Bob Forrest-Webb - Chieftains

There were no more close targets for his grenades. Studley dropped behind the machine gun. He worked the first round into the breech with the bolt, and mentally crossed his fingers.

On the far side of the clearing were a group of men Huddled around the BTR command post. It moved, its driver reversing it towards the woods. The men moved with it, using its hull as protective cover. Studley squeezed the trigger and felt the satisfying shudder as the gun reacted. He kept the burst short; it was unlikely he would have more than two hundred rounds in the magazine, and this gas-operated weapon would get through more than six hundred and fifty a minute. As the bullets struck, the BTR began smoking. He gave it a second burst, low alongside the driving compartment. The smoke became flame which billowed and swelled like the fireball of a miniature atomic bomb. He raked a longer burst through running figures then scrambled deeper into the undergrowth, moving further to his left, dragging the machine gun.

One of the BMPs was thundering blindly towards him, crashing through the light woods, its tracks slapping and squealing. He threw himself aside and the vehicle road past. There were shots crackling viciously in the trees…unaimed, indiscriminate, shouted orders, more explosions. Vehicles were revving, moving. A wounded man was screaming.

'Bastards…you bastards,' yelled Studley. He knew he was invincible; better than invincible, he had become death itself. He grabbed the machine gun under his arms and staggered into the open, firing it from his hip at a BMP that was dragging itself out of its camouflage, trailing the netting. Its rocket exploded in the launcher, ripping the vehicle's turret off backwards as neatly as if it had been removed by a cutting charge. Fires had brought eerie daylight to the clearing, the contorting shadows and smoke adding to the stygian chaos. One of the BMPs exploded for a second the as its ammunition overheated, scattering flaming debris high into the air. A UAZ Jeep bounced out of the woods and spun in the open ground. Studley caught it with his final burst, firing until his gun stopped. The Jeep accelerated for a few meters, hit the wreckage of one of the BMPs and rolled on to its side.

Studley dropped the machine gun and pulled out his two remaining grenades. He removed the pin from each and stood waiting defiantly. The only remaining undestroyed target he could see was the field-kitchen.

'I'm here, you bastards…' The reply was the digestive sound of the fires, the sharp crack of small-arms ammunition as it exploded amongst the burning wreckage. The madness left Studley. He said, quietly, 'I'm here.' There was a sense of anti-climax, unrealness.

He stared around him; nothing moved but the shadows.

The fatigue, exhaustion, and the pain were returning. He must get away; find somewhere where he could lick his wounds. He needed a weapon, though. Not another machine gun, something convenient, light, a pistol. He could see a holster on the belt of a body lying beside the upturned Jeep. He staggered over to it. It was the GRU captain; the man was unconscious. Studley looked at the two grenades he was holding in his hands; the pins were lost somewhere on the far side of the clearing. He had never expected to replace them. He considered tossing the grenades into the woods, then changed his mind.

Carefully he wedged them beneath the GRU captain's body, the man's weight holding the levers against their casings, then he took the pistol from the man's holster.

He was about a kilometer away down the long slope of the woodland when he heard the two grenades detonate. The sound gave him no more satisfaction than had he killed a rabid dog.

A canopy of ponchos hid the white-blue light of the cutting torch as the men worked on the jammed track of Utah,. the Abrams of November India Squadron. The Bundesgrenzshutz platoon, with the exception of one engineer who was helping Adams, Ginsborough and Podini, were scattered on the lower slopes of the hill above the crippled tank. Master Sergeant Will Browning and the BGS lieutenant lay below the crest of the ridge and watched the activity on the three bridges now completed across the river.

The engines of the Soviet vehicles muffled the sound of gunfire, but distant fires were colouring the sky towards the west.

'There's one hell of a lot of supplies down there.'

The lieutenant nodded. 'Too many. It should not be so. They are holding them…waiting for something.'

'Reinforcements?'

'No. I do not think they need them yet. I think they wait because they have delay.'

'We're holding them?' It was a good thought, but Browning wasn't convinced.

'Maybe, yes. How far do you think it is to the combat zone?'

Browning studied the horizon. It was difficult to estimate distance at night, but the gunfire he could see was well below the rim of the night sky. 'Eight or nine kilometers.'

'Not much more than this afternoon. I think the American and German corps begin counter-offensive.'

'Counter-offensive? Jesus man, we don't have the strength. You've seen the amount of their armour.'

'We now have French armour…and French aircraft.'

'French? When the hell did we get the French?

'Yesterday morning. They join us.'

'Could they get their armour up this fast?'

'It is possible. The distance is not so great.' The German was lying on his stomach, his chin resting on his forearms. 'You know what we must do?'

'If I had any sense, I'd tell you we should get the hell out of here while we've got a chance.' Browning stared down at the bridgehead and supply dump. The loss of ammunition, fuel, food and vehicle supplies would be a serious blow to the Soviet division, and if it could be achieved at the expense of a single NATO tank, then it had to be justifiable. The trouble was, it was his tank, his crew and his life; and he had already made himself a few promises. He attempted to weigh up the odds.

The lieutenant misunderstood Browning's hesitation. 'How do you want to fight this war, American? From twenty kilometers the other side of the front line…firing shells at an enemy you can't see? In a tank, you fight close, like infantry. And sometimes it is necessary to die.'

'I know my job, Lieutenant, and I know about dying.' Browning was silent for a while. A lot of memories he had forgotten had been revived in the past hours, and almost as though it were Armageddon ghosts had risen from graves. He had called Adams 'Jackson' during the battle, but Jackson had died near Dong Ha; he had looked out through the episcope in the earlier minutes of the counterattack and for a few moments been unable to recognize the XM1s of the squadron, he had expected sand-coloured M48s. Dying? He was an expert. They had offered him a commission once…suggested he train to become an officer. He had refused, because he knew too much about death. As an officer you decided how a battle should be fought, and then you gave the orders to your men to fight it. As a sergeant you took the orders, but then made decisions to try to keep your men alive while you obeyed them. He preferred the latter responsibility.

'You have visited my village before, Sergeant?

'Gunthers?' Browning saw the German officer nod. 'I passed through it a couple of days ago. It was a nice place.'

'Yes, a good place. Small, but good. And my school was good, too. I took my last class three days ago.'

'Teacher?'

'Yes, I am a teacher, art. I took my class on Tuesday afternoon. Boys and girls, fourteen years old. And they painted the bridge across the Ulster, from memory. I should have taken them down there, and let them sit by it…by the bridge. Now, it has gone, and with it the old gasthof, many memories. Yesterday morning, I blew them to pieces.'