The minefields on the eastern bank of the River Schunter had been carefully laid with plenty of depth. The NATO gunners, covering it from well to the rear of the armour, had wiped out the first of the Soviet recce squadrons with a spectacular copy-book strike.
A large number of sensors, still operative deep in the ground through which the Soviet division was attempting to move, were feeding information back to the artillery observers and continuously giving them new targets. Unfortunately, in many cases, blanketing the area where an electronic sensor detected and reported transport movement also meant the destruction of the device. But nevertheless they were proving effective. The Soviet division had for the moment lost its momentum; the head of the attack had weakened.
Warrant Officer Davis still knew little of the progress of the war outside the Elm Sector. He had heard rumours that the Russian forces had captured Lubeck and Hamburg in the north, and the Americans in CENTAG, supported by the French and German corps, had pushed the invaders back into East Germany as far as the town of Nordhausen. He realized however, the stories were unlikely to be fact, as he felt certain the NATO forces would not be permitted to advance into Warsaw Pact territory. Everyone was guessing, and those with the most fertile imaginations guessed the wildest. Stones grew in wartime, and everyone liked to think they knew something special or had experienced something unique; like the Angel of Mons. Angel of bloody Mons. Christ, we could do with one here, he mused. But the Angel of Mons had been only imagination, too… no’ one had even mentioned one until years after the First World War when some London journalist wrote a fictional short story about the battle and the intervention of a host of Heavenly warriors; then everyone remembered — or thought they did The Russians in Hamburg? They might well get there eventually, but by God they would have had to shift to be in the city by now. Hedda and the kids? They’d be okay. Hedda would see to that. Bloody good bird, Hedda. Bird? Lady. Warrant officers’ wives weren’t birds. And the kids, too. They were nearly officer’s kids now. And he wouldn’t be spading the rest of his army career as a warrant officer, there would certainly be more promotion ahead… a commission to lieutenant… captain… major? Christ, it was impossible. Hedda the wife of a British major, hell, she would lap it up. It would be great for them all.
There had been a lull for the past half hour, following a rocket barrage that passed beyond Charlie Squadron’s present positions, and landed harmlessly in open farmland There was still artillery fire from both sides, but it all seemed to be aimed behind the front lines. There was nothing to be seen moving in the vision-intensifying lenses… the Russians were somewhere in the darkness… they were there… but they weren’t coming right now.
There was a ripple of movement in the ground and the sky far across the Schunter glowed briefly.
‘There’s another, Sarge… sir,’ said Inkester. He was still having problems remembering Davis’s new rank. ‘What you reckon they are?
‘Lance missiles.’ Damn, thought Davis, I’ve joined the guessing game!
‘Hell of a warhead, sir! Did you see them SPs go in a while back? Glad I wasn’t on the receiving end. Bloody hell, it’s like fucking bonfire night a million times over. Wish I knew what was going on though.’ He raised his voice. ‘Here, DeeJay, you bleedin’ awake?
‘Yeah…’ DeeJay’s voice was muffled, hollow.
‘You want an egg banjo?’
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘I’ve got one… got two. Put ’em in me pocket, back at the reform.’
‘Christ, a bloody cold egg banjo!’
‘They ain’t cold. You want one?’
‘Stick it!’
‘What about you, sir?’
‘No thanks,’ answered Davis. He could imagine it, slimy in his mouth, the fried egg sandwich covered in oily thumbprints. He sighed, it would be dawn soon. Another dawn; it had to be better than the last one. Just twenty- four hours, and everything had changed. What would happen next? What were the bloody government doing? Talking! The government always talked, and usually ended by cutting back on defence funding. Well, they’d soon know if they’d cut their bloody budgets too hard; they probably knew now. A couple of thousand more battle tanks along the frontier would certainly have helped matters. How many had been lost? God, it must be hundreds already. ‘Spink?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Knock us out some char.’
‘Yeah, earn your bloody living,’ called Inkester.
‘Give the lad a chance. How’re you feeling now, Spink?’
‘A bit better, sir.’
‘You don’t smell better,’ said Inkester. ‘You’re like a big tart, pissing yourself when a gun goes off. They ought to lave issued you with a nappy…’
‘Inkester, shut up! One more remark like that and you’re on a fizzer. I mean it, lad.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Inkester decided to think of something else; something pleasant. What was the name of that bird he had met in Bergen, in Angie’s Bar? Irma The same as the one in the film… the musical… bloody bore that was… Had her didn’t I, the night we were celebrating Weeksie’s promotion; she wanted a Length Irma did, and she got it in the back of Weeksie’s Volks! Wonder what happened to that? It wasn’t a bad jam-jar. Nicked by now, or bloody full of shrapnel holes. Gone the same fucking way as my stereo, and all the tapes… and my civvy gear. Wonder if they’ll pay us compensation; bloody should, we didn’t start the fucking war.
God, Davis certainly came up fighting to defend Spink. Fancy him threatening me like that. Flaming charge. Bloody hell, for a moment he sounded just like my old man. Christ, Saturday nights in Scotland Road… beer and a punch up the throat, or a boot in the side of your bloody head. A bloody boot… God, it was a boot that got me here now.
‘This is the second time you have been brought before this court, Inkester.’ Bloody pompous old sod; just a butcher in a backstreet round the corner from Lime Street Station. Who the hell does he think he is? ‘There’s no reason why we should be expected to tolerate this disgraceful hooliganism. If you were a year older, I would have no hesitation in sentencing you to six months in jail. A few years ago, I would have ordered the birch. I am recommending a period in an approved school which I hope will bring you to your senses…’
It was
‘Sorry Inkester, we can’t take you at the moment. The army’s not that easy. Prove yourself first. You hold a job down for two years, and re-apply. If you’ve got a good reference, then be can use you.’
Two years. It had seemed a long time. ‘You’ll never hold a job down two years, you little bagger.’ His father sometimes worked in the markets, but was more often on the dole.
Where the hell did you look for a job that would last two years? ‘Struth, it was on the way to a pension. Two years… and if he so much as batted an eyelid at the boss and got sacked, the two years would have to begin again. Bloody hell!
‘You may as well piss up a wall, kid!’ His brother was a year younger and still at school. ‘What the hell do you want to join the army for? Someone must have hit you on the ’ead!’
‘It’s good; you can learn a trade. There’s opportunity.’ He had seen a recruiting film and sent off for all the pamphlets, before visiting the recruiting office. Even the sergeant who had turned him down had made it sound worthwhile.
‘Opportunity! Look at our old man… a toolmaker until he gets called up for his National Service, then he’s a batman and half the time in the glasshouse… hasn’t bloody worked since. Army fucking ruined him. You’ve heard Mam go on about it.’
‘Yeah… it’s a load of cobblers. He doesn’t work ‘us he’s too bloody idle.’ Where the hell was he going to find steady employment; there weren’t a lot of jobs around Liverpool. He tried a dozen different places before Woolworths. What if he were absolutely honest about his reason for applying for work there? He tried it!
The manager was sympathetic: ‘Two years, Inkester? Normally, we prefer to train staff who intend to stay with us longer… young men like to go on to managerial posts. We can afford to be selective; there is a lot of responsibility in a company like this. What sort of work would you be prepared to do?’
‘Anything, sir. Anything at all.’ The man hadn’t said no; it was the closest he had got yet to a job.
‘In the warehouse? It’s tiring and I doubt if I could promise any kind of promotion.’
