there, there are going to be one hell of a lot more Popskis than Johnstons.’ That was great, mused Browning, one of the November drivers was a Mike Popski! ‘We’re going right back in. We held the head of their assault my,
‘How come we held the head, and we’re about to attack their flank?’ began Podini, incredulously. ‘The guy’s a nut!’
The troop radio net interrupted him. ‘Utah, Idaho, Oregon?’ The troop lieutenant’s voice, easy and relaxed. ‘What you got left?’ Will Browning heard the ammunition count and added his own. ‘Thirty-nine rounds; mixed. Smoke unused. Machine gun ammo okay, out.’
‘H minus 1233 we move, okay. They’ve got a bridgehead over the Ulster a kilometer north of Gunthers. Avoid the hundred meter strip near the river, it’s heavily mined. There are some T-80s ahead of us, but according to information the captain’s got, they’re thin on the ground, and we believe they don’t have much infantry support now. The rest of November will be on our right. We’ll keep to the open ground to the west. Out.’
Six minutes? There were only five left now! Browning was trying to collect his memories of the past hours; the barrage spreading south until it had engulfed them and finally passed on. There had been no casualties then in the squadron, although the infantry and one of the artillery batteries had suffered. The squadron had moved forward a thousand meters to battle positions on lower ground, and fought the enemy massed on the shallow slopes on the far side of the river Ulster. It had been long-distance warfare at first, maximum range, indistinct targets hidden behind smoke as the Soviet assault force attempted to gain a foothold on the western bank. The river defences had been hard pressed, yet they had held… but not, it now seemed, everywhere. Browning had seen the temporary military bridges blown in the first few minutes of the initial attack, demolished by the charges of the US Division’s Combat Engineers. There had been several attempts by the Soviet troops using BTR-50 amphibious troop carriers to cross the river, but these had all been foiled by the artillery on the western hill overlooking the valley, and steady mortaring and small-arms fire had wasted the enemy infantry. A renewed artillery barrage by Soviet long-range field artillery had again failed to displace the US Division, and full daylight provided the Army Air Corps’ gunships and Thunderbolt Threes with a wealth of targets. The US Command’s plans that their ground forces should always be able to fight under a canopy of air superiority was paying off in the sector. There had been no time so far, in the battle, when Browning and the men of November had found the sky clear of American aircraft of one type or another. It had been comforting.
Napalm had ignited much of the forest on the eastern side of the border territory, and the strengthening breeze from the south-east was sweeping the fires northwards across the Soviet supply routes, and forcing them continuously to move their close artillery support. The immediate effect had been to take the pressure off the northernmost flank of the American Armoured Division.
Mike Adams was gunning the motor like some twitchy racing driver at the start of a Grand Prix. Browning was about to tell him to cool it when he heard the lieutenant again. ‘Okay Indians, let’s roll.’
India Troop came out of the woodland in line abreast and for a few seconds Browning felt naked, then the other tanks of November squadron were with them, and Browning was happier. Christ, he thought, war’s changed… even as I remember it! You no longer saw lines of weary infantrymen trudging their way up to the front and into battle. Now they travelled right to the battlefield in their armoured personnel carriers… they arrived fresh and unsullied. At least, that was the principle. The infantry were with them now, only a couple of hundred meters behind the leading tanks, well-protected in their XM723s, sufficiently weaponed to be capable of fighting their way forward with the main amour, each of the personnel carriers equipped with TOW missile launchers and 25mm cannon; inside, twelve infantrymen and the crew.
The appearance of the small village of Gunthers startled Browning. He had driven through it legs than thirty hours before. It had been tidy, neat and spotless; the houses with their steeply pitched roofs smartly painted, their verandahs and windows decked with carefully tended boxes of bright scarlet geraniums and ferns. The men had been hurrying about their business with the usual Teutonic dedication, as though their ignoring the increasing tension so close to their homes would encourage it to go away. The women had been at the shops, the children in school. Browning had slowed his vehicle to watch a group of boys, supervised by a tracksuited teacher, playing soccer. Browning didn’t understand the rules too well, but it was increasing in popularity back home in the States, and it looked active enough to be interesting. Now, it was all an area of terrible desolation and smoke-blackened wreckage. Not a single building was left standing above its first level. They were a thousand meters to the east of it.
Hal Ginsborough said quietly, ‘Will you take a look at that! God almighty!’
‘Mother-fuckers…’ It was Podini.
‘Shut up,’ snapped Browning. Who needed comments to emphasize the civilian horror? He couldn’t see a living soul in the wreckage, though doubtless there’d be some. Somebody always survived, no matter how bad it looked; he’d seen it happen many times in Nam, but it was always hard to believe. Maybe some of the villagers would have left before the battle began, but he doubted if all would have quit their homes. Some did… but many didn’t. They sat in the cellars and waited, praying desperately that the war would pass them by. He knew what the wreckage of the buildings would smell like; it would be worse in a few days. Someone, perhaps him, would eventually have to help dig out the bodies, hoping all the time they might find someone alive, some kid perhaps, protected by a beam of timber, a collapsed wall. The smell… the stink, and the flies. There would be rats… Jesus, why was it so many of
The lieutenant’s voice was on the troop net again: ‘Best speed, Indians, but maintain your formation. Good luck, guys.’
Best speed! ‘Step on it, Mike,’ he ordered, and felt the Abrams surge forward, bucking over the uneven ground, as the roar of the engines increased. Sound was always relative to discomfort in a tank, he thought wryly. The only good thing was you didn’t hear most of the noises of battle. It was still there, though; not far in front of him now. Five thousand meters… closer. Much closer!
He saw the explosion of a shell two hundred meters ahead. It looked like an error, or an optimistic ranging attempt by some distant gun crew. Mike Adams had seen it too, and he steered the Abrams in a series of sharp but uneven zigzags that shook Browning’s head from side to side as the direction continuously changed; a few hundred meters of driving like this and he would begin to feel travel sick.
It was barely possible to distinguish the riverbank several hundred meters to their right. Like everywhere else the ground seemed to be on fire, the grass and trees smoking, hazy; wreckage, twisted and spewing Mack fumes. Far ahead were the remains of a small wood on a low hill, and a few scattered and blasted farm buildings at the foot of the rising ground.
The barrage began to increase in intensity. Where the hell was the American smoke, Browning wondered? It was madness charging straight into enemy guns; the only protection they were getting was from the smoke of the Soviet shell explosions. The horizon was blurred, but the advancing American tanks must be obvious targets to the enemy gunners. Browning couldn’t pinpoint their positions, but had the ghastly feeling he was being driven into the heart of a maelstrom of artillery fire.
Two heavy calibre shells bracketed the tank, forcing Adams to correct the steering. Hell seemed to open its doors ahead of them; shell-bursts as dense as forest trees were columns of fire leaping up from the ground. Was the squadron getting air support? Browning thought he caught a glimpse of a line of gunships above him. If it were imagination, it helped a little; he had lost sight of the other tanks. He was experiencing a growing sense of indecisiveness and terror. Should he order Adams to slow down… increase his speed? Should he tell him to swing the Abrams out of line, try to get away to the side where the barrage might be lighter? Get the hell out of here… that was important… chances of survival were nil… it was only a matter of time… seconds… and they’d be hit… this was crazy… madness…
The lieutenant was shouting on the troop net, static punctuating his words. ‘Indians engaging… Indians engaging…’
