Vormundberg, or Guardian Hill in English, was not the kind of geographic feature that would have inspired Wagner. It lacked oppressive, grey granite walls and its sides, though steep, did not fall into the category of cliff-like; in short, no self-respecting Valkyrie would have chosen it as the site for an eerie.
At some time in the distant past it had been de-forested and a small settlement had occupied its top, but nature had repossessed the feature when the former occupants disappeared into the mists of time and spruce trees covered its slopes and crest again.
Following the strikes on Helmstedt with fuel air weapons, 3(UK) Mechanised Brigade had turned its back on the town, leaving its occupation to local forces and moving to occupy an area of ground which included the cigar shaped feature.
Pat Reed’s FV435 had churned its way through dirty coloured slush and mud, to the site of the battalion CP. A thaw had set in as suddenly as had the previous unseasonable snow, so the countryside had altered from virginal white to a damp, depressing mix of browns. A fine drizzly rain fell from low clouds, whose base hung just above the hills topmost trees, which at least offered some protection against air attack whilst it lasted, now they were again closer to the front. It did nothing however to lift the spirits of troops bone tired, both physically and mentally.
The COs notebook was full of the details of how his unit would defend the ground here, and how the brigades artillery, ground and air assets were to be shared. At the brigade commanders O Group he had bitten down the exasperation of learning the previous days workable plan had been replaced with another, one less favourable to his unit.
That hadn’t been the only item to cause him annoyance, the other infantry battalions were receiving twice the number of replacements that his was, and all his recommendations for bravery awards had been disapproved. Not so much as a mention in despatches for a single Guardsman had been granted, and had that been the case for every other regiment then he could have lived with it, but the gallantry of other battalion’s soldiers within the brigade and elsewhere certainly was being recognised. He didn’t begrudge a single one of the awards he had heard about today from the other COs, but he had approached the brigade commander who had been unable to shed any light on decisions on the 1CG men, but whom however had promised to make enquiries into the matter.
Exiting his vehicle he looked toward the nearest Challenger fighting position, the Royal Engineers who had been tasked with its construction were already packing up, the job only half done, and preparing to move their JCBs and mechanical trench diggers the six miles to 40 Commando RMs turf and assist them instead. There was logic to it, Pat allowed, the Royal Marines had arrived only ten hours before and had a way to go before the ground assigned them reached the degree of defensibility its commander desired. Pat knew that the Marines hadn’t been sat on their hands in Norway, but dug in ready to repel an invasion from over the border. However, his own men had been in action every single day since the start of the war, and with the tanks out to the north screening the position whilst it was being prepared, the infantrymen would have to forego rest in order to complete the engineers tasks here by hand.
The mud squelched underfoot as he headed to where he knew his officers were assembled to receive their own orders from himself, but he stopped and turned to survey the area. Two riflemen were visible coming downhill through the trees, walking parallel to a muddy and much trodden footpath. Pat looked elsewhere and saw fresh track and tyre marks winding between tree trunks, and felt a spike of annoyance.
“Sarn’t Major!”
The angry bellow brought Arnie Moore from where he had been toiling with the drivers, orderlies and off watch signallers to complete the CP bunker.
“Sir?”
The CO was standing with hands on hips and apparently not about to shout across whatever had pissed him off, so the American paratrooper ducked back inside to re-emerge with personal weapon in one large fist and entrenching tool reattached to his fighting order, which he pulled on as he trotted down the slope to the Coldstream Guards CO.
“The track plan Sarn’t Major, is not being adhered to.”
No matter how skilfully the individual positions were camouflaged and concealed, and no matter how diligently signals security was applied, the unmistakable signs of human and vehicular traffic could undo it all. The only way to minimise such indications was to enforce the use of prescribed routes, and these had been given out following the locations initial recce prior to its occupation.
Arnie followed the Commanding Officers gaze and cursed to himself. They were all so damned tired that things were starting to slip, and he should not have had this particular lapse in discipline brought to his attention by the CO of all people.
“Right sir, I’m on it.”
Pat stalked off to the O Group, leaving the American to get it sorted.
Arnie headed for the nearest company location to breathe fire and brimstone on the NCOs, he could have taken a vehicle, following the correct tracks of course, but by going on foot he would see any other problems he might otherwise miss, and turning up unexpectedly would in itself remind everyone to stay on the ball.
He was just a few metres from 1 Platoons CP trench before Oz spotted him.
“Hide the grot mags and the still Colin, colonial approaching at our six!”
“Cut the shit sergeant, I’m here on official business.” Arnie drawled. “And I haven’t seen a decent porn mag amongst any of your guys.”
Colin backed out of the newly completed shelter bay and stood with a groan born of several hours digging, but the smile was as sincere as the extended, though grubby hand. “What did I hear Oz, he’s returning your light reading material and re-stocking the cocktail cabinet?”
“No such luck, just grumbling about there being no Hustlers ‘Barely a Ewe’. Typical country boy.”
Arnie gave Sergeant Osgood the finger and squatted down. “I just got a minor ass singeing from the CO over non-compliance with the track plan.”
Colin slopped some water into a his metal mug, added to it with some from Oz’s water bottle and Arnie dutifully handed over his own, payment for his share of the brew.
“Tea or coffee?” Colin asked.
“You always ask me that, and the answers the same as always.”
Colin gave him a malicious grin. “Tough shit, we’re out of coffee so you can have a civilised drink for once in your heathen life.” He lit a solid fuel tablet and placed it on the small folding stove. “I’ll get the section commanders together and read the riot act, but you know the underlying reason the same as I do?”
“The boys need a break.” Arnie answered.
“We all need a break!” Oz muttered as he carefully rolled long strips of turf back over the spoil that formed the overhead protection of the shelter bays roof.
Arnie let him complete the task before frowning critically.
If there was anything Sgt Osgood knew about, it was field engineering with pick and shovel, so he was instantly defensive when he noticed the American’s expression. “What?”
Arnie jumped into the fire bay before sticking his head inside the shelter bay for a brief look, and then kicking the trench wall like a prospective buyer tapping the tyres of a used car with a toecap. Finally he shook his head and clambered out of the trench.
“You’re going to have to fill it in and start again, guys.”
Colin caught the wink Arnie gave him and settled back to watch Oz take the bait.
“No we won’t!” indignantly challenging the American as if he had been asked to perform an indecent act, Oz stood up and looked for any obvious faults in its construction.