'Not much more than this afternoon. I think the American and German corps begin counter-offensive.'
'Counter-offensive? Jesus man, we don't have the strength. You've seen the amount of their armour.'
'We now have French armour...and French aircraft.'
'French? When the hell did we get the French?
'Yesterday morning. They join us.'
'Could they get their armour up this fast?'
'It is possible. The distance is not so great.' The German was lying on his stomach, his chin resting on his forearms. 'You know what we must do?'
'If I had any sense, I'd tell you we should get the hell out of here while we've got a chance.' Browning stared down at the bridgehead and supply dump. The loss of ammunition, fuel, food and vehicle supplies would be a serious blow to the Soviet division, and if it could be achieved at the expense of a single NATO tank, then it had to be justifiable. The trouble was, it was his tank, his crew and his life; and he had already made himself a few promises. He attempted to weigh up the odds.
The lieutenant misunderstood Browning's hesitation. 'How do you want to fight this war, American? From twenty kilometers the other side of the front line...firing shells at an enemy you can't see? In a tank, you fight close, like infantry. And sometimes it is necessary to die.'
'I know my job, Lieutenant, and I know about dying.' Browning was silent for a while. A lot of memories he had forgotten had been revived in the past hours, and almost as though it were Armageddon ghosts had risen from graves. He had called Adams 'Jackson' during the battle, but Jackson had died near Dong Ha; he had looked out through the episcope in the earlier minutes of the counterattack and for a few moments been unable to recognize the XM1s of the squadron, he had expected sand-coloured M48s. Dying? He was an expert. They had offered him a commission once...suggested he train to become an officer. He had refused, because he knew too much about death. As an officer you decided how a battle should be fought, and then you gave the orders to your men to fight it. As a sergeant you took the orders, but then made decisions to try to keep your men alive while you obeyed them. He preferred the latter responsibility.
'You have visited my village before, Sergeant?
'Gunthers?' Browning saw the German officer nod. 'I passed through it a couple of days ago. It was a nice place.'
'Yes, a good place. Small, but good. And my school was good, too. I took my last class three days ago.'
'Teacher?'
'Yes, I am a teacher, art. I took my class on Tuesday afternoon. Boys and girls, fourteen years old. And they painted the bridge across the Ulster, from memory. I should have taken them down there, and let them sit by it...by the bridge. Now, it has gone, and with it the old gasthof, many memories. Yesterday morning, I blew them to pieces.'
Adams had repaired the track; cut it loose, replaced the severed link, repositioned the track on the sprockets and adjusted the tension. The XM1 was operational. There would be no opportunity to warm up her engine; once it was started every Russian within a kilometer would know there was an armoured vehicle somewhere close by. For a while they might think it was one of their own, but it wouldn't be too long before someone decided to investigate. The sound of Utah's Avco Lycoming turbine was distinctive.
Podini and Ginsborough had cleared most of the rubble from behind the tracks and with luck the Abrams would be able to reverse straight out. The men were waiting now for Browning's orders, anxious to be moving.
The BGS lieutenant asked: 'Well, Sergeant?'
'How long will it take to get your men in position?
'Four minutes.'
'Will you be using your missiles?'
'It's not easy in the darkness...but yes, we will try.'
'Okay,' agreed Browning. 'You have exactly four minutes.'
Podini's voice was anxious in Browning's earphones. 'What's going on? How many minutes to what?'
Browning had pulled down the hatch and was settling himself in his seat. 'We're going back to war.'
'I thought we were going home...'
'Afterwards, Podini...'
'You had to mention a nuke,' interrupted Adams, wearily.
'It ain't no nuke...I made a mistake. You're kidding us, Sarge.'
'Two minutes,' warned Browning. 'When you get her out of here, Mike, go right. Keep her close to the wall below the hill. After three hundred meters the ground dips below another section of wall that runs towards the river. I want her hull-down there for three shots, all HE...you get that, Mike...just three shots? You with me, Podini? Okay! There's a fuel bowser this side of the bridge...that's your first target. The missile you saw is under net some three hundred meters further up the bank, in a grove of trees, that's your number two. I want that rocket taken out... so no mistakes. It may need a couple of shells...otherwise, we'll see what we've got afterwards. Mike, once you move, move fast. Head straight into them...Podini, you're on your own, I'll be using the point five; and keep it cool, guys.'
'Cool? Shit!'
Browning said, 'Okay...let's roll.'
Browning was watching the scene ahead of the XM1 through the light-intensifying lenses. They did not bring daylight, only dusk. There was no colour, soft shadows...the light of the minutes before nightfall.
The XM1's turbine had started with a roar that Browning knew must have been heard clear across the border. If anything was calculated to jerk the Soviet ground radar operators back into full alert, nothing much more suitable could have been invented. At any moment he expected shells to begin bursting around them.
Adams quickly settled the tank in the dip of the ground behind the low stone wall. Browning would have been happier if the hollow had been deeper, but it was the best cover available; the near three meters height of Utah didn't make her the easiest of armoured vehicles to conceal.
Podini hadn't wasted time. He wanted to get it over so they could leave the area. He was talking nervously to himself, running through the firing drill. 'Target...laser range-finder...firing-switch on...computer adjusts...fire!' The M68 gun roared, lifting the XM1's bow. A fraction of a second later the fuel bowser, a thousand meters away, exploded into a billowing wall of fire that turned the river into brilliant gold. 'Target...where the hell is the nuke...?'
'It ain't a nuke...' Adams' voice. 'Please God that ain't no nuke.'
'Left some,' advised Browning. He was thinking along much the same lines as Adams, but didn't think there would be a nuclear explosion even if the missile was armed with a nuclear warhead, which he doubted. Aircraft had crashed when they were carrying nuclear weapons, and hadn't exploded. 'Left more...eleven o'clock...yeah...'
Podini said: 'Countdown begun...ten...nine...'
'Very funny you Wop nut...'Adams wasn't amused.
The explosion of the bowser had stirred wild activity into the area; a group of infantrymen were hurrying across the open ground in front of the nearest of the bridges. A twin automatic anti-aircraft gun with a high rate of fire began loosing off indiscriminate bursts into the hillside above the XM1. It wouldn't take them too long to find their target...the Abrams had got off the first shot without being seen, but plenty of eyes would be scouring the darkness watching for the source of the second:
Podini fired. The explosion of the shell was unspectacular. 'Come on Gins...come on...move your ass...'
'Loaded...'
'Go you shit...' The XM1 surged as Podini fired again.
'Okay...move out, Adams,' shouted Browning.
Adams slammed the Allison transmission into reverse and spun the XM1 sideways, then ten meters back along the gulley into the open field. As he did so the hull vibrated to the rapid explosion of a dozen high explosive rounds in the hollow where they had been hull-down. Adams changed to forward gear and accelerated fast. He hit the low wall and the XM1 bucked wildly, the stone glancing off the hull like shrapnel and scattering into the darkness.
Browning hadn't seen the gun's third shell strike. Near the first bridge the fuel bowser was still blazing furiously
. He thought he could make out the position of the anti-aircraft gun, and was bringing the .5 to bear when the entire strip of ground that was his night vision horizon burst upwards in a blinding flash of white fire. He saw trees blasted out of the ground, and huge pieces of unidentifiable debris hurled from the centre of the explosion. The tight was so fierce he was forced to cover his eyes with his hand, but the vision of the towering explosion remained. The XM1 hit the shock wave as though it were being driven into a deep snow drift.
'Christ!' Browning didn't know whether Podini was cursing or praying.
Adams had his feet on the brake and the XM1 was almost stationary.
'Keep her going, Adams...move the cowson...' Browning found that so long as he was looking directly towards the raging fires near the bridges he could see, but the remainder of the landscape which had formerly been twilight through his night-sight was now pitch-black.
The whole stretch of woodland beyond the dump where the missile launcher had been conceded was blazing, as though a hundred napalm bombs had been dropped within the small area.
'HE, I told you it was HE,' Podini was shouting joyfully. 'Boy, see that rocket go...Jesus Christ...'
A Russian truck was being driven furiously but blindly on a diagonal collision course towards Utah. Browning expected Adams to change direction; he didn't. Utah struck the truck a third of the way along the body, tore it apart and tossed the wreckage high into the air. The tank shuddered. Behind them the front end of the truck somersaulted across the field shedding bodies, and then burst into flames.
Browning began using the .5 machine gun, concentrating on the riverbank where some of the anti-aircraft defaces had been positioned. He could not see a clear target, but hoped his bullets were encouraging the AA gunners to keep their heads down. 'Adams....right a bit...Podini...go for the bridges...' As he spoke the nearest bridge erupted into a mass of fire and twisted metal. 'Forget it...leave them to the BGS...hit the transports.'
Podini was firing as fast as Ginsborough could get shells and charges into the breech, and Adams had cut the speed again, keeping Utah close to the cover below the hill. The first of the PG-7 anti-tank rockets exploded three meters ahead, followed by a second more to the right. Adams accelerated. He saw a group of infantry twenty meters ahead and drove for them; three chose the wrong direction and were pulped beneath the XM1's tracks.
Two shells fired by one of the twin 23mm anti-aircraft guns shrieked off Utah's Chobham armour, the third exploded on the turret ring, failed to penetrate, but jammed the Cadillac Cage turret drive.
Podini yelled, 'Let's get the fuck out of here...'
Utah rocked as an anti-tank grenade exploded close to the hull. Browning could see a platoon of enemy infantry charging towards the hill. 'Okay, Mike...let's go.'
Adams spun the tank, the violence of his action tossing Browning against the equipment which surrounded him. Adams, like Browning, had lost most of his night vision. Now that Utah was heading into the darkness he could see nothing, and they were closer to the river than he realized.
The NATO bar mine, ploughed into the riverbank the previous night by US Engineers, exploded under the rear of the tank, tearing off the track, rear bogeys and drive wheel, and rupturing the fuel tanks. The driving and fighting compartments were filled with a fine mist of diesel fuel. Utah stopped dead as the transmission locked solid.
Browning knew they had only seconds before the fuel would ignite and Utah burst into flame. He yelled: 'Bale out, guys...' He rammed the hatch open and climbed on to the hull. He could see Ginsborough pulling himself from the loader's hatch nearby. Podini's head and shoulders were close to him, he grabbed them and lifted the man dear of the turret, pushing him off the hull before jumping down beside him.
'Where's Mike?' Podini shouted the question wildly.
'Get down... she'll go any second.' Browning tried to drag Podini further away from Utah but Podini wrenched himself free and ran towards the front of the tank, pulling himself on to the sloping foredeck. He reached the driver's hatch and tried to open it. It was jammed. Browning heard a burst of machine gun fire and saw Podini spin back against the turret, his body jerking with the impact of the bullets before it folded over the barrel of the M68. Smoke billowed suddenly from the hatches, and ignited with a dull roar.
Browning was on his knees. He could see Ginsborough to his left, crouching, watching, his eyes wide and his mouth open as though he were screaming silently. Silhouetted against the fires of the supply dump the body of Podini hung across the Abrams' gun-barrel, his clothes burning. Four Soviet infantrymen were running towards the tank.
Browning stood up. There was nothing more to be done; it was all over. He raised his hands, saw that the Russians had stopped and were watching him in the light of the flames, and felt a strange sense of relief. He took a step forward, and as he did so the infantrymen began firing. Will Browning's second war had lasted his lifetime.
SIXTEEN
Second Lieutenant Robin Sache-Worrel was feeling very uncertain of a situation which had developed in the stay-behind unit 'Magpie'. For the past three and a half hours he had been sitting in the fighting compartment of his Scimitar questioning his own memory, He had been standing near Captain Fellows when the orders had come through from headquarters. He heard Fellows repeat the radio message. 'Apex Crown Echo...Trophy Bacon Sunset Juliet area.'
Then the captain had translated for Lieutenant Hinton: 'Wizard had given us one K west of Hehlingen as the location of the Soviet Divisional HQ.'
Things had happened so quickly after the unit received its orders that Sache-Worrel gave them no more thought until the SAS had left to reconnoitre the area and determine the exact situation of the enemy headquarters the stay-behind-unit were to attack. Sache-Worrel's mind had been keyed up by the thought of the coming action. He had no experience of death or pain in war, and there had been no sense of fear to dull his anticipation. He knew its dangers only secondhand.
His present uncertainty had nothing to do with his own future in a physical sense. It had arisen during the waiting period, when the adrenalin level had eventually dropped and his thoughts became more reasoned. Captain Fellows' translation of 'Trophy Bacon Sunset Juliet area', had been incorrect.
'Bacon' was not Hehlingen; Sache-Worrel was certain it was Bisdorf.
He had run through the day's codes a hundred times in his head. The more he did so the more positive he became that the code-name for the town of Hehlingen was 'Brandy'; 'Bacon' as Bisdorf was a full ten kilometers further south.
Sache-Worrel was very aware he was the most junior of the Scimitar commanders in the stay-behind unit. It was unusual for all commanders, within what was virtually a troop, to be commissioned. But it had been thought by HQ that, with a high casualty probability, this would enable the unit to continue to function regardless of losses. Sache-Worrel was only a second lieutenant, and above him in rank were two first lieutenants, Roxforth and Gunion, and then Captain Fellows.
If a mistake had been made by the captain, Sache-Worrel thought, then surely one of the others must have noticed as well as himself. As a junior officer, he could hardly accuse his unit commander of something which amounted to at least carelessness, perhaps worse in wartime.
He had now begun to doubt his own memory. Perhaps he had learnt the codes incorrectly...perhaps he had misheard the message. It wasn't doing much to help his self-confidence. What would happen if he made similar errors in battle? Mistakes were even more possible in the clamour and confusion! Supposing he forgot something vital? This was no longer a training exercise...he might write off his whole crew as well as himself...perhaps jeopardize the entire scheme.
But if Captain Fellows had made the mistake, then everything was a cock-up anyway.
He had known Captain Fellows almost a year, though it had only been during the past three months that he had served under him in the unit. Fellows was normally pleasant enough, finicky perhaps; the captain didn't have to rely on his service pay for his cas
h, he had a good private income which allowed him to run a couple of polo ponies and live extremely well, but that was his good luck. He seemed to have few friends in the regiment, but talked as though he had plenty outside. In fact it was generally agreed amongst the younger officers that Fellows was really waiting for dead-men's boots, his father's, and the estates in Bedfordshire that went with them. But Sache-Worrel had never heard the captain criticized for any lack of ability as an officer, only for his obsession with tidiness.
'Bacon' is Bisdorf! It was there in his mind again, nagging like a persistent fishwife.
Silently he pushed himself out of the Scimitar's hatch. Captain Fellows had suggested rather than ordered them to stay with their vehicles, but nevertheless Sache-Worrel felt guilty as he jumped from the hull, and almost expected to hear the captain's voice question him.
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