Chieftains

and then Captain Fellows.

If a mistake had been made by the captain, Sache-Worrel thought, then surely one of the others must have noticed as well as himself. As a junior officer, he could hardly accuse his unit commander of something which amounted to at least carelessness, perhaps worse in wartime.

He had now begun to doubt his own memory. Perhaps he had learnt the codes incorrectly… perhaps he had misheard the message. It wasn’t doing much to help his self-confidence. What would happen if he made similar errors in battle? Mistakes were even more possible in the clamour and confusion! Supposing he forgot something vital? This was no longer a training exercise… he might write off his whole crew as well as himself… perhaps jeopardize the entire scheme.

But if Captain Fellows had made the mistake, then everything was a cock-up anyway.

He had known Captain Fellows almost a year, though it had only been during the past three months that he had served under him in the unit. Fellows was normally pleasant enough, finicky perhaps; the captain didn’t have to rely on his service pay for his cash, he had a good private income which allowed him to run a couple of polo ponies and live extremely well, but that was his good luck. He seemed to have few friends in the regiment, but talked as though he had plenty outside. In fact it was generally agreed amongst the younger officers that Fellows was really waiting for dead-men’s boots, his father’s, and the estates in Bedfordshire that went with them. But Sache-Worrel had never heard the captain criticized for any lack of ability as an officer, only for his obsession with tidiness.

‘Bacon’ is Bisdorf! It was there in his mind again, nagging like a persistent fishwife.

Silently he pushed himself out of the Scimitar’s hatch. Captain Fellows had suggested rather than ordered them to stay with their vehicles, but nevertheless Sache-Worrel felt guilty as he jumped from the hull, and almost expected to hear the captain’s voice question him.

Gunion’s Scimitar was the closest, thirty meters away to his right at the easternmost corner of the square formed by the four tanks. The two SAS APCs were concealed within the square. Somewhere in the darkness of the woods beyond the tanks were the SAS guards Hinton had posted before leaving with his patrol; they gave Sache- Worrel the same feeling of safety his father had spoken of when discussing the operational value of Gurkha riflemen in the Second World War.

Sache-Worrel’s background sometimes inhibited him. It did so now as he stood below Gunion’s turret. He felt he should knock rather than simply trespass on his neighbour’s territory by clambering uninvited on to the hull. He tried a discreet cough, but although Gunion’s turret hatch was open, no one appeared. After a moment’s hesitation, he pulled himself on board.

‘Ben?’ The interior of the Scimitar was a black pit, but Sache-Worrel could smell the usual combination of oil and sweat. ‘Ben? He was keeping his voice low, confidential. He was about to reach down into the darkness when Ben Gunion’s face appeared very close to his own, like a surprised jack-in-the-box.

‘Good God!’

‘It’s me… Robin…’

‘Damn you, Robin, I almost pissed myself. What on earth are you creeping about for?’

‘I was thinking…’

‘For God’s sake don’t think,’ advised Gunion. ‘It’s contagious. Want a quick snort? Here…’ He handed Sache- Worrel a quarter litre flask of Asbach. ‘I’ve got a decent bottle of claret in my locker, but it’s probably too shaken about. Wasn’t going to leave it for the bloody Ruskies, though. Well, drink up…’

‘No thanks, Ben.’ Sache-Worrel passed him back the liquor.

‘You sound ill. Nervous?’ Gunion was ‘sympathetic. He liked Sache-Worrel. ‘Don’t be. It won’t be as bad as you think. Pre-match nerves — they’ll disappear as soon as the balloon goes up.’ Sache-Worrel was the same age as Gunion’s younger brother, and always made the first lieutenant feel protective. ‘We’ll give them hell. Just remember the training; keep your head down and whenever possible attack the command vehicles. In and out fast, before they’ve a chance to recover.’

‘It’s not nerves, Ben. It’s just… well, something else.’

‘Girls? I say, you haven’t got yourself into a spot of bother! Now that would be a fine thing.’

‘No, it’s not a girl… it’s to do with Captain Fellows.’

‘Well, spit it out.’

Sache-Worrel told him. Gunion took another sip of his schnapps before he made any comment, then he said: ‘I didn’t hear the message. Bugger! You’re certain you’ve got it right? Bacon is the correct code for Bisdorf, but was Bacon the word in the message? Are you sure you heard Bacon and not Brandy?’

‘I was positive; now I’m not so certain. That’s the trouble. I’ve been thinking about it so much I’ve confused myself. An hour ago I’d have staked my life I was right, now I don’t know.’

‘We could all be staking our lives on it’

‘What can we do?’

‘You, nothing! It’s Sandy’s job as senior lieutenant. God! I wondered why we hadn’t seen anything of Hinton’s lot, they’re probably chasing halfway around the Hassenwinkel on a wild goose chase. They were due in an hour ago, and working with the SAS is like working with robots; they usually programme themselves to the second.’

‘You’ll tell Sandy?’

‘Yes, I’ll tell him. If you see a flash of blue light from his tank, it’ll be him reacting.’

Roxforth was experiencing some of Sache-Worrel’s feelings on hearing the information passed him by Gunion. It wasn’t easy to tell your commander he was wrong and, like Gunion, Roxforth hadn’t heard the original coded message. He was tempted to let the matter slide; sooner or later Fellows himself would realize he had made an error and would probably correct it. The only trouble with that line of reasoning, Roxforth knew, was correction might be impossible if too much time was lost. A Soviet division’s main headquarters was as mobile as the battlefront itself. The opportunity to knock it out might never occur again… there were too many contingencies involved to guarantee the survival of the stay-behind unit for more than a few hours. One surprise attack during the darkness of the first night was all they could count on; with a lot of luck, they might even manage two. But by daylight, the Russians would be looking for them. Even if they remained where they were now, every hour that passed brought a greater chance of discovery as more enemy troops entered the area and the Soviet consolidation and mopping-up began.

Although Roxforth liked Sache-Worrel, he was hoping the second lieutenant was wrong. It would be much better if Fellows could simply shrug his shoulders and say: ‘Nothing to worry about, everything is fine.’ The entire incident could be passed off as normal anxiety in this kind of situation. It would be forgotten immediately.

Mick Fellows was standing beside his Scimitar when Roxforth found him, staring out into the darkness of the woods. ‘Sir?’ Fellows was as twitchy as the rest of them, and turned quickly. ‘Can we talk for a minute?’

‘I shouldn’t wander around too much,’ suggested Fellows. ‘I’d rather you all kept to your tanks until the recce patrol gets back. What’s the probelm?

‘The message from HQ. I didn’t hear the original code.’ Roxforth found himself speaking over-quickly.

‘Having doubts, Sandy? Don’t worry. These damned SAS are taking their time, they’re overdue. It shouldn’t have taken them so long, we put them down within a couple of miles of the location. This waiting makes all of us edgy. It doesn’t help hearing the sound of battle all the while; makes you want to get in there and do something. Bloody frustrating. How are the crews?’

‘Fine. Most are sleeping.’ He knew he was going to have to persist even if Fellows did get angry with him. ‘What was the code, sir?

Fellows replied sharply, ‘Trophy Bacon Sunset Juliet. What’s on your mind?’

Oh Christ, thought Roxforth, there has been a mistake! ‘The thought dismayed him though he hadn’t spent too much time dwelling on the consequences of the error. He said, ‘I’m sorry, sir. I think there’s been a mistranslation.’

‘Nonsense!’ Fellows was immediately defensive, and annoyed. ‘The translation is correct.’

‘Bacon, sir.’

‘Bacon is Hehlingen.’

‘No, sir. Bacon is Bisdorf. Hehlingen is Brandy.’

Roxforth could sense Fellows bristling in the darkness. ‘Now see here, Roxforth…’ Fellows paused, thought for a few moments as his doubts grew then spoke more softly. ‘Damn… damn!’ He had been showing off in front of the SAS lieutenant… if he had taken just a few mare seconds to check the message.