Robert Forrest-Webb - Chieftains

‘Wilco, Bravo Two.’ Sealey sounded subdued.

There wouldn’t be long to wait, decided Davis. The battle smoke was drifting parallel with the road, and the visibility in the fields was better than six hundred meters. ‘Traverse right, Inkester. Hold it… there… BMP, alongside the hedge.’

‘I see it… come on love, come on now…’ Inkester was talking to the gun as he fired. He yelled: ‘Hit… hit, Sarge.’

Davis missed the destruction of the troop carrier, but heard Inkester’s shout of satisfaction. ‘Shut up, Inkester… Bravo Four this is Bravo Two, we’re moving again.’ Davis was trying to find the road on his map. It curved north, taking them directly across the line of the Soviet advance! They would have to leave it and move across the fields towards the west. He stuffed the map between his legs and pressed his eyes to the sight. It was aligned on a T-64. He flicked on the times ten magnification just as Inkester’s shell struck; it was impressive, watching it happen only a few meters away. ‘Move, DeeJay. Get her rolling… Bravo Four as soon as we reach you, move off… we’ll head west off the road and get out of here…’

‘Wilco, Sarge…’ Corporal Sealey acknowledged gratefully.

‘BMPs… BMPs…’ Inkester’s voice rose. The computer locked to its target, adjusting the gun as the tank moved. Inkester fired.

‘Go left now, DeeJay… keep with us Bravo Four… Inkester, BMP three o’clock… don’t lose it… Bravo Four, stay close… we’re heading west of the small wood ahead.’ The gun roared once more. ‘Okay, Inkester, leave ’em.’

A shell exploded a few meters ahead of Bravo Two just as DeeJay rammed her through a hedge and into the open field. He began jinking, maintaining the speed but driving in a series of opposing curves as he braked first one track and then the other. There were more explosions, one close enough for its pressure wave to slam violently against the hull. A few meters more and they would be behind cover. Don’t let it happen… please don’t let it happen to us… Davis was praying. It took an eternity to cover the few hundred meters, but the shelling eased and finally stopped. DeeJay straightened the course and rammed his foot down hard. He had been in action long enough, and now all he wanted was to get away as fast as he could. ‘Steady… for Christ’s sake, DeeJay!’ Bravo Two was pitching dangerously, hammering her bow on. the ground as her suspension was strained near breaking point. ‘Easy, lad… easy.’ Bravo Four was in line with them now, a hundred meters to their left.

The panic which had gripped DeeJay gradually slackened. He managed to get himself and Bravo Two under control. For a few moments, the terror which he had kept contained during the fighting had overwhelmed him.

He could hear Davis’s voice, calm, unemotional. ‘Fine, DeeJay… keep it like that… nice and steady. Left a little… left… good… well done, lad.’ The knots in DeJay’s stomach muscles relaxed and he began listening to Bravo Two. Her tracks were slapping badly, needed adjustment… her engine was beginning to sound rough; he hadn’t helped it by driving like a lunatic. She didn’t deserve that kind of treatment. Her steering was getting difficult as well, he was having to use a lot more strength on the left lever. Everything needed servicing, and badly. Christ, the sergeant fitter would go bananas when he examined her. There was a strange rattle, a deep knock that reverberated through the driving compartment… an engine mounting? Bloody hell, that would be an they needed. He began to nurse her, encourage her.

Davis too was beginning to relax as the distance between Bravo Two and the advancing enemy increased. I’ve survived again, he told himself; survived for Hedda and the boys… so we can be together… God, when? Afterwards! Hedda? It would be good when he saw her again… Christ, it would be good! He tried to send his thoughts to her… I’ll be back soon, love… just you take care of the kids, I’ll look after my self… don’t you worry… I’m okay… doing fine.

‘Ahead… tank…’ Inkester yelled the words just as Davis caught a glimpse of a partially camouflaged hull, close to the wood on their right. Inkester was swinging the turret trying to get the tank in his sights.

‘No… it’s one of ours… a Challenger,’ warned Davis. ‘Bravo Four… Challengers to our right.’ The ground dipped unexpectedly in front of Bravo Two. DeeJay braked fiercely and swung left. There were a line of Challengers in the hollow, hull down, waiting. ‘DeeJay, slow… okay, lad… stop her. Bravo Four come alongside us.’ Davis opened the hatch and clambered out, trying to decide which of the tanks was likely to contain an officer. He recognized the skull and crossed bones insignia of the 17th/21st Lancers. A figure waved to them from a tank further down the line. He jumped down to the ground and was surprised his legs held him; they felt shaky, numb. He ran to the vehicle and climbed on to her hull. ‘Sergeant Davis, sir. Bravo Troop, Charlie Squadron… Battle Group Cowdray One. We’ve got ourselves lost, sir. No radio contact.’

The officer’s rank wasn’t visible on his clothing, but Davis sensed he was a captain, possibly a major. ‘You should be a mile further south, Sergeant. Your group is pulling back towards Warberg. You’ll be reforming there. You can leave the Russians to us for a while. Get there as quickly as you can.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ Davis jumped from the Challenger’s hull. The officer’s voice stopped him.

‘Sergeant… what was your name again?’

‘Davis, sir. Morgan Davis.’

‘You men have done a good job, Sergeant Davis. Head due south. You’ll hit the Esbeck to Warberg road.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ He saluted, then ran back to Bravo Two. There were four helicopters coming low across the fields, Lynxs, heading towards the advancing Soviet armour. The sound of artillery was quickening; a flight of rockets howled away from a battery hidden in the woods. The war was catching up with him again. It was late afternoon, on the first day.

There was sufficient aggressive determination in the voice of November Squadron’s Captain Harling of the US Black Horse Cavalry, to convince Master Sergeant Will Browning that the man was a homicidal megalomaniac and that he’d conceived some sadistic plan that would lead to the extermination of his whole squadron.

The captain’s exaggerated Texan enthusiasm bordered on hysteria as he made a wild speech over the squadron net about pride, the need to sacrifice and the old-fashioned spunk of true-grit American fighting men when faced with some difficult, if not impossible, task. Harling intended it to make the men of his squadron forget they might be about to die — it had the opposite effect. Those who had not remade their wills in the past few days now regretted the omission; more than a couple of the nervous were reduced to mental wrecks of no fighting use whatsoever, and they needed long and real encouragement from their individual commanders to combat Harling’s damage to their morale.

It had come only a short while after the end of a series of attacks on their positions, which November Squadron had successfully repulsed. The nerves of the survivors were already ragged; the earlier artillery bombardment had been fierce. The lull, when it came, had been welcome. Then the captain’s lengthy bullshit pep-talk.

He had ended: ‘I can’t tell you not to think about KIA… but I tell you, men, when they do a body count out there, there are going to be one hell of a lot more Popskis than Johnstons.’ That was great, mused Browning, one of the November drivers was a Mike Popski! ‘We’re going right back in. We held the head of their assault my, and beat ’em. Now we’re going after them, into their flank.’ Harling had suddenly remembered security and switched to code after a fit of coughing. ‘H minus 1237 Shark Fin. You get…’ The squadron network picked up a steady howling interference that drowned out Harling’s voice. Browning didn’t hurry to retune to a different wavelength. Shark Fin… counterattack… so that was what all the bull was about. H… that was the datum time, so H minus 1237 meant it would all begin to happen in around ten minutes.