EIGHTEEN
‘They look like dead rats, Jesus, they look like rats!’ Inkester was staring ahead at a heap of Soviet paratroopers’ bodies beside the shattered walls of a derelict barn. The corpses, twisted, torn and bloody, were still dressed in their NBC protective clothing and long brown-muzzled respirators.
Only minutes before the Russian paratroopers had been alive, manning a pair of RPU rocket launchers; the guns of Charlie Bravo Troop’s tanks had opened up on them and Davis had driven the Chieftain into the courtyard of the farm buildings with his machine gun blazing. You could demolish a wall, row by row of bricks, with a 7.62mm. It did terrible things to the human body.
The squadron had pulled back from the river… retired five kilometers in a series of leapfrogs; tank protecting tank, troop protecting troop. Today, thank God, there had been fewer losses so far. Only two tanks gone from the squadron, and Bravo Troop still intact. It was the infantry who were having the hardest time, sweating blood as they fought in their clammy suits, dying from the bullets and shrapnel, or the gas when the, blast of a nearby explosion stripped the protective clothing from their bodies.
Davis had watched them die. First the infantrymen beside the Chieftains at dawn, then their replacements, killed more horrifically by a mortar bomb, screaming, shrieking, with the combination of broken bodies and searing gas droplets in open wounds. It was macabre to Davis that men should end life as they entered it, bloody and reluctant.
How many men had Davis killed this morning? Thirty. No, thirty was yesterday! Yesterday? Today? Not men today… brown-muzzled rats… giant rats… vermin. He would never count victims again.
‘Fuckin’ compo rations! Stodgy steak and kid… glue soup.’
‘If you can eat cold egg banjos, you can bloody eat anything.’
‘What about tea, Stink?’
‘Piss off, Inkester. I ain’t your batman. There’s no time for food.’
‘Don’t you piss off to me, Stink my lad. Get your grubby finger out and mash char.’
‘Bollocks!’
Back six more kilometers; three villages defended until they were blown to ruins around them. Lost, Bravo Three and another five tanks of the squadron. Eight tanks gone… every crewman dead. There was no survival. When they baled out it was too late, the gas had got them through punctured hulls. A brief respite now, there were two villages between Bravo Troop and the Russian armour… and in the villages the other troops of the squadron waited, and with them the infantry with their missiles and mortars. Somewhere, always in the rear, was the battalion’s artillery; their guns red hot, the paint burnt from the barrels. The gunners trying to cool their weapons with buckets of gas-contaminated water, to prevent the charges exploding prematurely in the breeches as they were loaded.
‘’Scuse me, sir. I’ve got to have a shit.’ Inkester wriggled sideways in his seat below Davis’s knees.
‘It’s those bleeding egg banjos…’ DeeJay’s observation was unsympathetic.
‘For Christ’s sake, DeeJay. I’m not doin’ it so’s I can play with myself. It’s fucking urgent. There’s no sign of gas on the suit indicators.’
‘Get it over with,’ suggested Davis. ‘And make it quick. Anyone else want to relieve themselves? We may as well all get it done at the same time.’
‘Don’t miss the bloody bag, Inky. Your bare arse is just above my head. And don’t toss your gash into my driving compartment. Cor, bloody hell, stroll on!’ DeeJay made exaggerated gasping noises.
‘You may as well break out some rations, lad,’ Davis told Spink. He was thirsty, his mouth dry and tasting as though he had spent the whole of the previous night drinking. Night? He looked at his watch. It was 16.00. The second day had almost gone. Another four hours and it would be darkness again. It had been dawn when he had last had a drink. ‘Better make tea, lad.’ When had he eaten last? Sometime during the night! But he didn’t feel hungry. Had he slept at all? An hour at the reforming area.
‘I could do with a ciggy,’ Inkester had shrugged his overalls back on to his shoulders, stowed away his waste bag and settled himself into his seat again.
‘Forget it.’
‘These seats give you piles, sir… well, a sore arse. What’s happening, sir?’
Davis ignored him. ‘What ammunition have we got left, Spink?’
‘Eight rounds, sir.’
‘Eight!’
‘Yes, sir. Plus what we’ve got in the driving compartment.’
‘DeeJay, help Spink with the ammunition. Pass it back to him.’
‘There isn’t any down here, just a lot of old rag in the lockers.’
‘Jesus Christ! Inkester, you’re supposed to have checked the ammunition.’ Inkester didn’t answer. ‘You should use your mouth less, boyo, and your brains more.’ There was no point in making a bigger issue of the matter, as commander it was basically Davis’s responsibility. In future, he would check everything himself. How the hell could they defend the village properly with only eight shells? He called up the other two tanks of Charlie Bravo Troop. Fourteen shells in Bravo Two, eighteen in Bravo Four. He reported to the squadron leader.
‘We’re all in the same boat, Charlie Bravo One. I requested more from Group two hours ago. God know’s where they’ve got to.’
Somewhere ahead of the squadron was the city of Braunschweig. Warrant Officer Morgan Davis guessed it must lie beneath the rose-tinted pall of smoke on the western horizon and having witnessed the destruction of the small towns and villages through which he had fought in the past twenty-four hours, he had no difficulty in imagining the devastation. Braunschweig was a sacrificial victim, a city whose death had been planned long before the outbreak of the war; a lynch-pin. Situated at a point where the Mittellandkanal and several tributaries met the winding river Schunter, it was a crucial pivot to swing the Soviet advance towards the north and into the river-latticed plain east of Hannover. Those parts of Braunschweig that had remained undamaged by the bombs, long-range shells and missiles of the Russians, would by now have been systematically demolished by the NATO engineers. For the second time in its recent history, its centre, the smart shops, offices, cinemas, theatres and restaurants would be only smoking rubble. Its suburbs of neat and orderly houses had become armour-snarling traps, blocked streets and mined parks; a lethal maze.
To the north of Braunschweig, and on the right of the squadron’s tanks, was the low range of hills, some forested and now sown with many thousands of bar and anti-personnel mines. Almost impenetrable to heavy tracked vehicles, it was the kind of ground that could only fall to slow, tedious and costly infantry assault; every hill-top and ridge defended and contested. An invader’s nightmare.
Davis had learnt you could defend every river, canal, pass, village and town, but no matter how well your men fought, sheer weight of numbers always beat you in the end and made the terrible loss of life mean nothing.
Too many times, it seemed like a million in the past forty hours, he had wanted more military strength around him. Too few tanks attempting to defend so much ground. Never enough of them to give security in depth. Soft defence was sound thinking, but it seemed to Davis to be based on an original weakness — lack of equipment. Make the most of what you have. Eight tanks the squadron had lost today and they hadn’t stopped the invaders, only slowed them down. And now, they were out of ammunition and pulling back again… back, always backwards. Always more frustration. So bloody unnecessary; wasteful.
How many kilometers abandoned today? Fifteen at least. And yesterday? And how many tomorrow? Fighting for what? Fighting for time. Time for reinforcements to arrive? For politicians to talk and negotiate? And negotiate what? The surrender of Germany to the Warsaw Pact countries? The promise to disarm and behave like good little boys?