Davis had learnt you could defend every river, canal, pass, village and town, but no matter how well your men fought, sheer weight of numbers always beat you in the end and made the terrible loss of life mean nothing.
Too many times, it seemed like a million in the past forty hours, he had wanted more military strength around him. Too few tanks attempting to defend so much ground. Never enough of them to give security in depth. Soft defence was sound thinking, but it seemed to Davis to be based on an original weakness – lack of equipment. Make the most of what you have. Eight tanks the squadron had lost today and they hadn't stopped the invaders, only slowed them down. And now, they were out of ammunition and pulling back again...back, always backwards. Always more frustration. So bloody unnecessary; wasteful.
How many kilometers abandoned today? Fifteen at least. And yesterday? And how many tomorrow? Fighting for what? Fighting for time. Time for reinforcements to arrive? For politicians to talk and negotiate? And negotiate what? The surrender of Germany to the Warsaw Pact countries? The promise to disarm and behave like good little boys?
The ammunition should have been up where it was needed, but it wasn't. The gas had made things difficult for everyone. Good God, it wasn't as though it was a possibility that had been ignored. Gas attacks had been expected; practised.
The wooded hills were already in shadows as the sun dropped behind their peaks. They looked peaceful enough, if you ignored the smoke over the horizon or didn't look back towards the battlefront barely a kilometer away. Just a month previously the hills and woods had been filled with campers, hikers, and the evening bars of the towns and villages had been noisy and happy places. It was all another 'world; history.
He saw the decontamination unit sited beneath the trees and followed the squadron leader's Chieftain across the open ground towards it. The operators in their NBC clothing fired turbine powered blasts of liquid decontaminant over the tanks as they drove by. Fifty meters on they were stopped, while a final cleansing took place with hand-held sprays.
Less than a kilometer along a firebreak the squadron leader brought the squadron to a halt beside a line of fuel bowsers. Davis could see ammunition being unloaded from a trio of Heer Transportpanzers a little way ahead. Everything was taking too much time. The squadron had been lucky not to have been attacked while moving in the open, but they were even more vulnerable now.
He jerked open the front of his NBC suit and pulled the front of his sweater away from his chest. The air felt cool, refreshing. His sweater and vest were soaked with perspiration and he could smell his own sweat, stale and sour, mingling with the rubberized scent of the protective clothing. He would have liked to climb outside and stretch his legs in the open, try to get his bowels working; at the moment his intestines were cramped and made him feel as though he had gorged himself. But the crews had been ordered to remain inside their tanks as they queued for fuel and ammunition. The decontamination of the vehicles had been hasty, and it only needed a few drops of nerve gas liquid on a man's skin to incapacitate him, perhaps kill. All the tanks carried injection kits, but whether or not these would be of any real use in counteracting the effects of the unknown Soviet gas was debatable.
Davis wondered what was being planned for the squadron. Knowing the captain would contact HQ, he tuned to the battle group net and felt guilty as he eavesdropped.
'Valda?' Davis recognized his squadron leader's first name, but not the voice using it. 'Where are you? The voice was languid, as though its owner had just climbed from his sleeping bag. Some bloody officers, thought Davis. They spoke so far back it was a miracle they didn't swallow their tongues.
'Postmark.' It was the squadron leader.
'Good fellow. Casualties?
A stupid bloody question, Davis cursed the man mentally. 'Eight...I've reported each as it happened,' said the squadron leader, and Davis was pleased to note an edge to the captain's voice that matched his own feelings.
'Just started my stag, haven't caught up. Any problems?'
Christ! Any problems? What the hell was facing a Soviet army if it wasn't a problem. Davis could feel his irritation swelling towards anger, but resisted an overwhelming urge to interrupt the conversation and give the officer a piece of his mind.
'Of course we've got problems...God Almighty!' Good for you, sir, thought Davis as Captain Willis allowed his irritation to show. 'I called for ammunition two hours ago...where the hell was it? We've had to fall back to a depot. Falcon's squadron moved in from the flank.'
'I'm sorry.' The officer's voice was more subdued.
'How much gas is there about?' Willis asked curtly.
'It's being used along the entire front as far as we can tell. Wherever the Russians are being held they're using chemicals. There have been chemical attacks on most of the airfields they can reach, and any supply concentrations.'
'What about the civilians?'
'What about them? Gas? We don't know.'
'Bastards!'
'I'm a bit out of date.' Like a hundred years, you berk, thought Davis. 'I'd say, nasty. Not going too well in the north...that's all I know.'
'Okay, thanks.'
'We want you at Capricorn, soonest.'
'Thirty minutes.'
'Roger, Valda. Good luck.'
Capricorn. Davis switched back to the squadron net, then checked his code and maps. Capricorn, one kilometer north of Gardessen. Another step towards the Channel. It was always backwards, and it always felt as though it was Davis himself who was being forced into the corner.
21.00 hours. Day Two
The mortar bombs were coming over at precise intervals, a pair every ten seconds on to the squadron position, exploding simultaneously, but sometimes just sufficiently separated for the double concussion to be noticeable. Whatever types of mortars were being used they were damned big, sending a shockwave through the ground which moved the Chieftain on her suspension and made the hull vibrate. Davis didn't know enough about Soviet equipment to be able to identify them, but thought they must be at least 160mm, perhaps even the giant 240s. The regularity of their arrival was nerve-wracking.
The troop's position was below the western ridge of a low hill, little more than a gentle rise in the ground. Three thousand meters to the front and right was a village, and to the troop's left, another. It had been night for almost an hour, but the steady mortar bombardment had been taking place since dusk. The village ahead was burning, bright flames colouring the smoke, sparks swirling upwards into the sky. But although it was night there was no real darkness. Parachute flares, fired at intervals almost as precise as those of the mortars, were swinging down above the battleground bringing colourless daylight.
In the ruins of the village ahead the infantry were fighting. Several times Davis had seen the trails of missiles hurtling from the rubble; and occasionally he heard the sounds of 120mm guns which he could recognize as those of one of the other reformed troops, Alpha. He didn't know who was throwing up the flares. It was impossible to judge from this distance, they were drifting northwest along the length of the battlefront, and they seemed to offer little advantage to either side. Someone, somewhere, must have thought they were being helpful. It was like watching an old black and white film – All Quiet on the Western Front. Christ, there was nothing quiet about this battlefield!
Inkester was humourlessly acknowledging the arrival of each pair of mortar bombs, his voice flat with fatigue. 'Miss...miss...miss...' A monotonous monosyllabic chant.
'Charlie Bravo One this is Charlie Alpha...standby. We're pulling back.'
Davis acknowledged, and passed on the information to his remaining two tank commanders. He could not put names or faces to their voices yet, but their radio techniques were already familiar. He kept his eyes on the outline of the village. With the magnification of his light-intensifying lenses, he could see movement; the occasional dodging infantrymen scurrying between the piled rubble, silhouetted, stooped, bent almost double. A dark hull, recognizable as a Chieft
ain, passed in front of a blazing building, looking like an identification cut-out at a training lecture. He knew how its crew would be feeling; they had survived for a little while longer. If they could retire now behind Bravo Troop, then they would have another small respite...perhaps the opportunity to catch a few minutes' deep...a hot drink. And like Bravo One, the interior of their vehicle would be stinking, fetid. You pissed or shat in bags, if it were possible. Sometimes it wasn't, and you held on as long as you could. Eventually, in some unexpected moment of stress, you let it go. That kind of stress never presented itself in training, so if you lacked battle experience you were always unprepared. Davis's NBC suit was still dry inside, but the fighting compartment of the Chieftain stank, and it probably wasn't all the responsibility of the new loader, Spink.
Three thousand meters from here to the village, and the Russian armour is probably skirting the place now. That means we should see something of them pretty soon. Christ, not again! Davis's head was throbbing; it was the continuous noise, a never-ending reminder of death. He saw some of the infantrymen double across the edge of a field sixty meters to his left, heading for the cover of the nearest buildings; an APC lurched its way past him on the right, followed by two of Alpha Troop's Chiefiains, one belching heavy smoke from its exhausts. Its driver would be sweating keeping it running, praying he would be allowed to drive it back out of the line, to one of the rear servicing units.
Davis was staring so hard in the direction of the enemy that when he momentarily closed his eyes he could still see the same scene imprinted on his retina like the negative of a photograph. Nothing but the flames of the village, and the drifting flares overhead, moved now.
'The sods aren't coming...' Inkester's voice made the comment sound like a wish. The lad was tired, exhausted, Davis knew. Christ, how much did they expect you to give? Almost two days of continuous fighting...two days of willing your mind to concentrate, ignoring the discomfort, the stinking heat of the fighting compartment, the cramp that wrenched at your muscles. 'Come on...come on...' It wasn't bravado, Inkester was as nervous as all of them, but he wanted to get it over with...defend this village and then leapfrog back to the brief rest somewhere to the rear; the next village, river or wood.
Davis had sometimes prayed, but he had never been convinced by religion; he was even ashamed that during the past hours he had resorted to praying to a God in whom he did not believe. But consoled himself with the excuse that you tried everything at times like these. It was no worse than being an atheist all your life, and then demanding absolution a few minutes before you died, just to be on the safe side. It was human nature. And what if I was wrong, though, thought Davis. Christ, it would make you feel bloody stupid if you were killed, and suddenly opened your eyes to find yourself in a far better place...all peaceful, bids singing, warm sunlight, flowers...someone standing there with a cool pint of bitter in their hands. You'd think, Jesus, I've been shit scared for days, for no reason. It's great here, wherever I am. Maybe there'd be a long warm beach, shallow water where the kids could play safely, where you could strip off and just lie in the edge of the sea with the waves lapping along your body, a bit of soft music somewhere in the background, a cool-drinks bar a few meters up the sand behind you, sort of Pacific island scenery.
They said you never heard the shot that killed you; Davis heard the rocket salvo for a fraction of a second before the massive explosion...the roar of their propellants drowning out every other sound, destroying thought and reason. A salvo from thirteen Soviet BM-21 multi-rocket launchers; five hundred and twenty rockets fired together and landing on Charlie Squadron's positions, betrayed by infra-red location equipment in a Soviet robot observation helicopter hovering four kilometers behind the Russian side of the front-line.
The immense blast totally surrounded Davis's Chieftain, and though it was fully closed-down the hull transmitted the shockwave like a hammer Mow through the air of the fighting compartment, dazing and numbing the crew. There was a shrill whistling in Davis's ears...sharp pains shooting through his head. Debris and rubble clattered against the tank's hull. Davis could hear his men shouting, distantly, their voices thin, feeble, confused.
'Shut up...all of you shut up...' It hurt him to speak, his chest felt as if it had been crushed, every rib fractured, his lungs raw. 'Everybody okay...DeeJay? Inkester? Spink?' It could happen again, at any moment. What was it? A full missile salvo of some sort. God knows how many have landed. 'DeeJay, is the engine okay?' He couldn't hear it running. 'Can you see down there?'
'Fuck all, sir!'
'What the hell was that? Inkester's questioning voice was tremulous. 'Christ I've got no vision...'
The smoke was hanging over the ground drifting only slowly in the light breeze, heavy, sinister. Miraculously the episcopes were undamaged, but condensation in the lenses made the smoke appear denser. He wiped the glass with his beret. The haze was thinning a little but it seemed an eternity before Davis was able to see more than a short distance. The flares, the bloody flares were making it worse; turning the mist opaque, like fog in car headlights.
'Shark, this is Bravo One, over.' Only silence on the net. 'Shark, this is Bravo One, over...' Where the hell was Captain Willis? 'Shark, this is Bravo One, over.' No response, not a sound on the squadron network, only the crackle of atmospherics and the low oscillation of a jamming attempt. 'Charlie Bravo Three, this is Bravo One, over.' Nothing! God! Check the tuning...' All stations Charlie, this is Charlie Bravo One, over.' Bloody dead air...everywhere!
Battle group? He was beginning to feel desperate, isolated. 'Quebec this is Charlie Bravo One...over.'
There was an instant response that made Davis weak with relief. 'Charlie Bravo One, this is Quebec!
'Charlie Bravo One...we have lost squadron and troop contact.'
'Roger Charlie Bravo One...the same situation applies here.'
'We've just taken a time-on-target on the squadron position.'
There was a moment's silence that made Davis wonder if he should repeat the last part of the message, then: 'Do you have visual contact?'
'No visual contact.'
'Roger Charlie Bravo One. Rendezvous Orchid. Tiber open Causeway!
'Wilco, Quebec. Out.'
Davis checked through the code...Orchid was Rüper...Causeway, Braunschweig; he knew Tiber was bridge. He could still use the bridge at Braunschweig, but where was Rüper? He switched on the lights and studied the map...the page appeared almost white, and the aching in his head made it difficult to focus his eyes. Rüper...God, it was ten kilometers west of North Braunschweig. What the hell was happening along the front? They had told him to pull back twenty-five kilometers. Maybe they were resting him? God, that would be a relief. 'DeeJay...can you see yet?'
'Yeah, reasonably, sir.'
'Then get us out...and go easy, Christ knows what the ground is like.'
The Chieftain slewed, then straightened as DeeJay corrected the steering and accelerated. It was comforting to feel the movement of the tank once more. The Russian armour must be close now, thought Davis nervously. Maybe only meters away through the smoke. Their infantry would be on foot between the villages, they would keep their BMPs a bit further back until the ground opened up again. Infantry. What the hell had happened to the NATO troops? He had seen nothing of them since the rockets had landed...poor bastards, they didn't stand a chance...they would be lying amongst the rubble, the lucky ones already dead, the others dying.
Dying. Death. What had happened to the others; all the tanks of Charlie Squadron? There had been nine of them. Surely Bravo One wasn't the only one remaining in action? It wasn't possible. Hopefully he tried the radio nets again, but there were no replies. He stared out through the vision blocks but could see only rubble which held even darker wells of mist in its shadows. DeeJay swerved the Chieftain, a hulk of twisted wreckage barely recognizable as a tank lay tilted in a crater; black fumes wreathed over Bravo One's hull as they passed. Had Davis seen bodies? He wasn't certain...men
weren't always easy to recognize when they were killed violently. He hadn't even been able to identify the vehicle; it was another Chieftain, that was all he knew.
Alpha Squadron? They should be here somewhere. What was their net wavelength? He found it. 'Alpha Nine, this is Charlie Bravo One.'
'Alpha Nine...what's your problem Charlie Bravo One?'
'We're coming through you. Battle group orders.'
'How many tanks?'
'One.'
'One? What the hell happened?'
'TOT.'
'Poor sods...okay Charlie Bravo One, we'll keep our eyes open for you.'
There were two dull explosions in the wreckage of the village now to the Chieftain's right quarter; they were followed by long staccato bursts of GPMG fire just audible above the sound of the engine. DeeJay accelerated again as they reached more open ground.
Chieftains Page 23