Browning peered at his watch. He could just see the glow of its luminous dial; it was twenty-one twenty-seven. In three minutes Podini would come down off the hill where he had relieved Adams as guard, and then it would be time for them to move out.
There was plenty happening. Adams had watched a build-up of Soviet logistics on the west bank of the river. The two bridges had been in constant use for the past four hours. It appeared, in darkness at least, that the Russians were unconcerned about the threat of air attack, although the movements of their supplies column should have shown up on NATO infra-red detectors. It suggested to Browning that the Russians were feeling very confident about the present lack of NATO air surveillance, and as he hadn't seen any US aircraft overhead since late afternoon he thought that, for the moment anyway, their efforts must be concentrated on the forward combat zone.
Ginsborough nudged Browning's arm urgently, and whispered, 'Out there...'
Browning could hear noises on the hill twenty meters away, the rolling of a small stone through frost-dried leaves, the snapping of a thin twig. He aimed his Remington into the darkness, and eased off the safety catch.
An off-key blackbird whistled an unlikely first two bars of 'John Brown's Body', and the scuffling on the slope above them increased.
'Podini?' It had to be!
'Who else?'
'You gink,' swore Ginsborough, the tension had made him feel sick.
'Will said half after nine, and it's half after,' hissed Podini.
'What did you see going on over there? Browning asked.
Podini's eyes glinted, catching the light of the rising moon. 'Same as Mike said. They're still building up. Man, some heavy stores!'
'Like what?'
'Rear service equipment. About twenty MAZ cargo carriers...fifteen tanners...ammunition I'd reckon, by the way they spaced them out. Plenty of trucks.'
'Any armour?'
'Nope...some artillery on the other side, waiting to get across. There's an MTU laying another bridge. That'll make three.' He paused and then said casually, 'I saw a nuke.'
'A nuke?' It was Adams, incredulously. 'A nuke missile? You're kidding!'
'How d'you know it was a nuke? demanded Browning.
'I don't know. All I know is that it was one hell of a rocket.'
'How long?'
'I'm guessing...it ain't too easy to see down there. Maybe ten meters, a big eight-wheeled transporter like a fire truck.'
'It's probably a Frog-7,' said Browing, 'with a conventional warhead.'
'You and your fucking nuke,' grunted Ginsborough. Podini seemed determined to make him throw up his rations.
'Okay, let's move out,' ordered Browning. He wanted to get clear of the open ground before the moon rose any higher.
Gunthers was still smouldering, burning in places when the light brae stirred up ashes and fanned new life into the embers. Rubble spread across the streets from shattered houses and stores. The volunteer Bundesgrenzshutz infantrymen who had defended it with their Dragon and Milan missiles had drawn heavy artillery and tank fire, and because most were local men defending their own homes, they had fought bitterly. The bodies of many of them now lay amongst the ruins, but the wreckage of the Soviet tanks, twisted and blackened hulks in every street, was evidence of the ferocity of the battle.
Browning was feeling despondent. Now he was away from the Abrams, it seemed even more unlikely it could ever be repaired. Maybe it was best to write Utah off, and try to make it back on foot even though it might be difficult. The smell of war and death was getting through to him; it had done so at times in Vietnam. It was familiar, a recurring sickness that made him ill for a time, and like 'flu he would get over it. Only there was no medicine he could take to ease his present discomfort. The only rapid cure he knew was in a bottle on the shelf of a bar, in some town as remote from war as maybe Las Vegas.
Adams was a few meters ahead, flattened against a crazily tilted wall that was overhanging the sidewalk. He was signalling frantically with his arm. When Browning reached him, he jerked his head towards the interior of the wrecked building. Browning listened. For a few moments he could hear nothing, and then there was a faint scratching sound.
Browning whispered: 'Civilians, leave them.'
'Maybe they can help us.' Adams dropped to his knees and crawled over the rubble into the darkness.
'Come back you damn fool,' hissed Browning, but Adams ignored him. Browning squatted beside the doorway, his automatic ready; behind him Podini and Ginsborough waited tensely.
Adams was gone a full minute before he reappeared. 'I was right,' he said, 'it's a woman and some kids.'
'If they'd been Russians, you'd have got us all killed,' said Browning angrily. 'Don't ever do that again.'
'They can help.'
'Maybe they can help!'
It was a few moments before his eyes became accustomed to the darkness of the shelled building, then he saw them, huddled together in a narrow wedge of open space between a fallen wall and a staircase – a middle-aged woman and three young children.
The woman asked nervously, 'Soldat...Amerikanish?'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'Gott sei Dank.'
'Don't thank me yet, there are only four of us. D'you speak English?'
'Bitte...verstehen sie nicht!'
'I can speak.' It was one of the children, a boy of about twelve, pale beneath the grime of brick dust that coated him.
'We're an American tank crew,' explained Browning. 'We got outselves knocked out this afternoon near the river. We need repair equipment. Can you show us where there's a garage.'
'All garage is bombed,' said the boy, staring at him.
'We know they're bombed, son. We're not looking for service. We need a metal cutter...a gas cutter...you know gas, big fires, very hot!'
'Gas...I think I know.' The boy spoke quickly to the woman but she simply shrugged her shoulders. 'I come show you.'
'What about your mom?'
'Not mother...I come with you.'
'Okay,' agreed Browning. 'But you tell this lady to stay put. We're the only Americans there are around here. If she hears anyone else, they're probably Russians.' He saw the fear in the woman's eyes as he turned away. He followed the boy to the doorway, then stopped and walked back towards her. He raised his automatic.
She misunderstood his action, twisting herself sideways to protect the two children beside her, shielding them with her body.
Browning spoke gently. 'It's okay, lady. Here...' He reversed the pistol in his hand and held the butt towards her.
She relaxed, then smiled guiltily. She took the weapon slowly, then placed it in her lap. 'Danke.'
'Good luck.'
There was something wrong; Browning could sense it. It was the feeling that things had somehow got beyond his control. The boy was hurrying them despite Browning's warning there might still be enemy soldiers in the area. As they moved into a broad alley between two old half-timbered barns, he realized it was a trap. The boy suddenly dived behind a pile of rubble, and shouted loudly. There was a quick burst of automatic rifle fire from the darkness ahead, the bullets hissing past them.
Podini was already firing as the men dropped, the crisp sounds of his Remington echoing from the high walls on either side. Bullets from the automatic rifle were ricochetting from the brickwork.
The boy was shouting again, his words punctuating the rifle shots.
'Jesus Christ,' Ginsborough swore beside Browning, 'the lousy little fucker.'
Browning's German wasn't much good, but he'd understood enough to hear the boy yell that they we Russians and still alive. If they were supposed to be Reds and someone was firing at them, then whoever was at the other end of the rifle was likely to be a friend. He called out, 'We're Americans...Americans...'
The shooting ceased but then nothing happened for a few moments until a voice said, 'Stand slowly. With your hands up.'
'Real slow,' Browning warned the crew. He stood, cautiously. Ou
t there in the darkness someone: had him in their sights. A slight twitch of a finger and he would be blown away.
'Put your weapons down,' said the voice.
'They're down.'
There was movement. Browning thought he could see several men at the far end of the alley. A barrel glinted in a window a few meters above them.
'Walk forward.'
Browning and his crew did so.
The boy had scrambled from behind the rubble and now ran past them. He spoke quickly to the soldiers. One, a lieutenant, walked over to Browning, keeping a rifle aimed at his chest. He said a few words whish Browning assumed to be Russian.
'I'm sorry, I don't understand you. We're American...Black Horse Cavalry. Our tank's out of action...the battle near the river, this afternoon.'
'Be quiet.' The lieutenant spoke to one of his soldiers. The man searched Browning, and then the others. 'No...don't move. Keep your hands up.'
The officer looked through the identification papers, then shrugged. 'These don't mean anything. There are plenty on the battlefield.'
Adams said: 'Shit, man, you think I'm Russian?'
'You could be Cuban, Angolan.'
'Assholes...that's worse than being called nigger.'
'Steady Mike,' warned Browning. If Adams lost his cool then everyone was likely to end up dead; and Adams was particularly sensitive about his nationality.
'Who's your commanding officer?'
'Mickey Mouse,' answered Podini. He was angry with the way the man had spoken to his friend.
'You know we can't tell you that,' said Browning. 'How the hell do we know you aren't Russians?'
'We got a stand-off situation,' added Ginsborough. 'Only we ain't got guns.'
The boy spoke from behind them, excitedly.
The officer levelled his rifle at Browning's forehead. 'One of you still has a pistol...which one?'
'None of us,' answered Browning. He hoped he was right.
'The boy says you all had one; he has found only three.'
'I gave mine away.'
'Lying is a good way to die.'
Browning spoke quickly. 'It's the truth. I gave mine to the woman who was with the boy. You can check.'
'Why would you do that?'
'I was sorry for her.' It didn't sound convincing.
The lieutenant spoke to the boy who turned and ran from the alley. 'We will find out. Now move.'
They were led into the barn and then down a narrow flight of steps to a cellar. At the side of a stack of boxes was a narrow door partially concealed behind a concrete pillar. They were pushed inside. The room was lit by an oil lamp. Resting on benches along its length were more than a dozen infantrymen, Bundesgrenzshutz, their faces worn and tired, filthy with camouflage and the dirt of battle. Their weapons were across their knees or resting on the ground beneath the seats. Several looked up as Browning and his crew entered, but most ignored them. The lieutenant pointed to the far end of the room with the barrel of the rifle: 'Go sit there.'
Browning and the crew did so.
'What now?' asked Adams.
'What the hell what now? Why d'you always ask what now?' grumbled Podini. 'How the hell do I know what now?'
They waited for several minutes, and then one of the soldiers who had been outside in the alley came into the room and handed the German lieutenant Browning's Remington. He said a few words to the officer, then left. The lieutenant examined the pistol, did out the magazine and worked the round from the breech. He examined the bullet slowly, turning the case in his fingers close to the light.
'It's a live one,' said Browning. 'You can test it.'
'On your head,' suggested Adams.
The lieutenant grinned sheepishly, and for the first time sounded friendly. 'I believe you. No one but an American is going to be so stupid as to give his only weapon away. Chivalrous...but stupid Don't forget, Sergeant, the Russians have been in Germany before; our women learnt how to survive. A pistol, for them, is the shortest route to the execution ground. And if you were a soldier of the Heer, such a generosity in wartime could get you shot. However...thank you for the gesture.'
'So okay,' said Adams. 'Now what about my gas cutter?'
Browning explained about the XM1's track, and how they had become isolated after the battle.
'And what will you do if your tank is repaired?' asked the lieutenant.
'Get back to our unit, if we can. Try to find a place where the Russians are thinnest, and break through, rejoin the war.'
'You have enough fuel?'
'We've a three hundred mile range; we topped-up before the attack.' Browning studied the German's face. The man was very young, not much more than twenty-five years old. He looked like a student.
'We will help you. We know the village. We can find the equipment you need.'
'Once we get the Abrams repaired, maybe we can give you guys a lift someplace,' suggested Browning.
The lieutenant grimaced, then shook his head. 'We're staying. The Russians will be back to consolidate the area, and we will be waiting for them.'
Lieutenant Colonel Studley had blacked out, fainted with the pain when one of the guards stamped on the wound in his calf, but it was the agony which dragged him back to consciousness, pulsing, searing, encompassing his entire body.
Studley heard himself scream, and the sound horrified him. There was still only darkness, and the sounds which came from his throat were uncontrollable, unreal, making him feel disembodied. Once, in childhood, he had broken an arm and been taken to hospital to have it set. He awakened on the operating table while the doctor was still manipulating the bone, and there had been the same combination of pain and sound...but then it had ended abruptly with the introduction of more anaesthetic, and became nothing more than a nightmare he remembered later. He tried now to find reality but for a long time it refused to appear, drowned by the spasms which shook his body and mind.
The bright glow was a small light above his head; faces blurred. He thought at first he must be in some medical centre where they were tending his wounds; his head throbbed violently. He found his arms were pinioned, pulled backwards so far his spine was arched away from the ground beneath him. His legs were spread wide.
There was a voice, persistent, questioning, It echoed inside his head, distorted, strident. He was being forced to concentrate on the words, the threats. He remembered.
'You have no more chances. I warned you it would become unpleasant. You throwing your life away for no purpose.'
I am not here, thought Studley. He tried to blank the recent past from his mind. This is not reality; reality is Jane...brown eyes, long dark hair slipping between my fingers...her gentle body.
The agony returned, electrical, twisting at his bowels, jerking at strained and torn muscles, contorting his body and exploding like a thousand white-hot needles in his brain.
'The code, Colonel Studley...only the code...the code...the code...only the code.'
The code? What code? There wasn't any code...isn't any code. The word doesn't exist. Nothing I am experiencing exists in my real world; only Jane exists. Jane...dear God, Jane.
He felt her lips on his neck, and the round warmth of her breasts against his body. He could smell the scent of her hair. She was gripping him tightly, her thighs clasping him...he was losing her...the pain tearing her from his grasp.
'The code, Studley...a few simple words...' The agony and the shouting repeated a hundred times, gathering momentum until all his senses spun together in confusion.
The screams – they were no longer his own and he found he could ignore them. He could see her face again...the gentle mouth smiling, her eyes moist.
He realized his arms had been freed; it was part of the dream again. He refused to allow himself to be tricked. He was upright; body sagging, legs useless, his head lolled as if the neck muscles had been severed. Hands supported him, controlled him
Chieftains Page 17