Several smoke shells had exploded on the lower ground ahead of Sergeant Davis’s tank, the dense dark smoke swirling across the fields. Somewhere inside would be the Soviet armour in their familiar patterns of tight tanks, supported by the infantry carriers. Just ahead of the screen, in the lower woods, the artillery barrage had increased again.
‘Charlie Bravo Four passing you now Nine… sixty meters to your rear. We’ll go ahead another hundred meters and-cover you.’
‘Roger Charlie Bravo Four… you still with us Charlie Bravo Two? Give Charlie Bravo Four a minute and…’ In Lieutenant Sidworth’s mid-sentence his Chieftain blew to fragments. Davis had been able to see it from the corner of his eye as he watched down the slope. One moment it was there, and the next the concussion of the explosion rocked Charlie Bravo Two, and the troop Leader’s tank had become a mass of flying metal and flame.
The Sukhoi swung upwards. The pilot glanced behind and felt satisfaction at the sight of the orange ball of fire where his rockets had struck. He opened his throttle and pushed the SU20 into a spiralling climb, levelling out at 29,000 feet and turning east towards his airfield. He had flown three sorties since dawn, and hoped he would be allowed to rest for a few hours.
Davis was now in command of the troop; at least, in command of what was left of it… two Chieftains. ‘DeeJay, don’t go berserk, I want to see what’s going on. Keep the speed down.’ On the troop net: ‘Charlie Bravo Two. The boss has bought it. We’ll move back to Firefly and rejoin Charlie. And remember your training; keep a good overlap. Less than half gun range on each move… a foot on the ground, Sealey. Off you go, we’ll hold here until you’re in position. Out.’ Christ, thought Davis, talk about unauthorized procedure? He could hardly have been more casual, but Sealey hadn’t commanded a tank for long and there were the lives of two crews at stake. ‘Hold it here, DeeJay.’ There was a convenient fold in the ground which would hide the deep hull but still leave the gun turret clear.
Jamming was still total on Charlie Squadron net, isolating the two survivors of Bravo Troop. Davis had been in this kind of situation before, leading the troop when Lieutenant Sidworth’s tank had been put out of action; only then it had been during the Defender 83 exercise, and the lieutenant had spent the next few hours drinking tea with fellow casualties, and discussing the remainder of the operation. And now Sidworth was dead!
Sod it, Davis suddenly thought. We’re not supposed to be running, we’re here to fight a bloody war. It’s our job. ‘Charlie Bravo Four, this is Bravo Two. Hold it where you are.’ Sealey’s tank was already three hundred meters behind them. Davis got his shoulders beneath the hatch and pushed upwards. For a moment he hesitated, remembering the danger of gas and considering fitting his respirator. Mentally he shrugged; if there had been gas around, then he would be dead by now. Bravo Two was pretty much of a sieve, he had been able to see daylight through the side of the hatch for the past hour, but she’d done a good job of keeping them all alive. He rammed open the hatch; it moved squeakily, one of the hinges twisted out of line. He stood and looked out. The air, though heavily tainted with gunsmoke, smelt fresh after the interior of the tank. He called down inside: ‘Shadwell, do you think you can manage some fast loading with one hand?’
‘I can try, Sarge. I’m not feeling too good, though.’
‘How many rounds do we have left?’
‘Twenty-three.’
Davis didn’t remember using so many; it was easy to lose count. He would have estimated they had used only a dozen shells. ‘You won’t have to load that number,’ he told Shadwell. ‘Charlie Bravo Four this is Charlie Bravo Two. We’re moving down the hill until we meet the road. Do you see it?’
‘Affirmative, Sarge.’
‘There’s a cutting to the left of the small wood at four o’clock… got it?’
‘Cutting to left of small wood. Right of the line of trees?’
‘That’s it. We’ll get down there. When we’re in position, you follow.’
‘That’s towards the bloody Russians.’ Corporal Sealey didn’t sound enthusiastic.
‘DeeJay, head down the hill.’ Davis felt a strange sense of exhilaration as the Chieftain swung itself around, the same feeling he had experienced the first time he had climbed inside one of the huge vehicles and heard the powerful roar of its engine. Familiarity had dulled his appreciation, now it had returned. He could see why his machine gun had failed to operate, the barrel was twisted down against the cupola, its casing shattered. The main gun appeared undamaged, but there were shrapnel scars on the hull and turret, some several centimeters deep. Half the camouflage paint had been burnt off; Bravo Two looked like a candidate for the breaker’s yard. Whoever had decided to do away with the.5 calibre ranging machine gun was a bloody fool, decided Davis. It was a useful spare weapon. Now all he had apart from the main gun, which wasn’t much use against infantry, were the Sterlings. Still, it was good to be out in the open again after hours closed-down. It might be dangerous, but it felt better, and his field of vision was greatly improved. The smoke was thickening again now they had moved down closer to the fields, but visibility was almost three hundred meters. DeeJay bucked a shallow ditch and then they were on the narrow roadway, barely as wide as the length of the tank. Opposite was a steep bank, just over a meter high. The gunner wouldn’t be able to depress the gun fully, but that wouldn’t be necessary. It wasn’t too bad as a firing position Davis decided. There was reasonable protection for the hull, and not too much of it showing above the bank. With luck, the rising ground behind would help conceal them, though they would be vulnerable to air attack. He watched Bravo Four begin to move down to join them.
Almost three thousand meters above on the slopes of the hill, out of radio contact with both his squadron and the battle group headquarters, Charlie Squadron Leader Captain Valda Willis was watching the two Chieftains through his binoculars. He had just identified them as Two and Four of his squadron’s B Troop. Willis, and another survivor of the squadron, had only a few minutes previously managed to force their way through the encircling Russian armour. It had been a close thing, with only a narrow corridor remaining clear. Willis had seen the two Bravo Troop Chieftains on the slopes, before they had turned off down the hill. Their manoeuvre had been unexpected. They were being driven straight towards the enemy as though going in for an attack! It was impossible for him to contact them by radio, his two aerials had been blown away by an HE shell explosion on his turret. The two Charlie Bravo Chieftains he was watching were now facing north-east, the bulk of the moor to the left of them. The Russian amour had occupied most of the woods on the eastern slopes of the moor and was encircling the lower ground to the south. He was surprised that any of Bravo Troop had survived; their position had been heavily shelled and then overrun.
He saw a line of Russian T-64s clearing the smoke. ‘What’s the range?’
‘Three thousand five hundred, sir.’ The gunner was following one of the lead tanks.
Sergeant Davis saw the leading T-64 just as Captain Willis’ shell struck it below its main gun. He thought that Bravo Four must have fired as the tank was now in position some eighty meters to his left. But as he glanced towards it now, he could see no gunsmoke.
He was searching the ground for other British tanks when Inkester fired without warning. Davis had no time to duck into the fighting compartment. The blast almost deafened him. He dropped inside and jerked the hatch closed. ‘You okay, Shadwell?’
‘Yes.’
Davis noticed the loader struggling, and wished he was better positioned to help the man. It seemed an age before the breech slammed closed and Shadwell shouted; ‘Loaded.’ Inkester fired immediately. ‘Two, Sarge. Two… one after another. How’s that for bloody shooting?’
‘Shut up. Bravo Four, you okay?’ Davis’s head was still ringing from the sound of the gun.
‘Affirmative, Sarge.’
‘Fuckin’ hurry up, Shad.’ Inkester was shouting, working the turret around to the left. The Chieftain bucked again.
‘Okay Bravo Four, get moving, fast.’ Sealey didn’t need encouragement. He was imagining a dozen guns ranging on the spot where his tank rested. His driver spun the tank on the road, and felt relief as the tracks bit into the tarmac surface.
Get going you bastard, get going! Davis knew he had to give Sealey enough time to get well down the road and into another firing position. But he was finding it almost impossible to resist the temptation to follow him. There was movement on his horizon, a turret top below a ridge of ground.
‘Bravo Two this is Four. In position.’
Inkester had been monitoring the net, and shouted at DeeJay. Bravo Two wallowed for a second and then spun, showering sparks from her tracks.
