Max's apologies. 'Go on ahead. I'll have lunch with him here in the mess, and we can meet this evening at Salzdetfurth. Take rooms at the gasthof, and I'll be there in time for drinks.'
'It doesn't matter, we'll wait...well travel together later. Or we can put the whole thing off until another weekend.'
Max wouldn't hear of it. 'Jane can't stand the fellow. Hates him! Didn't even like him when we were at college together. No, you two go ahead.'
They had driven down the long highway, busy with weekend traffic. The holiday season had not yet ended, and there were families heading south with camping trailers, their cars heavy with luggage. Repair works slowed the journey, funnelling the traffic across the central barriers, reducing the cruising speed. They had stopped for lunch at an autobahn restaurant south of the Hannover intersection, and been happier once they had left the main highway after Hildesheim and taken the narrower mountain roads.
They stopped near a wooded stream, a tributary of the Leine near Bockenhem, and sat beneath the rowans and beeches. There was a kingfisher hunting the shallow pools, and the cool sounds of water bubbling amongst the rocks. They were both cautious, shy, avoiding any physical contact, aware of the dangers of such a trigger. They talked a little. Jane dozed, while Studley rested with his back against the bole of an old beech and let the problems of the week slip away.
It was five by the time they reached the gasthof and booked rooms; almost seven when Max telephoned from the mess at Bergen.
'Damn him, Max. We're booked in here.' Studley could hear Jane's voice, peeved with the knowledge Max was probably only delayed because he couldn't deny his hospitality. 'James and I will have dinner, then drive back...pretty crowded but they'll have cleared...no, of course not...well, I'm not exactly delighted...Charles should have given you warning, anyway...well, yes, it would probably be better...about eleven...if we've gone out, we'll leave a message for you. Yes...I'll see you then...' She hung up and spoke to Studley. 'Charles has decided to stop over for the night, and Max is having dinner with him.'
'I suppose I'd better unbook our rooms.'
'No need. Max suggests we stay. He'll be down in the morning, about eleven.'
He knew by her tone of voice she had decided that some time in the next few hours they would make love. He was uncertain for a while if it was because of her annoyance with Max or a decision to relax the tight control she had maintained over her feelings for the past months. There had been occasions when he had considered that some time in the future this kind of situation might arise, and he had wondered how he would deal with it. The simple answer was to avoid it, but now it was happening. He didn't feel like a gentleman, but neither did he feel guilty.
'I noticed a prettier restaurant further down the road, shall we give it a try?'
'I'd like that, James.'
She had hooked her arm in his, affectionately, once they had left the gasthof to stroll through the town. The restaurant had been small, intimate, Bavarian in its conception. He couldn't remember what they had eaten, only her face; her eyes watching him across the candlelit table.
Sometime after midnight they had returned to the gasthof, its stone-flagged hallway smelling of cigar smoke and beer, echoing their footsteps. It seemed deserted.
Their two rooms were adjoining. He had opened the door to his own, and she had walked inside, there had been no suggestion, no invitations. There was moonlight in the room, and for the first time they kissed. It was gentle, tender. He could taste the perfume on her neck and shoulders as he undressed her, the light summer clothing slipping away until she was naked; there was a moment of awkwardness as he stripped, then she was in his arms, her body small, warm against his own.
She was slender, and be felt her pelvis against his thighs and let his hands trace her soft curves. The bed had been only a step away in the small room, and she had lain in the bright square of moonlight that shone through the uncurtained window.
He remembered how careful the lovemaking had been, unhurried, almost measured at first as though they were both inexperienced, then intensifying, gathering urgency and excitement as he entered her and felt the heat of her body envelop him. She had cried out with her orgasm and her fingers had dug deep into his muscles.
The thoughts of her normally warmed him, but now, trapped in the gloomy interior of the enemy vehicle and filled with an inescapable sense of failure, he felt even more lonely and despondent.
There was no retreat from the present. The metal hatch above his head was pulled open, and a thick-set guard gestured that he should climb out. The rich orb of the autumn sun had already dropped below the tops of the trees, and the clearing was streaked with lengthening shadows. Studley began to walk towards the tent where he first met the GRU officer, but the guard stopped him and pushed him in the direction of the woods with the barrel of his AKS-74.
Studley's calf wound made it difficult for him to move quickly, and the guard was impatient. Studley didn't understand the man's Russian, but knew he was being cursed. He wondered if he were about to be shot. It was a frightening thought. He wouldn't make it easy for them. He decided to wait until he was further into the woodland and then tempt the guard to get closer to him. If the man was foolish enough to prod him with his rifle again, there was a chance he might be able to overpower him and with a weapon in his hands his chances of survival were greatly improved. But there was no opportunity for him to begin to put his plan into operation for only a few paces into the woods, hidden beneath carefully draped branches and netting, was an armoured vehicle. Unlike the BMPs this was wheeled, and Studley thought it was probably a version of the BTR, perhaps a modified command post.
The GRU captain was waiting inside, impatiently, the clipboard of Studley's details beneath his arm. He spoke brusquely, making no attempt to maintain his apparent former respect for Studley's senior rank. 'You have had the hour I promised. Where is the paper I gave you?'
Studley met the Russian's eyes and held his gaze. 'I threw it away.' He could feel the muscles of his shoulders and back tightening, a childhood defence against anger which he had not experienced for many years. He straightened himself deliberately into a military posture he knew would make him appear arrogant.
The Russian noticed the action but ignored it. 'I have another sheet prepared. We shall work with that.'
'You're wasting your time.'
'We shall see.' There was the hint of a threat in the man's voice. He was twenty-nine or thirty years old and clean-shaven. He wore his peaked hat pushed casually back off his forehead, and the hair above his ears seemed longer than the normal Soviet military style. Hi face was sallow, angular, hollowing sharply beneath the cheekbones; hinting at an ancestry in the eastern regions of the USSR. 'You must realize it will be better for you to assist me. All senior officers of your military services will be required to face a Soviet People's Court in due time. The decisions they reach will be influenced by our reports. If your records show you have attempted to help us, then the People's Court will be lenient. If not, your punishment will be greater. At the very least you will face a long term of imprisonment. Do you understand me?'
'I am not a criminal, I am a prisoner of war. I have committed no atrocities.'
'The killing of Soviet citizens is an atrocity, regardless of circumstances. A claim you were only obeying orders has been proved to be no defence in war trials; Nuremburg established that fact of law. Many of those found guilty were hanged. You will therefore co-operate.' Studley was silent, but he shook his head. 'Very well. I regret that in these circumstances, we do not have time for sophisticated interrogation.' He spoke to the guard. Studley turned, expecting to be led away, but the man rammed the butt of his rifle into Studley's side. He felt ribs crack as all the wind was driven from his lungs by the force of the blow, and a spear of pain drove itself across his chest. As Studley doubled forward, the guard swung the weapon again, this time at his face. The slab of the metal breech smashed against his lips and teeth, a blue-white light expl
oded behind his eyes.
He was on his knees, his throat full of blood, his torn lips and gums feeling as though they were burning. He put his hand to his mouth; his teeth were broken stumps and there were sharp splinters in the wounds. His nose was bleeding.
'As I warned you, there is no time for finesse. Now. Do you wish to help us? If you do so, there will be immediate medical assistance for you. You have simply to identify the code words.'
Studley coughed the blood from his throat. The GRU officer's voice sounded distant, and the floor beneath him felt like the swaying deck of a small boat. He attempted to concentrate his mind on a single thought...Jane. He tried to block the pain with memories.
The guard stamped down on to the wound in Studley's leg.
TWELVE
There were a group of military police on the road ahead of Sergeant Davis, their tempers frayed as they attempted to funnel the civilian refugees to one side to allow the passage of convoys of military vehicles towards the battle area. The number of refugees astonished Davis. He had expected some, but it seemed all the people from the town of Schöningen and villages near the border were trying to get away from the advancing Russian armies. There were queues of every kind of civilian vehicles, barely moving at walking pace along the entire length of the road. He had seen newsreel pictures of the Second World War when refugees had similarly blocked the movement of troops, but hadn't expected it to be like that now. Cars and lorries had broken down, run out of fuel, and been abandoned at the roadside still piled high with family possessions. Trucks and farm wagons, tractors and their sugar-beet trailers, people on foot or on bicycles, moved in a slow but determined procession towards the west. Davis followed the route of the road, but kept to the fields except where boundary ditches or irrigation dikes forced him back. Angrily, the refugees paused to let him by, and he knew from their contemptuous stares they suspected the two tanks, like themselves, were fleeing from the enemy.
The flood crept past the military police, obeying their desperate signals for only meters before swelling back to occupy the full width of the road. A convoy of Stalwarts was making only a few kilometers an hour eastwards, despite their drivers' attempts to make use of the verges at the roadside.
A harrassed young corporal, red-eyed with fatigue, clambered on to Davis's Chieftain. 'Who the 'ell are you?'
Davis told him.
The corporal checked a list. 'Okay, Sergeant. Your re-grouping area is three kilometers on...you'll see crossroads after Kissleberfeld and then your divisional number on a black sign – that is if some bastard hasn't moved it. Turn right there; it's unsurfaced. And keep off this road as much as possible.' He stared at the scarred hull of the tank, seeking an excuse for further conversation to keep him a few moments longer from his near-impossible task. 'Was it bad, mate?' Davis nodded. It was too early yet to find adequate words to describe the previous few hours of battle. 'Bastards,' the corporal swore. 'I'd hang every fuckin' Russian we catch. Watch out for their bloody Floggers; they've been brassin' the roads every hour or so...civvies, everything. Murdering swine. A bit north of here the convoys are driving through swamps of pulped bodies, it's the only fuckin' way they can get the supplies up.' He pointed towards drifting smoke three hundred meters across the fields. 'See them...AFVs they caught in the open. And this soddin' lot...' He jerked his head towards the slow-moving river of people. 'Get 'em out of the way, and a minute later they're all over the road again...they're fuckin' deaf...daft. It's all fuckin' murder. We heard it's even worse towards Hannover.' His conscience nagged him as he heard shouting from his colleagues. 'Take care, mate. And when you're in there again, give 'em one up the arse for the Redcaps. So long.'
It took Davis half an hour to travel the last three kilometers. He managed to shorten the distance a little by taking a more direct route across country. Where possible he used the cover close to the fringes of woods, and well away from the roadway. He kept his eyes open for aircraft, but it wasn't easy; there were plenty in the skies but he couldn't always identify them. A few screamed over at little more than tree-top height heading eastwards; they were NATO planes, but even had they been Russian he couldn't have reacted quickly enough to take evasive action. It wasn't the low-flying aircraft he feared, for they came and went in seconds with their pilots concentrating on targets many kilometers ahead of them; the greatest danger was from those who stooged at a high altitude, risking the anti-aircraft missiles or attacks from NATO planes, as they searched for vehicle concentrations.
There were more military police near the regrouping area, a roadblock overlooked by a machine gun post. Again Davis was stopped, and this time his identification was carefully scrutinized by an officer before he was allowed to continue. Enemy sleeper groups had been reported to be making use of captured NATO vehicles to infiltrate depots; an incident a few minutes earlier, at one of the airfields, had brought renewed warnings. The police and guards were nervous of any vehicle which showed signs of combat. The MP officer pointed with his swagger-cane. 'Over there to the right, Sergeant. Follow your number. When you get to the harbour area, get your vehicle out of sight fast. Cam' it, and report to the command vehicle at once...PDQ...on your way.'
The roll of camouflage netting which had been lashed to the Chieftain's hull was missing, as was all of the external equipment, jerry cans, tools, cable reel. The left-hand smoke grenade launchers had been torn from the turret, and the infra-red searchlight was smashed and buckled out of shape. Once the tank had been parked, the crew climbed out of the hull for the first time that day.
Shadwell was hugging his arm, his roughly bandaged hand under his armpit. His dark NBC suit concealed most of the bloodstains, but there were brown streaks down his face and neck. 'Five minutes, lad, and we'll get you to the aid-post. Can you hang on?'
Shadwell grimaced, then smiled. 'It don't hurt now, Sarge. Not as bad as toothache. I've got blisters on my arse though, from that seat'
' 'ere, have you seen this?' Inkester was running his fingertips along a deep scar in the metal of the turret. 'And Christ...look at these!'
'Okay lads, that's enough sightseeing. Inkester, there's spare camouflage netting over there...double across and get it. DeeJay, give him a hand. If you need more, scrounge around while I go and report.' Davis noticed Corporal Sealey lounging on the turret of the neighbouring Chieftain. 'Don't sit around, Corporal. Get your crew out and cam up. I want these two vehicles so well hidden I won't be able to find them when I get back, understand? Jump to it, all of you.' Shadwell moved with Hewett and Inkester. 'Not you lad. You take it easy. If you can't sit down, then see if you can find out where we can get some decent grub.'
Sergeant Davis recognized Captain Clarkson the operations officer in the Sultan. The officer's clothing was still barracks-clean, and Davis was suddenly conscious of his own filthy appearance, but Clarkson made no comment.
'We've been expecting you, Sergeant Davis. We've made contact with Captain Willis; he's due here shortly, too. I'm afraid we've had a lot of casualties, Sergeant. Very unfortunate.'
Davis was unable to resist the question. 'How many tanks have we got left, sir?
Captain Clarkson hesitated. Strictly speaking he shouldn't divulge figures, but he knew Davis had as many years with the regiment as himself. 'Discounting the headquarters squadron, fourteen.'
'Fourteen!' Davis felt the blood draining from his face. Fourteen survivors out 'of forty-five main battle tanks...plus the colonel's and the Number Twos...'Fourteen, sir? Perhaps he had misheard.
Clarkson nodded. 'Chieftains, yes. And we still have five Scimitars in the battle group.' He knew the sergeant's feelings exactly, his own had been identical as the figures had come through; disbelief and then horror at the loss of so many men...not all exactly friends, but at least regimental comrades, colleagues. 'It's been a very bad day, Sergeant.' He added: 'For all of us. Have you been informed about the colonel?'
'No, sir.' God, not old Studley, too! Colonels were supposed to be indestructible...t
hey didn't get themselves killed!
'The colonel's tank was knocked out. He's gone.' Clarkson made it sound as if Colonel Studley was off somewhere on a jaunt, but Davis understood. 'And Major Fairly is reported missing believed killed.'
'I'm sorry about that, sir.'
'For the time being, the figures are confidential, Sergeant. I don't want them bandied around. Wouldn't help matters. And, of course, there may be quite a few survivors; some of the men will have been taken prisoner...perhaps even making their way back out of the line on foot, holed-up somewhere.'
'Yes, sir.' There might be a few, thought Davis, but he knew Clarkson's optimism was purely for his benefit. The condescension annoyed him slightly.
'Now, if I can have your report...'
Davis told him as much as he could recall. It was hard remembering, and he corrected himself frequently. One of the clerks was jotting down notes. Davis answered the captain's questions, then said, 'That's about all, sir.'
'Good, Sergeant. Very useful.' Clarkson paused and mentally confirmed there was nothing he had overlooked in the interview, and then leant back in his chair. 'Take your loader to the aid-post, and then get some food inside yourself and the crews. Stay close to your vehicles, we'll want you back here later.'
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