Chieftains (24 page)

The sky was brightening with the dawn, turning the vision blocks of the episcope in the Chieftain's turret into bars of soft green light. To the left of the Chieftain, fitly meters away, were the crew of a machine gun, lying beside the weapon sited in a break in the stone wall. Davis could see them clearly for the first time; twenty meters on were another group, but they were still difficult to distinguish from the low shrubs in which they were waiting.

He sat watching them. It was chilly enough inside the tank, it would be perishing cold out there. The infantrymen would be feeling stiff and uncomfortable, their clothing wet with the dew, their helmets dripping the condensation on to their shoulders. Jesus, who'd be a foot soldier!

'Tea, sir.'

'Thanks...' It was hot, sweet. He heard Inkester mutter something and thought, well, they'll get on together in the end. It was always difficult for a new crew 'member for the first few days. First few days? Charlie Bravo One and its crew might not last that long. A few days. Another two and maybe, if they were still lucky enough to be alive, they might get pulled out of the line for R and R. That would be good. That's something to aim for...aim to stay alive just two more days.

'What you doin' down there, DeeJay?' Inkester was leaning forward below Davis's knees, trying to peer into the driving compartment.

'Shaving.'

'You what?

'Shaving!'

'In yer tea?'

'In maiden's water...what the hell do you think?'

'You're bloody mad...you'll be changing your shirt next.'

'I've done that.'

'I wish Stink would change his trousers...'

Davis had been watching the machine gun crew in the growing daylight. There was a kind of sadistic satisfaction in sitting inside the Chieftain with his mug of hot tea cupped in his hands, while the infantry shivered outside. One of the soldiers was standing, stretching, shaking his arms. He was taking a risk, a good sniper with a Dragunov and telescopic sight could pick him off from across the river. What the hell was he doing? He had stripped off the upper part of his NBC suit and was waving his helmet above his head. Another of the members of the GPMG crew was going to get him...no, was ignoring him...what in God's name were they doing with the machine gun? A man was lifting it off its bipod...he dropped it...picked it up, then threw it at one of the soldiers on the ground. They were laughing. One stumbled to his knees, then lay on his back, kicking his legs in the air like a crippled insect.

'Christ!' Davis shouted in horrified realization – tossing his half-finished mug of tea out of the way under his seat. 'Gas...gas...gas...All stations, this is Bravo One...gas...gas...gas...check all vehicles and close down.' He switched quickly to the squadron net. 'Hullo Shark, this is Bravo One...gas...gas...gas...Over.' He rammed on his respirator and blew out hard.

'Shark here...Roger Charlie Bravo One.' Captain Willis's voice was reassuringly steady. 'Do you have casualties? Over.'

'The infantry...I'll check the troop.' Davis's voice was slightly muffled, but he knew it would transmit.

'What kind of gas?'

'Chemical...unidentified.'

'How was it delivered?'

'No idea...no shells over...haven't seen aircraft. High altitude rockets, maybe.'

'Roger Charlie Bravo One...out.'

'DeeJay,' shouted Davis, 'you got your hatch clamped down and your respirator on?

'Yes.'

'Spink...check yours, lad.' Davis peered out through his lenses. The infantrymen he could see were hunched on the ground, curled into grotesque foetal postures; one was convulsing rhythmically, but the others were now all still. God, it was nasty...bloody terrifying. An unseen, unheard form of death that drifted in without warning. He could have been out there...leaning out of the turret for a breath of air when it arrived. The bastards; those bastard Russians. What about the rest of his troop?

'All stations Bravo, this is Nine...acknowledge. Over.'

'Bravo Two. Over.'

'Bravo Three. Over.'

Davis waited. Where the hell was Four? 'Bravo Four, this is One...acknowledge. Over?'

'Bravo Four. Over.'

Relief made Davis angry. 'Bravo Four, this is Nine. When I say acknowledge, I mean acknowledge...and fast okay? All Bravo Troop standby...and for God's sake stay closed-down. Any casualties near you? Over.'

Only one of the troop replied to his question. 'Bravo Three...report Milan squad knocked out here.'

'Roger Bravo Three. Out.'

PBI, they used to nickname them; poor bloody infantry. It was appropriate. 'Inkester, keep your eyes peeled.' DeeJay had already started the Chieftain's engine. 'Everything okay down there, DeeJay?'

'Ace, sir.'

'Spink? Spink, wake up, lad!'

'Yes, sir. I'm all right.'

'Fucking stay that way,' warned Inkester. 'Shit...look at that...' Four stub-winged aircraft in a tight diamond formation were swinging up above the distant woods, rising into a steep climb. Below them the ground was already a seething mass of napalm flame. 'What the hell are they, sir?'

They had come in so fast Davis had not seen their approach dive. 'Tomcats maybe...Yanks...ours anyway.' The aircraft were already only small dots; the formation broke, sunlight glinted on perspex and they were gone.

It's begun again, thought Davis. As though in confirmation, the hull of the Chieftain began to quiver with the shock of exploding missiles. Overhead, the shrieking roar of heavy artillery shells rose above the throb of the tank's engine. Two more days, please God...that's all, just two days...keep us alive for two more days until we're pulled out.

Floggers! He saw them in the distance against the dawn sky, chunky, menacing, only a hundred meters above the ground. They seemed to be aiming themselves directly at Charlie Bravo One. He lost them for a second and they were suddenly terrifyingly close...one disintegrated into a vast orange flame; a comet spewing flaming debris as it fell. The others...he saw missiles briefly...heard the explosions somewhere to the rear. Smoke! Shell bursts ahead of him. Ethereal dark serpents writhing from the earth, to envelop the fields and swell along the riverbanks. The ground leapt, trees and shrubs flattening beneath the sharp aerial detonations of canister, aimed against infantry already incapacitated by the gas; steel pellets hammered the Chieftain's armoured body, shot-blasting the paintwork from polished metal.

Davis wondered what it was like for the Russian tank crews. Perhaps in some ways better; at least they were moving forward. But into what? Minefields! The leading tanks armed with rollers and ploughs to clear the treacherous and deadly ground...wedged up against ditches and streams where they became stationary targets for the Milan crews or the gunships. And here against the well-prepared defences, unable to use the natural cover until it was cleared of mines by their engineers. No, it wasn't better for them, and it was probably psychologically worse...they had everything to lose, and not much to gain...only someone else's piece of ground to die on.

Imagine being up there watching, he thought. Up there, not like God, but just up there. In a command helicopter well up out of harm's way if there was such a place; looking down and seeing it all happen. Like the time he had flown into Berlin, and seen the East German minefields stretching as a dark ploughed road as far as he could see in both directions from the windows of the aircraft; only now the border would be a band of fire and smoke cutting Europe in half. How wide was the devastation and destruction? Would it go on expanding until the whole world was one huge smoking ruin?

Inkester called, 'Infantry...I think I can see Russian infantry!'

Davis swept the ground through the smoke with the 7.62mm machine gun, pleased to give himself something to take his mind off the devastating artillery bombardment. He stopped firing, and watched through the episcope as a British Saracen disgorged its men sixty meters to his left; ten infantrymen, clumsily-suited and cradling their SLRs, alien in their respirators, comforting. Replacements; infantry to fight infantry. Davis wanted more of them to appear, supported by some fresh armour to charge forward and roll it all up, get it. over with. They wouldn't come, it was a waste of time even thinking about it.

'Charlie Bravo One...this is Shark. Soviet air-drop to the rear...about two Ks back, at Cyanide...some light armour. We'll hold here until it gets too hot, then move to Potash...out.'

'Roger, Shark,' acknowledged Davis.

Airdrop, bloody hell. And behind somewhere. That was bound to be the way they'd do it; they weren't going to get themselves shot to hell in order to ford some pissy little river; they'd just put up a diversionary artillery barrage, and then air-drop their troops past the defences. Sod crossing minefields and bridging ditches. They would secure the bridgehead by an airborne assault first. Gas! That was bloody obvious, too. Someone should have had those poor infantry bastards in their respirators since first shot yesterday...bloody disorganization...too many bosses up top...too bloody far away from the battlefront. No, that wasn't true. The colonel had been right up there with them...Colonel Studley in his Chieftain, out there in the battle like his crews. Bloody good for him; he was...had been the sort of colonel you wanted to fight under...poor sod.

'Armour! What the hell?' Inkester's voice, anxious. 'Range six hundred...' The Chieftain lurched on its suspension as Inkester fired. 'What was it, sir? The wreckage of the vehicle was hidden in the smoke.

'An MT-LB...worry about what's coming, lad, not what's gone.'

EIGHTEEN

12.00 hours. Day Two

'They look like dead rats, Jesus, they look like rats!' Inkester was staring ahead at a heap of Soviet paratroopers' bodies beside the shattered walls of a derelict barn. The corpses, twisted, torn and bloody, were still dressed in their NBC protective clothing and long brown-muzzled respirators.

Only minutes before the Russian paratroopers had been alive, manning a pair of RPU rocket launchers; the guns of Charlie Bravo Troop's tanks had opened up on them and Davis had driven the Chieftain into the courtyard of the farm buildings with his machine gun blazing. You could demolish a wall, row by row of bricks, with a 7.62mm. It did terrible things to the human body.

The squadron had pulled back from the river...retired five kilometers in a series of leapfrogs; tank protecting tank, troop protecting troop. Today, thank God, there had been fewer losses so far. Only two tanks gone from the squadron, and Bravo Troop still intact. It was the infantry who were having the hardest time, sweating blood as they fought in their clammy suits, dying from the bullets and shrapnel, or the gas when the, blast of a nearby explosion stripped the protective clothing from their bodies.

Davis had watched them die. First the infantrymen beside the Chieftains at dawn, then their replacements, killed more horrifically by a mortar bomb, screaming, shrieking, with the combination of broken bodies and searing gas droplets in open wounds. It was macabre to Davis that men should end life as they entered it, bloody and reluctant.

How many men had Davis killed this morning? Thirty. No, thirty was yesterday! Yesterday? Today? Not men today...brown-muzzled rats...giant rats...vermin. He would never count victims again.

'Fuckin' compo rations! Stodgy steak and kid...glue soup.'

'If you can eat cold egg banjos, you can bloody eat anything.'

'What about tea, Stink?'

'Piss off, Inkester. I ain't your batman. There's no time for food.'

'Don't you piss off to me, Stink my lad. Get your grubby finger out and mash char.'

'Bollocks!'

Back six more kilometers; three villages defended until they were blown to ruins around them. Lost, Bravo Three and another five tanks of the squadron. Eight tanks gone...every crewman dead. There was no survival. When they baled out it was too late, the gas had got them through punctured hulls. A brief respite now, there were two villages between Bravo Troop and the Russian armour...and in the villages the other troops of the squadron waited, and with them the infantry with their missiles and mortars. Somewhere, always in the rear, was the battalion's artillery; their guns red hot, the paint burnt from the barrels. The gunners trying to cool their weapons with buckets of gas-contaminated water, to prevent the charges exploding prematurely in the breeches as they were loaded.

''Scuse me, sir. I've got to have a shit.' Inkester wriggled sideways in his seat below Davis's knees.

'It's those bleeding egg banjos...'DeeJay's observation was unsympathetic.

'For Christ's sake, DeeJay. I'm not doin' it so's I can play with myself. It's fucking urgent. There's no sign of gas on the suit indicators.'

'Get it over with,' suggested Davis. 'And make it quick. Anyone else want to relieve themselves? We may as well all get it done at the same time.'

'Don't miss the bloody bag, Inky. Your bare arse is just above my head. And don't toss your gash into my driving compartment. Cor, bloody hell, stroll on!' DeeJay made exaggerated gasping noises.

'You may as well break out some rations, lad,' Davis told Spink. He was thirsty, his mouth dry and tasting as though he had spent the whole of the previous night drinking. Night? He looked at his watch. It was 16.00. The second day had almost gone. Another four hours and it would be darkness again. It had been dawn when he had last had a drink. 'Better make tea, lad.' When had he eaten last? Sometime during the night! But he didn't feel hungry. Had he slept at all? An hour at the reforming area.

'I could do with a ciggy,' Inkester had shrugged his overalls back on to his shoulders, stowed away his waste bag and settled himself into his seat again.

'Forget it.'

'These seats give you piles, sir...well, a sore arse. What's happening, sir?'

Davis ignored him. 'What ammunition have we got left, Spink?'

'Eight rounds, sir.'

'Eight!'

'Yes, sir. Plus what we've got in the driving compartment.'

'DeeJay, help Spink with the ammunition. Pass it back to him.'

'There isn't any down here, just a lot of old rag in the lockers.'

'Jesus Christ! Inkester, you're supposed to have checked the ammunition.' Inkester didn't answer. 'You should use your mouth less, boyo, and your brains more.' There was no point in making a bigger issue of the matter, as commander it was basically Davis's responsibility. In future, he would check everything himself. How the hell could they defend the village properly with only eight shells? He called up the other two tanks of Charlie Bravo Troop. Fourteen shells in Bravo Two, eighteen in Bravo Four. He reported to the squadron leader.

'We're all in the same boat, Charlie Bravo One. I requested more from Group two hours ago. God know's where they've got to.'

Somewhere ahead of the squadron was the city of Braunschweig. Warrant Officer Morgan Davis guessed it must lie beneath the rose-tinted pall of smoke on the western horizon and having witnessed the destruction of the small towns and villages through which he had fought in the past twenty-four hours, he had no difficulty in imagining the devastation. Braunschweig was a sacrificial victim, a city whose death had been planned long before the outbreak of the war; a lynch-pin. Situated at a point where the Mittellandkanal and several tributaries met the winding river Schunter, it was a crucial pivot to swing the Soviet advance towards the north and into the river-latticed plain east of Hannover. Those parts of Braunschweig that had remained undamaged by the bombs, long-range shells and missiles of the Russians, would by now have been systematically demolished by the NATO engineers. For the second time in its recent history, its centre, the smart shops, offices, cinemas, theatres and restaurants would be only smoking rubble. Its suburbs of neat and orderly houses had become armour-snarling traps, blocked streets and mined parks; a lethal maze.

To the north of Braunschweig, and on the right of the squadron's tanks, was the low range of hills, some forested and now sown with many thousands of bar and anti-personnel mines. Almost impenetrable to heavy tracked vehicles, it was the kind of ground that could only fall to slow, tedious and costly infantry assault; every hill-top and ridge defended and contested. An invader's nightmare.

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