of the hull and yelled at the driver’s hatch, ‘Drum her up, Horsefield.’
Studley waited until Pudsey had climbed inside and settled himself into his seat, and then followed. ‘We’ll give the infantry a hand, eh Sergeant,’ he shouted as Horsefield the driver stirred the Chieftain’s twelve-cylinder engine to life.
He slipped the headset over his beret, ignoring the helmet strapped to one of the seat supports. The helmet was too uncomfortable to be worn for long, and it was bad enough fighting in an NBC-suit. He switched on the tank’s intercom. ‘Load HE, Sergeant… Horsefield, take it easy when we get near the infantry positions. They know we’re coming down but it will pay to be cautious.’ He didn’t want some trigger-happy soldier to mistake the Chieftain for a T-80 and loose off a Milan missile in the heat of the moment. ‘We’ll use the long gulley at two o’clock. The infantry are about two thousand meters down the hill, and I don’t want to charge straight over their positions.’ He had checked the situation map before leaving the command post; Charlie Squadron and the infantry were close together. He would visit both and then work his way back around the lower side of the hill.
They had driven several hundred meters when he saw one of the battle group’s APCs overturned at the side of the gulley, with several corpses amongst the wreckage. It’s loss had been reported and Studley knew of the casualties, but it was still a gut shock to
Horsefield avoided the debris of the APC and brought the Chieftain into the open ground of a fire-break. Two more APCs rested in the shelter of the bordering trees, their crews kneeling or squatting beside them, waiting until the infantry needed them again. There were craters in the narrow clearing, still hazed with smoke.
Studley halted the tank and signalled over a drawn-looking lance corporal who had been squatting beside the front of one of the APCs, his Sterling Mk4 tucked ready beneath his arm. The man smartened himself and saluted, recognizing the colonel.
‘Much trouble, Corporal?’
‘Mortars, sir. They got the APC on the hill, and we lost one of our own men, sir. We haven’t seen a bloody Russian yet, sir.’
‘I don’t doubt you’ll see them soon enough.’ Studley was having to shout to make himself heard above the sound of the fighting lower in the wood. The heavier gunfire was now to the left, but there were mortar and grenade explosions no more than four hundred meters away.
‘Are we holding them, sir?’
‘Leading them, Corporal. Leading them.’ Studley made himself sound cheerful. ‘That’s the way we’re playing this game.’
There was no reaction on the lance corporal’s face to Studley’s words. He doesn’t believe me Studley thought to himself. They had code-named the battle plan ‘Hamlin’ after the town where a mythical piper had once led away a plague of rats to the sound of his flute. Hold and withdraw, hold and withdraw; forcing the enemy to use maximum effort at all times, and turning the head of the thrust cunningly so that the enemy was drawn along a route already decided by the NATO forces. The final traps were the killing zones, minefields covered by all the fire- power the NATO ground and air forces could muster. He ordered the Chieftain on, then watched for a moment as the lance corporal saluted briefly and turned to hurry back to the cover of the APC.
The Chieftain had entered the fire-zone, the shredded trees, the mist of battle, the sounds of death. Studley saw his first Soviet infantrymen two hundred meters ahead; scurrying, half-crouched, to the cover of a low wall. He decided they must be part of an artillery observation team, known to operate well up with the assault troops. He gave their position to Riley, the gunner, and then watched with satisfaction as the HE shell destroyed a five meter section of the wall and tumbled bodies out into the open.
Riley said quickly, ‘Traversing right one o’clock, sir.’ He swung the turret and brought the Chieftain’s gun to bear on a personnel carrier that was one of several thundering diagonally across a broad flat field that had contained root crops less than two weeks previously.
Studley switched the radio to the group net. ‘Hullo Charlie this is Sunray Rover One.’ He heard Captain Valda Willis, Charlie Squadron’s leader, acknowledge. ‘Charlie Nine, this is Sunray Rover One, expect Wolves twenty degrees right your position. BMPs, over.’
‘Roger Sunray Rover One, we see them. We are engaging, over.’
‘Roger Charlie Nine, out.’ Damn, thought Studley. He shouldn’t have interfered. Obviously Charlie Squadron hadn’t been sitting there with their eyes closed; they would be all alert, keyed-up, waiting for targets. Now, they would probably think he had been keeping an eye on them, looking for an opportunity to criticize their performance.
‘Sir…’ Corporal Riley’s voice drew his attention. The gunner was thinking that if he didn’t get a shot in quickly, then the BMPs would be annihilated within the next few moments by the squadron’s guns.
To the gunner’s relief, Studley said: ‘Take it out, Riley.’
The Chieftain kicked, and Studley watched the front of the leading BMP disintegrate, half of one of its tracks scything eight meters into the air. The vehicle burst into flames, then blew to pieces as the ammunition of its 73mm gun exploded. The Soviet attack, he thought, was a foolish waste of manpower and vehicles; to use unsupported mechanized infantry against deployed armour was suicidal.
Riley was seeking another target, but already a further three of the BMPs had been hit. A fourth the corporal was ranging on was demolished before he could fire.
Some of the infantrymen had survived the destruction of the vehicles, but the battle group’s machine guns and rifles concealed in the woods were picking them off.
Studley was moving to join Bravo Squadron when there was uncharacteristic shouting on the group net by the Command RTO. It was incomprehensible gibberish. Studley heard the man yell wildly and the sounds of violent static before the net went dead. He tried to regain contact without success. There were a number of possibilities to account for the failure, but he knew simple breakdown could be discounted. It was more likely the command post was under fire. He called Bravo Squadron who were positioned closest to the command post, and ordered them back to the higher ground. They reported they were already under severe attack from Soviet self-propelled guns out of range of their own 120mms, and sounded pleased to be moved from the area.
Six hundred meters to the rear of the regiment’s forward battle positions, Studley’s Chieftain was attacked. It was unexpected, only a little way from the clearing where the infantry APCs had been stationed. Fortunately, Studley had the tank’s hatches closed-down, but he didn’t see the Soviet infantryman hurl his grenade which bounced off the deck of the tank and exploded close to the right track. The grenade was the light RGD-5 whose frag liner failed to penetrate the Chieftain’s armour. Studley’s driver swerved the tank instinctively. As he did so there was a heavy concussion to the rear of the vehicle and more metal sprayed the hull.
The woods appeared to be alive with green-clad infantrymen and there was little room for the Chieftain to manoeuvre. The driver hesitated as another grenade exploded against the thick armour below the main gun. Studley shouted: ‘Keep going… and fast’ He felt the Chieftain accelerate. Trees snapped beneath its weight as it crashed forward through the undergrowth. A group of men scattered thirty meters away and Studley followed them with a long burst of fire from the machine gun. He saw an infantryman run diagonally towards him from the left, the man’s path curving through a patch of open ground as he ran to meet the Chieftain. His arm was already raised, and Studley caught a glimpse of a long-handled anti-tank grenade trailing its drogue towards the tank as the man threw himself flat. The grenade only fell short by a meter, exploding in the soft earth as the Chieftain reached the clearing where the APCs had been stationed; all that remained were their wrecked and smoking hulks, the crews dead, nearby.
‘Don’t stop…’ There was no need for Studley’s order, Horsefield was already pushing the Chieftain towards its maximum speed. It lurched and bounced across the open ground, crashing through a dense copse of young trees as the ground dipped towards the command position.
‘Hullo Bravo Nine, this is Sunray Rover One…’ Studley was being thrown around in his seat by the violent movement.
‘Hullo Sunray Rover One this is Bravo Nine.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Four hundred meters south of Primrose… and still under attack, over.’
‘Infantry?’ questioned Studley.
‘Armour. Two T-64s… wrong, three T-64s in position near derelict barn.’
