the two were a variety of nuclear missiles, shells and mines, and it was these mines in particular that concerned Studley. He had learnt of them by accident, and the thought he found unpleasant was that they were controlled not by the men on the battlefronts, but by politicians perhaps three thousand miles away from the combat zone. The mines were pre-laid nuclear weapons sunk into strategic positions in West Germany, hidden lines of defence from north to south! Studley did not know their locations. Concealed in special chambers, below the depths where they could be exploded by any accidental method, they were the ugly monsters held in readiness for the protection of Western freedom. He could only guess at the power each of the mines might contain; it would be pointless for them to be small. They must be capable of taking out not just a regiment but perhaps a complete division, unless it were widely deployed, and they would have been laid in sufficient numbers to make one vast tactical nuclear strike effective against a complete enemy army in NATO territory.
The use of the weapons involved the terrible risk of triggering off a full-scale nuclear war against military and civilian targets alike. With much of its army totally destroyed along a complete front, the enemy would be faced with the acceptance of defeat and subsequent negotiation, or a retaliatory strike which would of necessity involve allied civilians and probable further nuclear attack by NATO long-range missiles deep into the enemy’s own territory.
The nuclear mines disturbed Studley’s thinking. He had been a soldier for many years, trained in the belief that war was the province of experienced fighting men, not of clerks or planners far away in hidden offices, or protected in bunkers or converted aircraft hundreds, of kilometers from the front lines. When he had first learned of the mines he had pictured a map of Europe on some distant planner’s wall, the sites of the nuclear weapons lighting up as men received the latest information from the battlefields and pressed the appropriate buttons to arm the mines in the areas of the greatest enemy concentrations. At some point, they received a President’s orders and turned their firing keys. Without warning to the troops on the battlefront, friend or enemy, the ground erupted with volcanic force and destruction beneath them.
But where, and when?
The West German government claimed to be committed to the policy of not losing even a single foot of land to the East. How far then would they permit an enemy to penetrate before the use of the nuclear mines was considered necessary… and who would make the decision? Was the critical depth of penetration a matter of centimeters, or beyond some planner’s line drawn from Hamburg in the north, to Hannover, Kassel, Nurnburg in the south? Perhaps there was no such line! The mines might simply have been seeded at vital strategic points, and would be detonated if it appeared the enemy advance could no longer be resisted by conventional warfare. He was certain of only one thing… the weapons existed!
These unpleasant thoughts were disturbed by the radio operator. ‘Division Headquarters, sir.’
He took a headset. ‘Hello, this is Sunray, over.’
‘This is Nine, Sunray. First chukka imminent. Troop movement sector Marigold. Full Red Alert. Over.’
‘Sunray Wilco. Over.’
‘Nine. Good luck, Sunray. Out.’
‘Good luck!’. Studley repeated the HQ benediction automatically, and handed the headset back to the operator. First chukka imminent! Why in God’s name did everyone assume all cavalry officers played polo? Chukka was a code word but it still meant that someone, somewhere, had thought it appropriate. Studley didn’t approve of the British habit of using sporting analogies in war; war was too serious to be likened to a game even by a figure of speech. ‘Philip…’ He caught the attention of his adjutant.
The adjutant looked up from the code lists he had been examining. ‘Sir.’
‘Order the group to stand-by, and tell them I want full radio silence on the UHF nets. Remind the squadron leaders I don’t want the men using energy-emitting equipment for the moment.’ Soviet locators would undoubtedly be pinpointing any source of energy as possible targets for their artillery.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And when you’ve done that, I’d like the command vehicle moved to the derelict barn at Primrose. Ask the sergeant major to see to the new command platoon positions, and then get someone to do a stag for you… you haven’t slept for over twenty hours. Try to get some rest while you have a chance.’
The adjutant nodded. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘So it’s on, James.’ Max Fairly, the second in command had been listening, and Studley found the familiarity of being addressed by his first name unexpectedly reassuring. Max was a close friend, an efficient but easygoing man whom Studley liked, and perhaps more important, trusted. Max was a little more heavily fleshed than when they had first met some years before, but he still kept himself fit with daily games of squash. He was forty-three years old, just a year younger than James Studley, and Studley knew Max, his wife Jane, and their son, well enough to feel he was part of their family — if only in the case of the boy, as a kind of well-liked adopted uncle. Unmarried himself, he had taught Max’s son how to shoot and fish, and now the boy had become a grown man; they had spent a leave together only a month previously on one of the best trout beats of the Hampshire Itchen. Memories of the week had saddened Studley during the past hours. He had encouraged Max’s son to choose a military career, and he was now a subaltern in a detachment of the Devon and Dorsets, trapped in West Berlin since the city had been sealed by East German forces two days previously.
‘It sounds like it, Max. If anything is going to happen today, then it will probably begin in the next few minutes. HQ have reported movement in our sector.’
‘I suppose we should thank God for ground radar and electronic sensors. At least we get some warning.’ The activity within the command Sultans had increased as the men prepared to move. Fairly lowered his voice and stepped closer to Studley. ‘You know, I never expected this to happen… a war.’ He made a wry, half-amused smile. ‘Playing soldiers for real, Jane would say.’ He was watching Studley’s face. ‘Don’t worry, James, I’m not going to hide under the bed with my hands over my ears! I just can’t believe what’s happening that’s all. We talk about civilization, and then somehow,allow this to develop.’
Max was thinking about his son, Studley realized. Jane’s expression, ‘playing soldiers for real’, was the one she had used on the first occasion the boy had returned home in uniform. Although she made a joke about it at the time, her face had been strangely pale as though she had glimpsed her son’s future. God, how could you defend Berlin? Leaving troops there in wartime was nothing more than human sacrifice on a political altar. They would make a good stand; the lads always did. But in the end it would be remembered as another Arnhem… a place of no retreat and no relief. He couldn’t think of any suitable reply to his friend’s words, so punched him lightly on the arm. ‘Time you left us, Max, old lad.’ The second in command should in fact have been at the rear of the battle group’s positions, with the third of the command Sultans and the Headquarters Squadron. And James Studley knew his friend’s request to be allowed to view the fire-points had been only an excuse for them to spend a couple of hours’ together. ‘Look after things back there.’
Max Fairly nodded, then smiled., ‘Trust an Emperor’s Chambermaid, James.’
Davis was apprehensive. Although it was claimed men could live for two weeks battened-down inside the hull of their Chieftain tank, breathing pure air through the NBC filter system, in practise he knew it wasn’t that simple. Regardless of what they said, none of the tanks were completely air-tight and there was always the danger of seepage; the main gun, when it had been fired and was being reloaded, was just a hollow tube with one end out in the open air and the other inside the tank’s fighting compartment. The crews had to expect to fight dressed in their NBC suits, hot, sticky, stinking and unpleasant. Like himself, most of the men would gamble comfort against their lives, and leave off their respirators until the last possible moment.
Thank God, he thought, at least they made damn sure you knew the drill. It was all about surivival in the event of germ or chemical warfare; even following nuclear attack when every dust particle in the area would become radioactive. Inside the tank you lived in the suits because the gas that could be outside was invisible, and there were no gas indicators amongst the tank’s instruments; the only warning you might receive would be over the HF, by which time it could already be too late. If possible, you stored the crew’s body waste in plastic bags and stuffed them out through the disposal hatch whenever you got the chance, but if the air was really contaminated then no one took off the NBC suits at all. For a time you might try to hang on, but in the end your body’s natural functions always beat you.
Tinned compo rations! Three four-men packs to a tank! You heated them in the boiler. If the electrics packed up and it was still safe to get outside, then you could cook over tablets of Hexamine; otherwise, you ate cold. Fortunately, the boiler was usually reliable and also provided hot water for drinks.
If you were wise, he mused, you hap a flask of spirits tucked away somewhere out of sight; it was a small
