‘Bravo Nine, this is Charlie Bravo Two, over.’ Davis’s voice was shaky. The screaming to his left was continuous, and the Chieftain’s engine was revving so high the whole tank was vibrating.
‘What the hell’s happened Charlie Bravo Two? I’ve been trying to contact you for the past four minutes, over.’
‘I think we’ve been hit’
‘What’s the damage?’
‘I don’t know yet, Nine…’
‘Then damn well find out. We’re pulling back to Firefly. Make it quick… understand? Out.’
Davis shouted down into the fighting compartment but the sound of his voice was lost in the noise. He switched to the Tannoy. ‘Hewett… what’s going on down there?’
‘Fuckin’ linkage is jammed.’ DeeJay’s voice warbled, competing against the roaring motor.
‘Get it bloody well unjammed. Inkester!’ The Chieftain was full of swirling dust. Davis reached down and found the gunner’s shoulder. ‘Inkester?’ The shoulder moved. ‘Are you okay?’ Inkester nodded, his head just visible in the dim light. The roar of the engine dropped suddenly and its sound reduced to a steady throb.
‘It’s clear, Sarge… it might jam again, but it feels okay.’ The engine sound increased again and died as DeeJay tried the pedal.
‘Shadwell? What the hell’s the matter?’ The screaming had diminished as the sound of the engine had lessened; almost as though Shadwell, hunched on his loader’s seat, had suddenly become aware of the shriek of his own voice. Morgan Davis leant over and shook him. ‘Shadwell…’ The man moved and Davis could see his face, blood-spattered. ‘Oh, Christ!’ He twisted himself out of his seat and wriggled into the fighting compartment. ‘Where are you hurt, lad?’
Shadwell held up his left hand, he was gripping it tightly at the wrist. Davis reached out as Shadwell groaned again. Three of his fingers were missing. ‘Breech, Sarge. Fucking breech got me.’
The dust was settling, slowly. Blood was dripping from Shadwell’s hand. Davis wrenched open the medical box and grabbed a dressing. ‘Inkester, get across here. Fix Shad while I try to get us out of here…’
‘There’s a live shell on the floor, Sarge…’ Shadwell’s voice was shaky. ‘By my left foot.’
Davis groped downwards and felt the smooth cold shape of the projectile. He lifted it carefully, slightly off- balance as he reached behind the breech. He knew it was a miracle it hadn’t exploded, and the thought dried the saliva in his mouth. He would have liked to dump it outside, but it was quicker to get it into the gun. He moved to slide it into place in the breech, then hesitated. Shadwell’s fingers hung on the mechanism, one with a heavy silver ring still in place below a misshapen joint. Davis clenched his teeth, balanced the shell with one hand against the breech, and snatched at the fingers. They felt like knobbly sausages. He stuffed them into the pocket of his suit and then slid the shell into place. ‘Where’s the charge?’
‘Still in the bin.’
Davis completed the loading of the gun, prayed that the barrel was still clear, and worked his way back to his seat. Inkester squirmed past him. The only undamaged vision blocks of the episcope were obscured by something resting against them on the outside of the turret, and Davis found it impossible to open the hatch. It seemed as if the Chieftain might be buried. ‘Hewett, try to get us out.’ The Chieftain’s engine surged and the vehicle swayed. Davis could hear the links of the track squealing. ‘Try rocking us… and gently, lad, there’s something lying on us… trees maybe.’ He tuned to the troop network. ‘Charlie Bravo Nine this is Charlie Bravo Two, over.’
‘Charlie Bravo Two, this is Nine. Over.’
‘Loader’s wounded. We’re bogged down… can’t see what’s holding us… I don’t know the full extent of damage. Over.’
‘We’re coming to you Charlie Bravo Two… well be with you in about three minutes. Keep trying to free yourself, but don’t make matters worse.’
‘Thank you, Nine. Out’ God Almighty, thought Davis, what a mess! The enemy was only a couple of hundred meters away, the loader was out of action and the Chieftain stuck. It wasn’t how he had visualized war. It was chaotic, disorganized and dirty… bloody dangerous.
‘Eric’s okay.’ It was Inkester nudging at his legs.
‘Yes, I’m okay, Sarge.’ Shadwell’s voice was apologetic. ‘I fucking messed things up, didn’t I? He paused. ‘I’m sorry I yelled.’
‘Ididn’t hear you,’ lied Davis. Bravo Two was heaving as DeeJay tried to reverse, her engine throbbing, the hull picking up the resonance of the exhaust, making it sound as though she was moaning in frustration.
‘Charlie Bravo Two, Nine here… we see you… you’re wedged against a heap of rock and half-buried under a big oak. It looks as though the rock slid from the hill behind you. You’ll have to go forward over the ridge. I think we can nudge the tree clear of your hull. Bravo Four will give cover as you move. Make it quick. There are seven T-80s moving this way across the lower fields.’
‘Wilco Nine.’ Davis used the Tannoy again. ‘Hewett, keep going forward, get a move on, lad. Inkester check the gun.’
‘Charlie Bravo Two this is Nine… traverse your turret right a full hundred and eighty degrees. Try to go forward at the same time…’
Bravo Two lifted herself slowly over the low ridge like a gross elephant pushing itself from a mud wallow. The lens in front of Davis’s eyes partially cleared and there was more light in the fighting compartment.
‘Charlie Bravo Two… can you see us now?’
‘Yes, Nine.’ The olive hull of Charlie Bravo Four was thirty meters to Davis’s left; to the rear was Sidworth’s Chieftain. ‘Charlie Bravo Four this is Nine…cover us all…Bravo Two, move left to the woods behind the ridge… we’ll be behind you. Get into a fire position about six hundred meters west. Bravo Four, when we get there you leapfrog us.’ Sidworth was shouting his orders, his words clipped by anxiety, but remembering the need in tank movement always to keep one foot on the ground.
Davis heard Charlie Bravo Four acknowledge as he ordered Hewett to swing the Chieftain along the slope. There was still a lot of smoke on the plain and shell explosions in a small copse below and to the Chieftains right. A pair of Lynx helicopters were taking turns to dodge above the low cover, firing their missiles at targets which the smoke concealed from Davis. He couldn’t see the other tanks of Charlie Squadron. They had to be somewhere, it was inconceivable they should all have been knocked out. Perhaps they had. already retired beyond the hill on to the lower slopes oft he moor.
‘Charlie Bravo Two this is Nine… enemy infantry right… two o’clock.’
‘Roger, Nine.’ Davis saw the minute figures three hundred meters away. Their carrier was somewhere, hidden by the smoke. He brought round his cupola and pressed the firing button of the machine gun. Nothing happened. He tried again; the weapon was dead. He looked towards Sidworth’s tank, the lieutenant was using his GPMG, the muzzle flickering orange flame. Davis felt frustrated; the infantry had scattered to cover and he could no longer see them.
‘Charlie Bravo Two… get yourself into position and wait… Charlie Bravo Four, this is Nine… come and join us now, over.’
‘Charlie Bravo Four, wilco Nine.’
Sergeant Davis didn’t see the single Polish SU20 which swept down towards the troop, its pilot making a second circuit of the combat zone where he had been picking off the Lynx helicopters who were slowing the advance of the right flank of the Soviet division’s armour. The Sukhoi was the only surviving aircraft of a squadron which had been brought down from Warsaw twenty-four hours before. The pilot had been reluctant to operate against the NATO forces, until he witnessed the loss of his friends in the first minutes of battle.
He had two Kerry missiles left in his pylons. As he dived from the north-west, the battlefront was a broad band of smoke across the plains. He could see the explosions of shells and rockets, and the spearhead of the Russian attack in the direction of the distant town of Braunschweig that was just visible on his horizon. On his first circuit his 30mm cannon shells had destroyed one of the Lynx helicopters; it had exploded violently and he had only just missed the disintegrating wreckage as it fell. He had seen the movement of the NATO tanks against the hill, and the chance of a shot at a new type of target was attractive. He cut his speed to sub-sonic and narrowed his turn, keeping the hill in his view as he did so. At first as he returned he could not see the Chieftains, then he spotted two close together and a third some distance to the east, moving through the scrub at the edge of the woods. He had little time for decision, and chose the tank on the left of the pair, cutting his speed further and holding the aircraft level. The target grew in his sights.
