A bright orange light illuminated the woods a kilometer beyond the river, there was the doppler effect of a full battery salvo of rockets passing overhead, then the rolling shock of the multiple explosions as they reached their target.
There was a shrill mewing sound beside Davis. He looked into the fighting compartment. The lights were dimmed but he could see the new loader, Spinks, huddled down between the gun and the charge bins, his arms wrapped tightly over his head, his knees drawn up to his chest.
‘Spinks!’
‘What’s going on?’ It was Inkester calling above the increasing volume of gunfire. ‘Oh, shit! That’s all we bloody need.’
‘Spinks…’ Davis struggled down beside the gun and grabbed the loader by the hood of his NBC suit, dragging him upright. The man kept his face hidden in his hands. ‘Spinks, you’ve got a job to do, and by Christ, you’re going to do it.’ Davis shook him.
‘We’re going to die…’ Spinks’ voice was a wail. ‘Oh God…’
Davis jerked Spinks’ head back and slapped him hard across the face, then he pushed him back into the seat. Spinks was sobbing. ‘You load every time that gun is empty,’ Davis roared. ‘You load, you understand you bastard… you load. Make one mistake and I’ll kill you and throw your body outside.’
Spinks nodded, fearfully.
Davis climbed back up into the turret. He was shaking with rage. Cowardice was something he hadn’t bargained for. Worse, he knew his threat to kill Spinks was real.
THIRTEEN
There was a gentle shuffling within the Scimitar unit’s concrete bunker; the sound of the men preparing to move out, nothing metallic, only the brushing of cloth against cloth, webbing against cotton, the pad of rubber-soled boots on the dusty concrete. Teeth gleamed in sharp contrast against camouflaged skin as the men grinned at each other in anticipation of action after long hours of waiting, their conversations were whispered.
Captain Fellows had been watching the parked Soviet self-propelled guns since a little before dusk, hoping they would move on. As the evening light had faded there had been some activity in the line of vehicles, but the hull of the nearest was still silhouetted against the night sky.
He had commented to the SAS lieutenant: ‘They’re still out there.’
‘Probably a reserve battery. They don’t matter, we can easily get rid of the crews later.’
Bloody cocky, Fellows had thought. The damned SAS always thought they wm little gods… pink Range Rovers… good God, they even sold plastic model kits of them in toy shops. SAS. They claimed to shun publicity, but somehow managed to grab more than anyone else.
He checked his watch. Twenty twenty-three. ‘Sergeant!’
‘Sir.’
‘Keep an eye on the RTO will you? The orders will be through shortly. For God’s sake make sure he doesn’t send out a signal… no acknowledgement.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Mick Fellows hooked off his beret and ran his fingers through his short wavy hair in one movement. Wearing a beret for several hours at a time always made his scalp itch and gave him dandruff. He had washed and shaved earlier, and changed his shirt. It made him feel fresher, more alert. He had noticed that Lieutenant Hinton had not bothered, and there was already a dark stubble on the man’s cheeks and chin. It rankled with him; he would not tolerate slackness in appearance in his own officers, no matter the circumstances. Carelessness in dress and bodily cleanliness indicated a similar attitude towards soldiering; a smart soldier was invariably efficient.
Hinton didn’t even look like an officer… at least, not a cavalryman. A Sapper, maybe. He was too bulky, squarer, bull-necked enough to appear the archetypal Prussian soldier of the First World War. In mess kit he would look like an all-in wrestler in fancy dress. Fellows had taken a dislike to the man the moment they had met. Hinton’s rough palms during their handshake had felt like those of a labourer.
‘Sir… Captain Fellows, sir.’ The sergeant was beckoning from beside the radio operator. Fellows hurried across and picked up a spare headset. There were a lot of metallic clicking sounds, atmospherics, cracklings.
The strength of the transmission was fluctuating, but they could make out the distant operator’s voice, each word ennunciated sharply and positively. ‘Magpie this is Wizard. Apex Echo. Trophy Bacon Sunset Juliet. Repeat: Apex Echo. Trophy Bacon Sunset Juliet. Out.’
A ten second transmission, thought Fellows. It would have been damned easy for a careless radio operator to miss. The RTO had switched off the unit’s set the moment the message had ended; it would remain silent for another six hours.
It pleased Fellows to think that his German CO would sweat a bit now, hoping the message that would initiate his pet project had been received. Only future events would confirm it.
Hinton was standing nearby waiting, so Fellows translated the code from memory. ‘The Russians have advanced a long way. They’re at Wolfsburg.’ Apex was the head of the Soviet thrust, Crown the city of Wolfsburg. ‘Wizard has given us one K west of Hehlingen as the approximate location of the Soviet Divisional HQ!
‘The Russians must have taken the whole of the Werder,’ commented Hinton, sourly. ‘The bastards haven’t wasted time!
‘It’s only just begun,’ Fellows reminded him curtly. ‘And it’s obvious they’re already malting mistakes.’
‘Mistakes?’ Hinton looked puzzled. To accuse the enemy of errors without knowing their total battle plan was naive.
‘Look at the map. If their 12th Guards Army are now in Wolfsburg, then it’s certainly a mistake to put a main HQ so close to the front… it’s too vulnerable, and not even normal planning tactics. It’s more the position far a Forward Command HQ.’ Fellows paused for a moment to allow Hinton to digest this observation. ‘If we assume their attack has otherwise been in character, then the 12th Guards Army will have advanced on a-narrow front; at most only five or six kilometers in breadth. They will have attacked in echelon, backed by strong reserves to exploit mints of success. The forward command would be up-front and the main headquarters somewhere to the rear of their second echelon. But this isn’t the case, Hinton… and why?’
Hinton was resenting the manner in which Fellows had arrogantly turned the briefing into a staff college lecture on tactics, but he kept his feelings hidden. ‘They could be over-extended.’
‘Yes, Hinton, perhaps. I believe their thrust has been a little too fast… deeper and quicker than they anticipated. Normally their divisional depth would not exceed thirty-five Ks… but if it were much greater… perhaps as much as fifty, and with the second echelon lagging or depleted by an air-strike… then the main headquarters might have been moved up. Alternatively…’ Fellows hesitated for effect. ‘They have actually lost their Forward Command HQ; that being the case, Hinton, if I can take out the main HQ, then the 12th Guards Army won’t know its eyeball from its backside for the next twenty-four hours.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Hinton was pleased he was only serving temporarily with Captain Fellows.
‘Your chaps ready to deal with the gentlemen outside?’
‘Quite ready, sir.’
‘Then I think you should make a move.’
Lance Corporal Mark Ellen of the 22nd SAS lay with his face only an inch above the ground. He was twenty-four years old, the son of a Ruardean lorry driver. The smell of rotting beech leaves, damp with night dew, usually reminded him of time spent poaching in the Forest of Dean, in his schooldays; tonight he was too preoccupied for memories. The air was chill after the muggy warmth of the bunker, condensing to glistening beads on the metal hull of the Russian SPG ahead of him. He was watching one of its crew leaning against the sharp bow of the tank. The man was wearing his corrugated leather helmet and had the collar of his overalls buttoned tight to his neck for warmth.