes would encourage it to go away. The women had been at the shops, the children in school. Browning had slowed his vehicle to watch a group of boys, supervised by a tracksuited teacher, playing soccer. Browning didn't understand the rules too well, but it was increasing in popularity back home in the States, and it looked active enough to be interesting. Now, it was all an area of terrible desolation and smoke-blackened wreckage. Not a single building was left standing above its first level. They were a thousand meters to the east of it.

  Hal Ginsborough said quietly, 'Will you take a look at that! God almighty!'

  'Mother-fuckers...' It was Podini.

  'Shut up,' snapped Browning. Who needed comments to emphasize the civilian horror? He couldn't see a living soul in the wreckage, though doubtless there'd be some. Somebody always survived, no matter how bad it looked; he'd seen it happen many times in Nam, but it was always hard to believe. Maybe some of the villagers would have left before the battle began, but he doubted if all would have quit their homes. Some did...but many didn't. They sat in the cellars and waited, praying desperately that the war would pass them by. He knew what the wreckage of the buildings would smell like; it would be worse in a few days. Someone, perhaps him, would eventually have to help dig out the bodies, hoping all the time they might find someone alive, some kid perhaps, protected by a beam of timber, a collapsed wall. The smell...the stink, and the flies. There would be rats...Jesus, why was it so many of them seemed to escape destruction? Lean, starving dogs; worse, cats that could sometimes look obscenely well-fed, licking themselves clean amongst the tumbled and bloodstained rubble! There were fires in the wreckage, and a heavy layer of smoke drifted above the remains of the village like a shroud.

  The lieutenant's voice was on the troop net again: 'Best speed, Indians, but maintain your formation. Good luck, guys.'

  Best speed! 'Step on it, Mike,' he ordered, and felt the Abrams surge forward, bucking over the uneven ground, as the roar of the engines increased. Sound was always relative to discomfort in a tank, he thought wryly. The only good thing was you didn't hear most of the noises of battle. It was still there, though; not far in front of him now. Five thousand meters...closer. Much closer!

  He saw the explosion of a shell two hu
ndred meters ahead. It looked like an error, or an optimistic ranging attempt by some distant gun crew. Mike Adams had seen it too, and he steered the Abrams in a series of sharp but uneven zigzags that shook Browning's head from side to side as the direction continuously changed; a few hundred meters of driving like this and he would begin to feel travel sick.

  It was barely possible to distinguish the riverbank several hundred meters to their right. Like everywhere else the ground seemed to be on fire, the grass and trees smoking, hazy; wreckage, twisted and spewing Mack fumes. Far ahead were the remains of a small wood on a low hill, and a few scattered and blasted farm buildings at the foot of the rising ground.

  The barrage began to increase in intensity. Where the hell was the American smoke, Browning wondered? It was madness charging straight into enemy guns; the only protection they were getting was from the smoke of the Soviet shell explosions. The horizon was blurred, but the advancing American tanks must be obvious targets to the enemy gunners. Browning couldn't pinpoint their positions, but had the ghastly feeling he was being driven into the heart of a maelstrom of artillery fire.

  Two heavy calibre shells bracketed the tank, forcing Adams to correct the steering. Hell seemed to open its doors ahead of them; shell-bursts as dense as forest trees were columns of fire leaping up from the ground. Was the squadron getting air support? Browning thought he caught a glimpse of a line of gunships above him. If it were imagination, it helped a little; he had lost sight of the other tanks. He was experiencing a growing sense of indecisiveness and terror. Should he order Adams to slow down...increase his speed? Should he tell him to swing the Abrams out of line, try to get away to the side where the barrage might be lighter? Get the hell out of here...that was important...chances of survival were nil...it was only a matter of time...seconds...and they'd be hit...this was crazy...madness...

  The lieutenant was shouting on the troop net, static punctuating his words. 'Indians engaging...Indians engaging...'

  Adams swerved the XM1 again as the burning hulk of a Russian T-80 loomed through the smoke. Someone, something, had hit it...visibility was little more than forty meters. The corpses of a Soviet mortar team were strewn across the path of the Abrams, their bodies blackened and twisted by napalm, still smouldering. The XM1's tracks churned them into the filthy earth.

  Infantry. They would be around somewhere, hidden, waiting, as deadly as howitzers with their anti-tank rocket launchers. Was the barrage easing? Browning sprayed the area ahead with his machine gun...keep the bastards' heads down. Ginsborough was doing the same...and experiencing identical fears. Browning knew Podini would be seeking targets for the main gun, but there seemed to be none. There was a Soviet BTR-60 personnel carrier to the Abrams' right, but its wheels had been blown off and its tyres were burning. He saw movement beside the hulk and swung the .5 towards it, firing before he aimed, a line of heavy bullets ripping a deep seam across the ground. He concentrated a long burst on the rear of the carrier and saw green-suited figures stagger and fall. Ginsborough's 7.62 was chattering...short regular bursts that seemed to be timed to the pulse in Browning's temples.

  Adams was yelling in the intercom: 'Jesus...oh Jesus...Jesus Christ...Jesus Christ!' He wound the Abrams through a field of craters, the wreckage of vehicles and men, its speed little more than jogging pace. The smoke was thinning, visibility increasing.

  There was a heavy blow on the side of the XM1's turret which sent a violent shockwave through the fighting compartment and rang the metal of the hull as though it were a vast bell.

  'Shit!' Ginsborough was swearing. In the gloom of the interior the side of the turret was glowing dull red where an armour-piercing shell had failed to penetrate as it glanced off the thick steel. The ground was rising more sharply, smashed woodland lay ahead, stumps of distorted trees, pitted earth, gaunt roots. A thin hedge ran diagonally across the landscape to the left, partly destroyed, the bushes torn and scattered. Browning saw another group of Soviet infantry eighty meters in front of the Abrams. There were the sounds of light machine gun rounds against the hull, pattering like hail on a barn roof and ho more effective. He brought the Abrams' Bushmaster Cannon on to the target by remote control, but before he could depress the firing button the Abrams' M68 gun roared and the infantrymen were lost in the burst of the 105mm shell only fifty meters ahead.

  Browning was angry. 'Save your ammo, Podini...leave the infantry to me.'

  'What infantry ?' Podini sounded exasperated.

  The Abrams had reached the rubble of a low wail where the main gun's shell had exploded. The tracks were grinding harshly, the hull bucking. A couple of meters to the right of the bodies of the Soviet infantrymen were the twisted remains of an ASU-57, its light alloy armour ripped and torn by the blast, its gun barrel buckled. 'Sorry, Podini...nice work.'

  'Yeah, thanks!' Podini's sarcasm was lost on Browning.

  ASU-57, an airborne assault gun, mobile and light. So that was how the bastards had got across the river! A quick airlift of men and light armour to establish the bridgehead and give the heavy tanks cover while they forded. God almighty, the thing had almost wiped them out. A few degrees' difference in the angle of impact and the Russian shell would have penetrated, and the Abrams and its crew been wasted. Only Podini's quick shot had prevented the Russian crew getting a second chance!

  There'd be others...Jesus, where?

  The Abrams was slithering, tracks churning. Much of the surface earth of the woods had been stripped from the stratas of damp limestone, greasy with shattered roots, branches and fallen leaves.

  'Left, Podini, eleven o'clock on the ridge, for Christ's sake.'

  'Got it...I see it...' The Abrams' turret was swinging. Fractionally above the brow of the hill, Browning could distinguish the domed turret of a T-62, badly camouflaged, its gun moving against the skyline. Its commander had chosen a poor position but it had been protected until now by the battlesmoke. 'Yeah...yeah...yeah' Podini fired and the T-62 burst into flames. 'Yaheee...'

  Adams was having difficulty moving the XM1. She could climb an obstacle a meter high but facing him was a steep limestone shelf, its edges soft and crumbling. The Abrams was bucking like a mule, lurching as the driver reversed her and repeatedly charged the greasy slope. Browning tried the troop net. 'November India this is Utah...India this is Utah...come in India Leader...' he paused, waiting. There was no response. He repeated the request for contact but there was only silence. The XM1 was jerking, swaying, as Mike Adams kept butting the limestone like a demented steer. 'Cut it out, Mike...hold her where she is.' The tank settled and the engine roar decreased. Browning tried the troop network again.

  There was a howl of electronic interference from a Soviet jamming station, and a voice, distorted, barely distinguishable. 'Utah...India...where the hell...' The pitch of the oscillations rose. 'Utah...read...Utah we don't...' Interference drowned the network completely. Browning tried the alternative wavelengths but the Soviet jamming covered the entire range. The artillery had stopped and he could see no movement on the hillside. He opened the hatch slowly. and stared around. There were no accompanying American APCs in sight...nothing moved within the mist of the battlefield, nor in the woods above.

  He dropped back into the fighting compartment. 'Get us the hell out of here, Mike.'

  'The Abrams rammed the shelf of rock again with a jolt that nearly dislocated Browning's spine. 'Backwards, you asshole; go out backwards!'

  There was a scream of metal sheering metal, and the Abrams swung broadside to the limestone and stopped abruptly.

  'Track.' Podini's and Ginsborough's voices shouted the word in unison.

  'You creep, Adams...you stupid no good black son of a bitch...' It was Podini.

  'Knock it off! Mike, try and ease her forward, see if you can get the track free.' Browning knew it was probably hopeless, but it was worth a try. The Abrams shuddered as the right-hand track brought her back a little. The Left stayed jammed. 'Hold everything.' He levered himself out on to the
deck and jumped down. The left track was half-off the driving wheel at the rear. He put his hand on the links and swore. They were too hot to touch. He could see the upper run of the track, as taut as a steel bowstring between the front bogey and the drive-wheel.

  Adams was leaning out of the driving hatch, his dark face streaked with sweat. His eyes asked the question.

  'Utah's not going anywhere,' Browning told him. 'The track's off the drive.'

  Ginsborough's head was above the deck. 'The networks are all jammed. How did they jam HF? Oh God!'

  'Keep trying. We want a recovery vehicle.' There was gunfire some distance away, but the immediate area was quiet, the silence adding tension to the situation. The landscape was so shell-sculpted it had an artificial lunar quality. Wisps of smoke drifted through the broken woods or hung in the craters. The air stank of diesel fumes, burning rubber and explosive...alien.

  It was the same feeling Will Browning had experienced as a child, closing his eyes and counting to a hundred before searching for his friends; discovering they had run away in the woods and left him alone. The impression was strong now, undeniable.

 

‹ Prev