Many times, Lt Colonel James Studley had been in his regiment’s mess, and heard descriptions of Second World War tank battles from officers who were retired or nearing the end of their service. He had listened, interested in the early part of his career when their memories had been fresher and their stories new to his ears, and then politely but with increasing boredom over the next few years. With time and alcohol he had heard the same stories repeated again and again until eventually he was able to switch off part of his mind yet still make the appropriate noises of amazement, horror or amusement, at the correct intervals. He had heard some of the troopers refer to old sweats as ‘when we’s’, from their habit of beginning a story with: ‘When we were at…’ or ‘when we were in…’ One day, somebody would probably give him the same label; now he hoped so, it would be proof he had survived.
He had never before seen a landscape such as he viewed from the command post. Primeval was the word he found to describe it best — if it could be described at all! A panorama incapable of sustaining human life, violent, ragged, volcanic, it contained no beauty, no peacefulness. Layered by heavy nauseous fumes, it erupted fire, spewed rock, earth and steel, convulsed and shuddered in a cacophony of deafening sound.
At first he had been able to distinguish the battle group’s own guns, the throaty roar of the Chieftain’s 120mms, the M109s. They had soon become lost amidst the howls and shrieks of the rockets, the clamorous thunder of artillery, the whines, moans and demonic screams of a hundred kinds of projectiles and their explosions.
The barn which concealed the command Sultans had been hit twice. First unintentionally, by a cannon shell fired by one of the many aircraft over the battlefront, and in the second instance by a heavy mortar bomb, which Studley believed might have been a Soviet M-160. The trajectory of the bomb, one of several to have landed in the area, had been checked-out on the three-dimensional surveillance radar and revealed the firing position to be located six kilometers to the east. The fire-point had been neutralized by artillery, but that was no comfort to the two infantrymen of the command platoon who had been killed.
Colonel Studley was feeling pleased with his command staff; everything seemed to be operating smoothly and efficiently. Young Douglas Whitley, the signals officer, had set a good example to the men when the mortar bomb had exploded, remaining cool and checking the equipment for possible damage even before the dust had settled. Philip Donelly, the adjutant, had almost ignored the incident, and continued his plotting of the group’s movements on the situation map with a Chinograph.
‘By the way, the French are in.’ One of the Divisional HQ staff had told Studley on the divisional network a few minutes previously. The radio communication had gone through the security scramblers.
‘Thank God! When?’
‘One minute after it all started. They mobilized reserves two days ago and are moving up their armour behind the Americans. It’ll ease things.’
‘One hell of a lot,’ agreed Studley.
‘What’s your situation?’
‘We’re holding at Mooonraker, but we’ll retire shortly. There’s a lot of Red armour in this sector.’
‘There are four Soviet divisions between Helmstedt and Wittingen. The Russian 16th Division’s main thrust appears to be towards Braunschweig. We believe this is their present Red. Helmstedt has been overrun by the Soviet 9th Division, and we think they will try to link-up with the 16th Division as they progress. We have reports of a Soviet recce battalion at Boitzenhagen, and a considerable drop of air assault troops at Wahrenholz. We also have a report of the use of chemical weapons on the front south of Lübeck… it’s confused and unconfirmed. Do as well for you to bear it in mind.’
‘Thank you.’
The adjutant had been listening to the conversation on one of the spare headsets. ‘Perhaps we should move back behind the river Ise, sir.’
‘Too early yet. If we pull back so far we’ll make life too easy for them.’
‘We won’t be able to hold them much longer, sir, nine more of the tanks are out of action. That leaves us with thirty-two, plus your own command Chieftain. There have been a lot of casualties amongst the infantry and the forward positions have just reported contact with Soviet patrols.’
Studley grimaced then said: ‘I’m going to look around. Let me know immediately if anything unexpected develops. We’ll move as soon as I get back.’ He wondered if it was conscience drawing him out of the command post; the thought of his men fighting for their lives on the lower slopes of the moor while he remained in a relatively safe position. Perhaps it would help their morale if they saw him alongside them for a while. Guiltily, he knew he was just seeking an excuse. He wanted to take part in some of the action, himself.
He walked outside. There was the sound of rifle and machine gun fire towards the east, and the sharp crack of hand-grenades. It was distorted by the heavier gunfire, but with its inference of close combat sounded more urgent and deadly.
An NBC-suited figure snapped to attention beside the Chieftain. ‘Sergeant Pudsey, are all the crew ready?’ Studley asked him.
‘Yes, sir. ‘They’re as twitchy as greyhounds in their traps. Want to be with their mates.’ Sergeant Pudsey was standing parade-ground straight. He acted as the colonel’s loader, and had the reputation of being one of the fastest in the regiment.
‘Let’s go then, Sergeant.’ Studley began climbing into the tank.
‘Yes, sir.’ There was pleasure in Pudsey’s voice at the command. He swung himself easily up on to the front of the hull and yelled at the driver’s hatch, ‘Drum her up, Horsefield.’
Studley waited until Pudsey had climbed inside and settled himself into his seat, and then followed. ‘We’ll give the infantry a hand, eh Sergeant,’ he shouted as Horsefield the driver stirred the Chieftain’s twelve-cylinder engine to life.
He slipped the headset over his beret, ignoring the helmet strapped to one of the seat supports. The helmet was too uncomfortable to be worn for long, and it was bad enough fighting in an NBC-suit. He switched on the tank’s intercom. ‘Load HE, Sergeant… Horsefield, take it easy when we get near the infantry positions. They know we’re coming down but it will pay to be cautious.’ He didn’t want some trigger-happy soldier to mistake the Chieftain for a T-80 and loose off a Milan missile in the heat of the moment. ‘We’ll use the long gulley at two o’clock. The infantry are about two thousand meters down the hill, and I don’t want to charge straight over their positions.’ He had checked the situation map before leaving the command post; Charlie Squadron and the infantry were close together. He would visit both and then work his way back around the lower side of the hill.
They had driven several hundred meters when he saw one of the battle group’s APCs overturned at the side of the gulley, with several corpses amongst the wreckage. It’s loss had been reported and Studley knew of the casualties, but it was still a gut shock to see the twisted metal and torn bodies that turned an impersonal radio message into brutal reality. He felt the hair on his neck bristle as though a chill breeze had caught him.
Horsefield avoided the debris of the APC and brought the Chieftain into the open ground of a fire-break. Two more APCs rested in the shelter of the bordering trees, their crews kneeling or squatting beside them, waiting until the infantry needed them again. There were craters in the narrow clearing, still hazed with smoke.
Studley halted the tank and signalled over a drawn-looking lance corporal who had been squatting beside the front of one of the APCs, his Sterling Mk4 tucked ready beneath his arm. The man smartened himself and saluted, recognizing the colonel.