Chieftains (13 page)

The days? It was one of those days, today. They'd all forget how bad it had been...one day.

TEN

'This is London. Seventeen hundred hours Greenwich Mean Time. BBC World Service. Here is the news, read by Hugh Dermot.' The newscaster's voice was grave. 'A state of war now exists between Great Britain and the Soviet Union.'

'Switch that fucking tranny off, Corporal.' The staff sergeant's temper was barely under control. Not a minute previously he had been requested to organize coffee for the C-in-C and his staff; as it wasn't his job and he was already busy, he was feeling as though he had been demoted to a mess orderly.

'It's the BBC, Staff...first news we've managed to get.' The corporal was speaking over the newscaster and the men standing nearby leant closer to catch Dermot's voice.

'...Soviet troops, backed by mechanized infantry from the Warsaw Pact countries and with heavy air support, simultaneously invaded the territorial sovereignty of West Germany, Turkey and Austria at dawn today.'

The staff sergeant wanted to hear it himself. 'Okay, two minutes then.' There was a gangly private standing beside a filing cabinet, he made the mistake of catching the staff sergeant's eyes. 'You, Roberts, go and get a can of coffee from the cooks. And about two dozen cups...get 'em up to the boss, fast...get a move on, lad.'

Someone said :'Shhh...' and the staff sergeant glowered, angrily.

'...our ultimatum, delivered to the Soviet Foreign Minister by the British Ambassador in Moscow, gave the Soviet government until noon to indicate it would order the immediate cessation of hostilities, failing which Her Majesty's Government, in conjunction with its NATO allies, would consider a state of war to exist between the invading members of the Soviet bloc, and the Western Alliance.

'This assurance was not forthcoming. Consequently, the United Kingdom, the United States of America, Canada and our European allies are now at war.

'First reports of the Soviet attack were received in London shortly before 04.00 hours this morning. Soviet artillery launched a heavy barrage along an entire front from Lübeck in the north, to the Austrian border; shortly afterwards, armour of the Russian Second Guards Tank Army invaded West German territory to the east of the city of Lübeck, and Soviet airborne troops were landed in the Fulva valley.

'Soldiers of the 1st British Corps of the NATO Northern Army Group have been in action since the onset of hostilities in the British zone of responsibility to the east of Hannover.'

'Too fucking true, mate,' agreed the corporal sitting beside his transistor.

'Shut up, Nash,' growled the staff sergeant.

'...NATO Defence Headquarters, now evacuated from Brussels to minimize the risk of attack on the Belgium capital, reported in a communique issued a few minutes ago that forces of Belgium, Britain, Germany, the Netherlands and United States are all involved in the fighting, and that there are at present eight major defensive actions along the entire front.

'The communique said that the Soviet advance had been slowed down, and although no casualty figures were available those of the Soviet Union were very high.

'Soviet fighter aircraft and medium range bombers, bearing the insignias of the Frontovaya and Dal'naya Aviatsiya have made repeated raids on the north German towns of Lübeck, Hamburg, Hannover and Braunschweig. Heavy casualties are reported among the civilian populations.

'At 06.00 hours this morning, ministers of the North Atlantic Council, NATO's governing body, were called into immediate session. We will have more news of that later in the broadcast.

'In New York, the United Nations Security Council emergency debate on the crisis was resumed. Earlier today, the Soviet and Chinese delegations staged a brief walk-out when the Japanese delegates denounced the invasion of Western Europe as "wanton treachery by insatiable expansionists!" '

'Sodding Chinese! Last bloody Chairman was supposed to be a mate of
ours.
..they're like
the
bleeding Vicar of Bray.' The staff sergeant had a pinch of dark tobacco in the palm of his hand and began rolling a match-thin cigarette.

'...here, at home, the Prime Minister, Mr James Newlin, called the invasion an "act of unparalleled insanity and barbarity, more dangerous to the future of all mankind than any the world has ever previously experienced". He called on all world leaders to support the determined fight to maintain the freedom of the West, and congratulated the President of the French Republic, Monster Charles Dupré, on his government's decision to join those of the NATO alliance in the defence of West Germany. Five divisions of the French First Army, including three mechanized divisions, are expected to move eastwards in support of the American forces.

'In Turkey, Soviet forces crossed the frontiers at Batumi, Yerevan and Nachichevan, while a Soviet naval assault force has made landings on the Turkish Black Sea coast between Sinop and Samsun. Concentrations of Bulgarian troops have been reported on the Turko Bulgarian frontier at Malko, three hundred and twenty kilometers from Istanbul.

'In Yugoslavia, despite strong resistance, Soviet authorities this morning announced the capture of Novi Sad and Belgrade. Throughout the early hours of today Belgrade Radio played continuous recordings of the Yugoslav national anthem. This was silenced a little after 09.00 hours...'

'That'll do, Corporal. Turn it off now.' The staff sergeant's slim cigarette was already a butt between his lips. He picked it out carefully, and dropped it into a near empty mug on the table. 'All right you lot, don't hang around...get back to your work...this is an official war we've got...earn your bloody money...'

The headquarters of the Commander-in-Chief of the Allied Forces in Northern Europe was situated, temporarily, a few kilometers east of Münster. Commander-in-Chief, General Sir Alexander Dormer, had moved his staff two days previously eastwards from Rheindahlen to its present battle headquarters. He had slept for less than three hours in the past twenty-four, but a Benzedrine tablet had cleared fatigue from his mind. There would be time for rest when the situation in NORTHAG became more settled.

Dormer was feeling satisfied with the intelligence reports he was receiving. The Russian forces were continuing their advance, which had been expected. But the advance had been neither as fast, nor had the initial penetration been as deep, as had been forecast. Their losses in the first kilometers had been astronomical, despite their advantages in military strength, their armour outnumbering that of the NATO forces by almost three to one.

Three to one. Sheer weight, Dormer knew, could win a war no matter how dogged the adversary. There had been sufficient warnings given over the past few years, and yet many of the NATO governments had ignored them, seeking political popularity while endangering the future military security of their countries. Britain had been no exception; in 1980, the British military budget had been cut by two hundred million pounds.

There had been an attempt, far too late, to redress the military balance, but many engineering companies which could have been used on military projects had gone to the wall during the recession, and new ones to replace them had not been fully developed. Defence projects had been allowed to decay too far to be hurriedly salvaged. Much of the NATO weaponry was out-dated and long-serviced, but what there was of it was being well used. To his present satisfaction, the 1st British Corps were giving a good account of themselves, as were the men of the German and Belgian forces. In the north the Netherland Corps, reinforced by the German Federal Republic's territorial army, had slowed the Soviet forces east of Hamburg.

It had been no surprise to Dormer when the French entered the war immediately it had begun. He had worked closely with their High Command many times and never doubted their intentions, despite their government's apparent determination to remain non-commital. The French armour was already being brought into reserve, behind the American army in CENTAG.

The Atlantic air-bridge, 'Reforger', was not only holding but was growing rapidly. The massive Lockheed CXs which had been built in increasing numbers over the past five years, and the old Galaxies, were now proving their worth With near maximum payloads of 220,000lbs – as much as two M-60 tanks, or three helicopters – they were refuelling in the air while en route from the USA to the airbases in Europe. Most aircraft of the European and American civil airlines had been immediately brought into service as troop and supply carriers. Dormer was feeling increasingly confident that if the Soviet advance could be contained for a further forty-eight hours they might be willing to negotiate a peace. At this stage, when negotiation was still possible, he did not personally believe there was much likelihood of a nuclear war developing. Though he had little respect for Russian leadership, he did not consider them to be maniacs. They would demand a high price for peace, perhaps even the re-unification of Germany under Soviet control, and it would then be for politicians, not soldiers, to decide if the ransom should be met.

On the situation maps of the NORTHAG battlefront, General Sir Alexander Dormer could see clearly the present extent of the Warsaw Pact advance; the maps were continuously being adjusted by his staff, brought up-to-date the moment information became available from the various fronts. The battle computer system had removed much of the guesswork from strategy, though the early loss of many of the NATO reconnaissance satellites had proved very damaging.

At the moment, the Soviet forces had done little more than straighten the old frontiers. In the north, they threatened the city of Lübeck in a push towards Kiel. The largest immediate loss of territory had occurred between Lauenburg and Bergen, where a peninsula of Federal Germany, the Wendland, had been attacked simultaneously from north and south, west of the river Jeetze, and a heavy Soviet air drop at Hitzacker had unexpectedly established a bridgehead. The Elbe at this point was wide, and it had been thought the NATO defences were adequate, but a complete airborne division from the Mongolian Peoples Republic of the USSR had been used in the assault. It had been one of the possible contingencies of modern warfare; the Americans had proved the feasability of flying airborne troops into battle from great distances, and the Soviet command had been quick to see how it could be exploited to overcome problems caused by competent enemy surveillance in battle areas. The sudden involvement of unexpected numbers of men and fighting vehicles could easily disrupt the calculations of planned defence. The loss of the Wendland was Dormer's only present regret. It had been expected, but he had hoped the river Jeetze, which cut south across the whole peninsula of land and then east towards the border, would have proved more of an obstacle to the Soviet advance, and further increased their heavy casualty figures.

It had long been admitted it was impractical to consider establishing a main line of defence at the Eastern German border. With an increasingly mobile type of warfare, and against the great strength of the Warsaw Pact countries, a did wall technique would tend to produce near matching losses for both attackers and defenders. By using more flexible techniques, reserves could be held in readinass until the inertia was lost from the Soviet invasion, their shock troops no longer effective, and their supply lines stretched. At such a time, the Warsaw Pact armies would be at their most vulnerable, and the NATO powers at their strongest.

Dormer read the decoded message just received from SACEUR – Supreme Allied Commander Europe. 'Reference use of chemicals in various sectors, retaliatory action is in order.'

The message had been carefully worded to ensure the final decision rested with him...not only the decision, but the responsibility! Reports of chemicals had reached headquarters on several occasions throughout the day, but there appeared to have been no concentrated attacks. And in no instances had the use of chemicals been sustained. It had been difficult for him to decide whether it had been deliberately used but in limited and almost experimental circumstances, or released by pure accident; perhaps the destruction of a vehicle equipped with chemical weapons.

The communications deer knew the contents of the message and was waiting for Dormer's reaction. 'Do you want me to pass it to divisional levels, sir?'

'No, not yet.' Not until I'm damned certain, he told himself. It was all too easy to begin an irreversible escalation towards the use of nuclear weapons.

ELEVEN

Studley had been blindfolded, he thought unnecessarily, and then made to lie spreadeagled face downwards on the ground. His feelings were too mixed to be identifiable: dismay, humiliation, disappointment, bitterness. He had never before understood suicides – except as a form of patriotism where death was used as a shield to protect colleagues – he considered it now. If he were to leap to his feet, attempt to run, then his guards would shoot. But it might not be death, simply more pain; a useless gesture. Lt Colonel James Studley felt helpless. After years of exercising authority, it was not easy for him to accept degradation.

The helicopter swung down above the trees, the gale of its rotors stripping the remaining leaves from the thin twisted branches, ruffling Studley's clothing and hair. He was pulled to his feet and almost thrown into the aircraft. There was a guard close to him, the man announcing his presence by pressing the cold muzzle of a rifle against Studley's neck. The feeling of lift was brief before the machine levelled out above the trees and swung across the plain. The flight lasted less than ten minutes.

His blindfold was removed when he had been half-dragged some fifty meters from the helicopter. Its engine roared; he felt the wind of its take-off and heard it slip into the distance. He was inside a rough canvas tent, its square shape disguised by camouflage netting. Three radio operators were sitting beside their equipment, one speaking rapidly in Russian. A number of officers were bent over maps on a long wooden table in the centre of the tent, and clerks and infantrymen were busy around them. They ignored him for sever& minutes; the guard, a thick-set man in brown combat clothing, rigidly at attention by his side.

Eventually, one of the officers straightened himself, stared at James Studley and walked towards him. The guard saluted and handed over a mall cloth-wrapped bundle. The officer tipped its contents on to a narrow desk, and Studley recognized his own belongings and identity papers. The officer examined them for a long time in silence, referring frequently to notes on a clipboard beside him.

Studley knew the man's uniform, dark green with gold and olive epaulets; a captain of the Soviet Army Main Intelligence Directorate, the GRU.

'You are a lieutenant colonel in the 4th Armoured Division of the 1st British Corps,' said the captain. His English was good, too good to have been learnt only in the USSR. The man must have had embassy experience.

'I am Lieutenant Colonel James Studley, and my number is 457590...'

The captain interrupted him. 'Colonel, you have been watching too many war movies. I know what you consider to be your rights. I am also aware of your name, rank and military identification number. I know also you are commanding officer of a battle group which you have named Cowdray, and that your group consisted of part of the Kings Hussars, a company of mechanized infantry, self-propelled guns and missile launchers. I say consisted, Colonel, because regretfully it no longer exists. It has been wiped out.' He paused to allow Studley to digest his words. 'We have also destroyed your field headquarters.'

Studley said, 'I would like to join my officers.'

'I doubt if that is the truth, Colonel. There were no survivors.'

So Max must be dead after all, thought Studley. It seemed impossible.

The captain continued. 'Colonel, like yourself I am a professional soldier. You and I do not make wars, we only fight them at the command of our politicians. We realize you were under orders, and naturally you obeyed them; that is good...it is how a soldier should behave.'

Studley felt himself swaying, his vision was blurring.

'Colonel you must excuse me...of course, you have been injured; it is always a shock to the nervous system.' The captain shouted in Russian and a chair was placed at Studley's side. 'Please sit down. I will make sure you have medical attention as soon as possible. And now...' The captain picked up the clipboard from the table. 'Colonel James Studley, born in Hastings Cottage Hospital, Sussex, 16 June, 1941. Mother, Margaret Elizabeth Studley. Father, James Howard Studley, veterinary surgeon, formerly a captain in the British Army Veterinary Corps and awarded the Military Cross in action in Italy, in 1944. Quite unusual for a veterinary officer, Colonel! You were educated at Winchester, and then accepted in to the British my in August 1959...I have quite a lot here on your military career. Very successful, Colonel...'

Studley felt the rare chill of fear. He had been aware of the depth of Soviet intelligence, but this was frightening; the ability to pull such detailed knowledge out of the computer files so quickly. His capture must have been reported by radio within minutes and the request for all information on his background sent immediately to some distant central military computer.

The GRU captain read his thoughts. 'You are naturally a little surprised, Colonel.' The man smiled without humour. 'I would like to claim we had such information on
every
NATO officer, but of course you would realize this could not be so. We are satisfied with confining our efforts to those in senior positions of command, Colonel. After all, such knowledge is part of the skill of modem computerized warfare. Know the man and perhaps you know something of the manner in which he will fight. And, Colonel, much of our information is easy to find; your army has a habit of cataloguing most things...promotions, postings...and much of a man's history can be learnt through your public records offices. The more personal things? They are...tricks of our trade.' The captain turned a few more sheets of paper. 'Your medical record...appendicitis in 1981...' he glanced at Studley. 'Fully recovered by now, I hope, Colonel? Unmarried...you have lost both your parents, see...sad...and you maintain your parents' house in Winchelsea. Tidbits, Colonel, just tidbits that enlarge our knowledge of our opponents. Here, for instance: 1980...September...a military exercise, Crusader '80...one of your biggest for some time, I believe. When it ended, you went back to Britain on leave, Colonel. But not alone. I see you were accompanied by a lady who was also returning to Britain. A Mrs Jane Fairly. There is a note here that she is the wife of another officer serving with your regiment, a major...of course there is nothing unusual about people travelling together...it is sensible, economical when you are both travelling in the same direction. Also economical that you spent a night in the same hotel and the same mom, in Amsterdam. And then shared a cabin on the overnight ferry.' The captain was suddenly apologetic. 'No, Colonel, please be calm. I am suggesting nothing...such things are of no importance to me. What possible use is such information to me, when you are here and they are there?' He pointed to a wall of the tent as though it were a frontier.

'Colonel, it will not be long before we require large numbers of skilled administrators...there will be much work for us all, and it will be easier for everyone if we work together. This is not a territorial war where the victor will oppress the vanquished. This is a war of liberation. It is our desire to establish lasting friendship with our British comrades once the existing corrupt system has been removed. The sooner this terrible business is ended, the fewer lives will be lost and life can return to normality once again. We should work together towards this end.' He spoke confidentially, his eyes meeting those of Studley. 'I don't want an immediate answer. Think it over for an hour. Here...' He passed Studley a typewritten sheet. 'These questions...simple ones. Relatively unimportant. Read them in private. You can help me with them later. Afterwards, I'll arrange for you to see one of our doctors. Then you can wash...I can find you a change of clothing...and a good meal, eh, Colonel.' He signalled one of the guards near the tent door, and Studley was led outside. There were several BMPs parked beneath camouflage netting at the side of a broad woodland clearing. A pair of MAZ-543 cargo carriers with their huge bodies towering above him, were standing only a few meters away, while at the side of the tent was a truck mounted with a tall radio relay pylon with dish aerials.

Distantly, Studley could hear the sound of artillery.

He was taken to one of the BMPs and ordered to climb inside. The guard closed down the hatch above him. It was gloomy, the only light filtering through one of the gun ports. The interior fittings were spartan, the seats thinly padded. It would be an uncomfortable vehicle for the infantry who used it.

Studley felt for his watch; it was missing. From the low angle of the sun when he had left the tent he thought it must be late afternoon. He held the paper he had been given towards the gun port. 'Questions,' the captain had said. 'Simple ones. Relatively unimportant.' There were no questions on the sheet of paper, simply NATO code names. Studley recognized them. Code names for the map references of the division's positions, rendezvous points, laagerings, field headquarters of all the units, the H hour time code. Relatively unimportant? With the code broken the Russians would be able to anticipate every movement the division made. All the Soviet artillery would need to do would be to wait until a few minutes after the time given in the division's orders, then plaster the area.

But the information was only good for the next seven hours or so. At midnight, the codes would be changed. Studley felt relieved. if he could hold out until then he would be of no further use to Russian intelligence. He screwed the paper into a ball and tossed it into the corner of the vehicle.

His body felt as though it had been crushed and squashed. Every muscle was bruised and aching, his joints felt as though they were arthritic. The wound in his leg had stiffened and the blood had seeped through the dressing and hardened. He hadn't seen the wound, but didn't think it could be very serious...unless it became infected.

He stretched himself out and lifted his legs on to the neighbouring seat. He was exhausted, but knew he wouldn't be able to sleep.

Their intelligence on military personnel had startled him. It was better than just good. He had heard that over one hundred and eighty thousand people worked, in one way or another, for the American CIA. The Soviet agencies probably employed even more, collecting a mass of information and passing it back to their directorates for storage in their computers. Feed in a name and three minutes later, by radio, you had a full dossier; damn them, they were too efficient. Where did they start and end with the NATO army? Not at lieutenant...major, perhaps...everyone from the rank of major upwards, filed away in a Russian computer...every scrap of information they could lay their hands on; information from countless sources, civil and military, classified and non-classified clerks in NATO offices who were working for the Russians...in military offices...civilian mess staff...bar staff...

It was incredible they knew about Jane. The Russian GRU captain had been right, maybe they couldn't make use of it but nevertheless they knew. War was a dirty game, and intelligence its darkest corner! Would they have ever made use of their knowledge if there hadn't been a war? Perhaps. They might have tried to blackmail him...threatened to ruin his career...expose him. God, thought Studley, expose what? Tell Max I'm having an affair with his wife? I wasn't some businessman on a week's jaunt in Moscow, or Leipzig. They didn't photograph me with a whore in some third-rate hotel...or produce pornographic tape-recordings. Jane and I are in love; we've been in love for years and we've kept quiet, bottled it up; kept it from Max and young Paul.

It hadn't been easy when they had all been together. It had been unpleasant at times, watching Max with his arm around Jane, knowing it was Max who would be taking her to bed, caressing her, sleeping beside her. Now poor old Max was dead, and thankfully he had never known. He couldn't be hurt. The thought of his death made Studley fed guilty; he had never wished it. He would have done almost anything to prevent it.

What a balls-up! He had expected casualties in the fighting, but somehow hadn't thought he would be amongst them. How many of the men had been lost? Who had survived? Maybe it wasn't too bad after all! If they'd put up a stiff fight and taken out plenty of the enemy, it was worthwhile. Had what they'd all done been enough? Had he somehow let his men down? Christ, he didn't know!

And what now? Would the GRU officer just question him again, and then pass him back through the lines until he ended up in some POW camp? There were bound to be other prisoners, he couldn't be the only one! There would be other officers, taken in similar situations along the front...the Russians would get them all together somewhere. God, he felt miserable! It would be bad for Jane, too. Her husband dead, and her lover a prisoner...and Paul, her son...trapped in West Berlin with very little hope of escaping. Damn Berlin. Damn the little red train that was its military artery. And damn Tempelhof, a vulnerable airport which a dozen rockets could put out of action. Christ, it would be bad in Berlin now; surrounded, impossible to defend against missile attacks, and too isolated to break out from. A Stalingrad, perhaps.

Escape. Perhaps that was what should be done? It was wrong to sit around waiting for the worst to happen...escape...it might be possible. But what about his leg wound? He could walk, even though his calf muscle was stiff and aching. Plenty of men had done it before. He remembered talking to someone who had escaped after Dunkirk. 'Take the very first opportunity you get,' the man had advised. 'If you wait for the second, then it's too late...the second chance may never come.' Studley could remember the man clearly. He limped badly, broke his thigh when he jumped from a train, crawled several miles at night hiding in daytime in ditches full of water and mud. He had spent weeks in some French farmhouse before returning to England on a fishing boat. But he'd made it. He hadn't fought again, but he'd done a useful training job for the remainder of the war. He had survived