Robert Forrest-Webb - Chieftains

‘Fuck all, sir!’

‘What the hell was that? Inkester’s questioning voice was tremulous. ‘Christ I’ve got no vision…’

The smoke was hanging over the ground drifting only slowly in the light breeze, heavy, sinister. Miraculously the episcopes were undamaged, but condensation in the lenses made the smoke appear denser. He wiped the glass with his beret. The haze was thinning a little but it seemed an eternity before Davis was able to see more than a short distance. The flares, the bloody flares were making it worse; turning the mist opaque, like fog in car headlights.

‘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 Rüper… Causeway, Braunschweig; he knew Tiber was bridge. He could still use the bridge at Braunschweig, but where was Rüper? 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. Rüper… 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.