James Rouch: Death March

Two closer explosions demonstrated that his theory was likely correct. “Time to move on, before they drop one in our laps.”

The next couple of hundred metres kept the spire out of view and the mortaring ceased.

From the far side of a small garden filled square arose a plume of exhaust smoke and the roar of a revving engine. The clutter of trees, benches, kiosks and a burnt out bus hid what ever it was from view.

“We don’t have the time or the firepower to engage in a scrap with Ruskie armour.” Revell knew it was time to make another detour.

Signalling for the scouts to return, Revell sent them into nearby buildings to find a way around the potential danger. The engine noise increased in tempo and a blast of exhaust fumes sent the concealing foliage into a thrashing dance. A powerful cannon unleashed a short burst, the punching crack of its firing marking the weapon as a Russian anti-aircraft cannon. It was followed by another longer salvo as twin barrels sent streams of tracer into a distant storefront. For some reason one barrel fired only three rounds before stopping. The other went on to completely exhaust its magazine.

“A museum piece, a ZSU-fifty seven.” Sergeant Hyde identified the vehicle. “It still packs a hell of a punch and we still don’t want to attract their attention.”

The lightly armoured flak tank might be out-dated; a very real surprise in a front line situation but it was still a most formidable machine at close range. In any engagement with armour in a street fight it would always have to be the first enemy vehicle engaged and if not knocked out quickly could unleash a weight of fire that would destroy all opposition.

Twice more the flak tank opened up, not bothering to fire a ranging round first at so short a distance from its targets. There was no pattern to or reason for the buildings it selected. Reduced to the one barrel it still blasted off a full magazine every time. It would pulverise a façade and then a fresh structure would be selected apparently at random.

Burke and Simmons returned, the older man puffing and panting from keeping up. Gathering his breath he let the Simmons do the talking.

“Locked fire doors everywhere at the back of these places. A grenade will get us through but from the windows we can see swarms of Warpac infantry using the service roads to break in to places. They’ll never be able to carry all they’re looting.”

“Then we go up and across. We’ll have to chance being seen by the guy in the church tower. Let’s hope others are attracting his attention for a change.”

Taking the lead, Revell selected an office block of old fashioned construction and led the squad across its small-carpeted reception area and up a wide staircase four floors to the roof.

Dooley’s brute force overcame the short lived resistance of a skylight and then they were up in the fresh air, away from the drifting dust and cordite stench of the canyon-like fire filled city roads.

In the cover of a cluster of ornate brick chimney stacks Revell tried to translate the simplified tourist map that was all they had, into a meaningful route. As he scanned the skyline he could see where columns of smoke and accompanying billows of brick dust from collapsing buildings marked the main line of the Soviet advance. They were sweeping through the city unleashing pile driver force against scant and scattered resistance. To either flank rose other indicators of the Warsaw Pact progress. Isolated fires displayed where racing advance groups of the enemy were blasting a route towards the river. Faintly there came the sound of squealing tank tracks and high revving scout car engines, blended with staccato ripples of wild machine gun and cannon fire.

“They’re throwing in everything they’ve got.” Though it cleared their rooftop by fifty feet, Hyde involuntarily ducked as a rocket swept overhead. It went on to impact on the ornate stonework topping another building, sending up a plume of flame and debris.

A lone helicopter was visible in the distance, skimming the chimneys, jinking between the tall buildings. Tracer silently streamed from a chin-mounted cannon and frequently the timber and plaster frontage of an elegant old house would dissolve under the impacts and bodies would tumble out of the ruined buildings. More massive destruction occurred when it occasionally launched heavier weaponry. Towing a pale vapour trail, rockets would lash out from their launch rails beneath the crafts stub wings and the top floors of another half timbered building would disintegrate.

“They may be lashing out at everything.” Andrea watched the destruction. “But I think the rate of fire has slackened in the last hour.”

“Doesn’t seem like it to me.” Burke saw the chopper soar in a circle to retrace its route, its launching rails empty. A lone orange ball of tracer chased it, missing by a long way.

“It’s academic, by the time it’s dark they’ll be all around us.” Clarence used the telescope of his sniper rifle to watch as a group of Russian infantry came out on to a distant rooftop and after looking around settled down for a smoke.

“It’s still the best part of a kilometre to the river. At this stop-start pace we’ll not make it. We’re having to tip-toe and pussy-foot to avoid civilian casualties while the Ruskies plough forward blasting everything and everyone in their path.”

“They’re not all gung–ho Major.” Taking careful aim Clarence put a single round through the neck of a Russian with a small group who appeared to be setting up a sniper post on a distant roof. None of his companions saw him gracefully topple over the edge.

Sergeant Hyde had watched Revells’ finger trace a grubby path across the tourist map. The lack of detail hid what must be a thousand opportunities for the Russians to set ambushes across their path. Except that they didn’t seem interested in such refinements, they were just moving forward, hosing the streets with machine gun and canon fire, being so careless of the supporting mortar and artillery fire that they were frequently suffering casualties from their own gunners.

Already he had seen two instances, in locations that only Warsaw Pact guns could have reached, where Russian infantry had been scythed down. Scattered groups of Warpac dead filled some avenues or were slumped in the back of blazing trucks.

“We’ll use the rooftops to cover a bit of distance and then go down and see if we can grab transport for the dash to the bridge. There are abandoned vehicles all over the place. They can’t all be broken down or out of gas.”

“Great,” Libby had heard the exchange. “Then we’ll have both sides gunning for us. The Ruskies as we drive to the bridge and the Yanks when we try to cross it.” His muttered aside was to Dooley.

Burke had heard it also. “I prefer to be motoring along in a bullet magnet rather than being towed at speed, on foot, by Simmons.”

Only changes in roof level hampered their progress, with one alleyway being crossed by a bridge they hastily improvised from abandoned scaffolding poles and planks.

“We’ll go down here.” Over the edge of a parapet Revell looked into an empty street. Even as he did the doors of a building across the way burst open and civilians poured out, some clutching children, most staggering under loads of baggage.

As they hesitated, trying to orientate themselves, unsure which way to run, a column of armoured personnel carriers motored into the street.

Some among the crowd clearly recognised the NATO emblems on the tracked vehicles and rushed into the middle of the road, waving their arms, gesturing wildly to stop the APC’s, imploring their help.

Instead of slowing the lead vehicle accelerated and drove straight over two men leading the crowd. Before the others could scatter the thrashing tracks and broad hull fronts were moving down others. Revell was about to shout but it would have been useless. The vehicles crew had not even the excuse they were shut down and couldn’t see the people. Several men rode on the top of each and he saw some level their automatics at the crowd and open fire. On the last vehicle a gunner swivelled the dark bulk of a fifty calibre machine gun and hosed the throng, even aiming at those out of their way, and finally turning to send a last body-shattering burst into a knot they passed who were stood petrified, aghast at what they had witnessed.