‘Shark, this is Bravo One, over.’ Only silence on the net. ‘Shark, this is Bravo One, over…’ Where the hell was Captain Willis? ‘Shark, this is Bravo One, over.’ No response, not a sound on the squadron network, only the crackle of atmospherics and the low oscillation of a jamming attempt. ‘Charlie Bravo Three, this is Bravo One, over.’ Nothing! God! Check the tuning…’ All stations Charlie, this is Charlie Bravo One, over.’ Bloody dead air… everywhere!
Battle group? He was beginning to feel desperate, isolated. ‘Quebec this is Charlie Bravo One… over.’
There was an instant response that made Davis weak with relief. ‘Charlie Bravo One, this is Quebec!
‘Charlie Bravo One… we have lost squadron and troop contact.’
‘Roger Charlie Bravo One… the same situation applies here.’
‘We’ve just taken a time-on-target on the squadron position.’
There was a moment’s silence that made Davis wonder if he should repeat the last part of the message, then: ‘Do you have visual contact?’
‘No visual contact.’
‘Roger Charlie Bravo One. Rendezvous Orchid. Tiber open Causeway!
‘Wilco, Quebec. Out.’
Davis checked through the code… Orchid was Ruper… Causeway, Braunschweig; he knew Tiber was bridge. He could still use the bridge at Braunschweig, but where was Ruper? He switched on the lights and studied the map… the page appeared almost white, and the aching in his head made it difficult to focus his eyes. Ruper… God, it was ten kilometers west of North Braunschweig. What the hell was happening along the front? They had told him to pull back twenty-five kilometers. Maybe they were resting him? God, that would be a relief. ‘DeeJay… can you see yet?’
‘Yeah, reasonably, sir.’
‘Then get us out… and go easy, Christ knows what the ground is like.’
The Chieftain slewed, then straightened as DeeJay corrected the steering and accelerated. It was comforting to feel the movement of the tank once more. The Russian armour must be close now, thought Davis nervously. Maybe only meters away through the smoke. Their infantry would be on foot between the villages, they would keep their BMPs a bit further back until the ground opened up again. Infantry. What the hell had happened to the NATO troops? He had seen nothing of them since the rockets had landed… poor bastards, they didn’t stand a chance… they would be lying amongst the rubble, the lucky ones already dead, the others dying.
Dying. Death. What had happened to the others; all the tanks of Charlie Squadron? There had been nine of them. Surely Bravo One wasn’t the only one remaining in action? It wasn’t possible. Hopefully he tried the radio nets again, but there were no replies. He stared out through the vision blocks but could see only rubble which held even darker wells of mist in its shadows. DeeJay swerved the Chieftain, a hulk of twisted wreckage barely recognizable as a tank lay tilted in a crater; black fumes wreathed over Bravo One’s hull as they passed. Had Davis seen bodies? He wasn’t certain… men weren’t always easy to recognize when they were killed violently. He hadn’t even been able to identify the vehicle; it was another Chieftain, that was all he knew.
Alpha Squadron? They should be here somewhere. What was their net wavelength? He found it. ‘Alpha Nine, this is Charlie Bravo One.’
‘Alpha Nine… what’s your problem Charlie Bravo One?’
‘We’re coming through you. Battle group orders.’
‘How many tanks?’
‘One.’
‘One? What the hell happened?’
‘TOT.’
‘Poor sods… okay Charlie Bravo One, we’ll keep our eyes open for you.’
There were two dull explosions in the wreckage of the village now to the Chieftain’s right quarter; they were followed by long staccato bursts of GPMG fire just audible above the sound of the engine. DeeJay accelerated again as they reached more open ground.
‘Where they sending us, sir?’ Inkester asked the question with an obvious note of detachment in the query. He was talking for talking’s sake.
‘Back twenty-five kilometers.’
‘Twenty-five? There was sudden interest. ‘R and R, sir?’ Optimism showed in the gunner’s voice.
‘Maybe.’
‘Thank God, sir… Christ, thank God! You hear that DeeJay, we’re going out of the line… back twenty-five kilometers… Yoweeee! Fucking good, eh?’ A pause… ‘Stink… Stink you shit-arse… you hear the WO? We’re going out… buy you a beer, Stink, …buy you a dozen.’ Excitedly to Davis: ‘Sir, whereabouts they sending us?’
‘Orchid, Inkester, and cool it. Do your job, lad, don’t chatter.’
‘Sir?’ Spink’s voice. ‘What about the rest of Charlie?
‘They’ll be pulling back, too…’
‘You couldn’t contact them?’
‘Maybe radio malfunction!’ No point in talking about the losses now; there would be plenty of time later, perhaps too much time.
‘Sir, I’ve got mates in…’
‘Concentrate, Spink, the damned war isn’t over yet!’ God, it certainly wasn’t; he could still hear explosions close behind the Chieftain… it only took one shell to knock out a tank, and they were still in range… one fast troop of Soviet recce PT-76s, and Bravo One could get hers. ‘DeeJay see if you can pick up what’s left of the road… should be on the lower ground to our left.’
He glanced behind; the war was everywhere. The entire horizon to the east glowed, spat flames and fire trails; the night sky was not black, but the colour of blood.
Five times Charlie Bravo One had been stopped at roadblocks or check-points, twice by infantry and three times by MPs of the traffic control organization. And most of the traffic Davis encountered was travelling in the same direction as himself; very little moving towards the battlefront. All he had seen heading eastwards in the past hour were two motorized companies of German anti-tank infantry, and a solitary armoured reconnaissance unit. The villages through which Bravo One had driven were already wrecked, demolished by bombing or long-range missiles. They were still defended by infantry, but seldom by any visible armour. Davis had noticed engineers and their mine- laying equipment, a few supply vehicles, but little else. He had seen greater concentrations of equipment during peacetime exercises. Where the hell was it all now? He hoped it was somewhere hidden in the darkness, waiting. If not, dear God, NATO defences were pathetic.
Bravo One was approaching Braunschweig, the tracks scattering sparks from the surface of the road. Davis was startled by the changed appearance of the city’s outskirts; every building was flattened, blasted. Craters in its surface had been roughly filled with the bricks and concrete of its wrecked houses, and only a narrow track, kept clear by engineers’ bulldozers, allowed the passage of the vehicles.
DeeJay cut the speed. Ahead of Bravo One was a line of transports, heavily loaded Stalwarts forming a slow-moving convoy that, even at night, was such an obvious target their company made Davis nervous. Had he been certain there were other bridges still open, he would have been tempted to continue by another route.
There were no refugees this time, at least he saw none who were alive. Further back, towards the battlefront, there had been many dead at the roadside. Their bodies lay tumbled amongst their possessions, scattered and crushed by the wheels of heavy vehicles, victims of the drifting gas clouds, machine gun bullets of Russian fighter planes strafing the roads to add to the confusion and make the movement of NATO troops and supplies even more difficult.
Bravo One at last reached the bridge, and yet another roadblock. Military police again, and supporting them a platoon of infantrymen in their protective clothing behind a sand-bagged machine gun post. Davis watched the MP sergeant examine the hull of Bravo One with his flashlight; there were no identity marks. The man walked to the rear of the tank and used the infantry telephone. Davis was astonished it still operated.
‘Where the hell do you think you’re going all on your own? Give your identification!’
His temper’s as worn as mine, thought Davis. Sod’s probably been on the go for two days. ‘Charlie Bravo One. Battle Group Quebec. Warrant Officer Davis… you want my fucking number, too?’
‘You’ve no insignia or markings on your hull.’
‘Replacement tank. We’ve worn one bugger out already.’ Davis made his tone of voice friendlier. There was
