The quartermasters would grumble about keeping to different calibres of ‘ball’ ammunition but the SA-80 ammunition stocks they held were depleting so it would not be a problem for long.
His battalion had proved itself in the offence, but now the more trying role of defence was about to be visited upon it once more. He believed the earlier criticisms following its trial by fire on the river Wesernitz were unwarranted, and unjust, but now the battalion would now have to excel itself holding this line on the river Elbe.
WO2 Probert was still an acting platoon commander but Oz had been replaced by a young 2nd Lieutenant who had passed out early from Sandhurst, the Royal Military Academy, and without much in the way of ceremony. Sgt Osgood had a brew on after Colin had led the last rifle section across the bridge to their new trenches. It was pitch dark, as most nights had been since the soviet submarine wolf packs had been dealt with. Despite a moon, the overcast eliminated all light from that direction and it took some time for him to make his way to the platoon HQ trench, squelching through the mud. Not a day had gone past without rain, and Colin couldn’t remember the last time he had seen the sun and blue skies. Lowering himself down into the firing bay he ducked under the soggy old green duvet cover that hung over the entrance to the shelter bay, and then under an old grey army blanket into the dim light within, preserving the all-important blackout. The hiss of a petrol stove greeted him; the fumes from the issue hexamine blocks, known as ‘Hexi’, were too dangerous to be used in poorly ventilated areas.
“Hello dear I’m home, what’s for dinner?”
Oz poured some water into a mug, and the aroma of coffee laced with scotch filled the cramped space. He handed the steel mug over and held up a tin.
“We’ve got compo chicken curry, mate… with tinned fruit cake and bacon grill mixed in.” The bulky Composite Rations had been replaced by boil-in-the-bag fare for the armed forces years ago, however a stockpile for times such as these had been retained.
“Compo rations… I thought they had been given away to drought stricken countries to feed their big shots' families, and for the big shots to get richer selling what’s left to the starving masses?”
“Well apparently there’s still a shit-load left… and this chicken probably died before your granny was born.” Oz screwed up his nose, as he tasted some on the racing spoon he was stirring it with, and reaching into his Bergen he withdrew an old camm stick tube and shook some curry powder in.
“Any idea when the war here starts again Col?”
“We had one dead and three wounded today, I don’t think it’s stopped!”
“Apart from the odd shell and sniper, I mean.”
“According to the CO most of the Red air went north… big ruck up that way, but it’s over now so it is about to get serious down here again.”
A JCB had been used to prepare most of the new fighting positions, and as this one was meant to accommodate four, they had more room for the little perks that soldiers of experience acquire… given half a chance and an inattentive storeman. As it was, two stretchers were unfolded at the far end of the shelter bay to provide a comfy bed each, and clearance from the damp earth. Colin removed his fighting order and hung it by the yoke on a modified tripflare picket driven diagonally into the wall of the trench, next to Oz’s where it could dry out, not take up space, and be easily accessible when required. A certain Scandinavian furniture and interiors chain could learn a lot from a soldiers space saving/time saving inventiveness.
There was a click from one of the field telephones and Oz picked up the receiver.
“Cringeworthy & Snodgrass, purveyors of fine wines and ugly but grateful women.” There were three field phones in the shelter bay, and Oz was not worried about using incorrect VP on this particular one. He listened for a moment before replacing the receiver. “Arnie’s on his way over.”
Colin shook his head.
“One day you’ll forget which phones which and piss off someone who takes this army stuff seriously.”
“I already did, the new adjutant called, and then he demanded to know who I was.”
“And… ”
“So I said ‘Don’t you know?’ and when he said he didn’t, I replied ‘Well thank God for that, then!’, and hung up on him.”
Colin wasn’t impressed.
“Sarn’t Osgood… that story was old back when Monck was a corporal!” referring to the general who had founded their R regiment in 1650.
They heard movement outside and continued talking, but removed Russian Yarygin 9mm pistols from concealment about their persons, and levelling them at the entrance, just in case.
Someone rapped on the log over the entrance of the shelter bay.
“Entrée!” said Colin.
Arne Moore pushed his way through the blackout, and gawped at the two handguns pointing at his head. He was unfazed by the menacing muzzles; in fact his eyes showed envy rather than alarm.
“Hey, where’d you guys get those things, they is like gold dust?”
Oz smiled brightly.
“Sir, we are highly skilled professionals and elite infantry of Her Majesty’s very own Division… we have training and resources beyond the means and understanding of you mere colonials.”
“You mean you looted them off dead Reds.”
“Absolutely… anyway, pull up a pew and excuse the mess, it’s the butlers day off.” Colin handed over the communal mug and Arne sniffed the contents appreciatively before taking a mouthful.
“Argh… great!” From inside his smock he withdrew a tin of something or other and tossed it to the sergeant. Oz shrugged on reading the label and fished out a large mess tin, transferring in the contents of the mug and adding the tins once he’d got the lid off.
“It’s only going to taste of curry anyway.”
Fifteen minutes later and they huddled together, wolfing the food down from the single mess tin. Arne regarded the piece of sliced peach sat in curry sauce on his spoon for a second, he had intended the tin of fruit cocktail to be dessert, something to wash away the ever present curry flavour the Toms always seemed to add. He decided to go along with the British squaddies philosophy that it all goes down the same hole anyway, so why increase the chores by doubling the washing up, and he so he shrugged and carried on eating.
Bill and Big Stef had recce’d and prepared five firing points, all muddily accessible by crawling along ditches and dead ground. There were three pairs of snipers covering the river, two gun groups and two Milan crews in addition to a handful of radio operators occupying the ground the battalion once held. Working a stag roster of three on, three off, they kept an eye on the opposite bank but rarely fired. The marksmen of both sides had developed, or rather they had re-learnt, the counter sniping skills of earlier conflicts. Enticingly obvious dummies offering targets of opportunity to the other sides’ snipers had given way to more realistic and ingenious lures. If one reacted to the lures there were at least three equally skilled marksmen across the water watching intently for a flicker of muzzle flash, or a puff of smoke. Even if the man survived the counter fire, the position he had used was compromised for all time and could only be used again as a last resort.
An ingenious sniper in the 82nd had put together a sort of exoskeleton affair that he wore on his back, he would crawl along suitable stretches of dead ground with the dummy sat a foot above his back, mimicking his every movement, and just visible to the enemy. It drew sniper fire on three occasions and the NATO snipers got to either shoot one of their opposite numbers, or scare the crap out of them, they never knew which. On the fourth occasion it was used the enemy open up with a mortar instead of a sniper rifle. All in all the young inventor had a lucky escape, he was back on the line but he couldn’t yet sit down on butt cheeks that had been peppered with half a dozen shards of red hot shrapnel.