The ammunition should have been up where it was needed, but it wasn’t. The gas had made things difficult for everyone. Good God, it wasn’t as though it was a possibility that had been ignored. Gas attacks had been expected; practised.
The wooded hills were already in shadows as the sun dropped behind their peaks. They looked peaceful enough, if you ignored the smoke over the horizon or didn’t look back towards the battlefront barely a kilometer away. Just a month previously the hills and woods had been filled with campers, hikers, and the evening bars of the towns and villages had been noisy and happy places. It was all another ‘world; history.
He saw the decontamination unit sited beneath the trees and followed the squadron leader’s Chieftain across the open ground towards it. The operators in their NBC clothing fired turbine powered blasts of liquid decontaminant over the tanks as they drove by. Fifty meters on they were stopped, while a final cleansing took place with hand-held sprays.
Less than a kilometer along a firebreak the squadron leader brought the squadron to a halt beside a line of fuel bowsers. Davis could see ammunition being unloaded from a trio of Heer Transportpanzers a little way ahead. Everything was taking too much time. The squadron had been lucky not to have been attacked while moving in the open, but they were even more vulnerable now.
He jerked open the front of his NBC suit and pulled the front of his sweater away from his chest. The air felt cool, refreshing. His sweater and vest were soaked with perspiration and he could smell his own sweat, stale and sour, mingling with the rubberized scent of the protective clothing. He would have liked to climb outside and stretch his legs in the open, try to get his bowels working; at the moment his intestines were cramped and made him feel as though he had gorged himself. But the crews had been ordered to remain inside their tanks as they queued for fuel and ammunition. The decontamination of the vehicles had been hasty, and it only needed a few drops of nerve gas liquid on a man’s skin to incapacitate him, perhaps kill. All the tanks carried injection kits, but whether or not these would be of any real use in counteracting the effects of the unknown Soviet gas was debatable.
Davis wondered what was being planned for the squadron. Knowing the captain would contact HQ, he tuned to the battle group net and felt guilty as he eavesdropped.
‘Valda?’ Davis recognized his squadron leader’s first name, but not the voice using it. ‘Where are you? The voice was languid, as though its owner had just climbed from his sleeping bag. Some bloody officers, thought Davis. They spoke so far back it was a miracle they didn’t swallow their tongues.
‘Postmark.’ It was the squadron leader.
‘Good fellow. Casualties?
A stupid bloody question, Davis cursed the man mentally. ‘Eight… I’ve reported each as it happened,’ said the squadron leader, and Davis was pleased to note an edge to the captain’s voice that matched his own feelings.
‘Just started my stag, haven’t caught up. Any problems?’
Christ! Any problems? What the hell was facing a Soviet army if it wasn’t a problem. Davis could feel his irritation swelling towards anger, but resisted an overwhelming urge to interrupt the conversation and give the officer a piece of his mind.
‘Of course we’ve got problems… God Almighty!’ Good for you, sir, thought Davis as Captain Willis allowed his irritation to show. ‘I called for ammunition two hours ago… where the hell was it? We’ve had to fall back to a depot. Falcon’s squadron moved in from the flank.’
‘I’m sorry.’ The officer’s voice was more subdued.
‘How much gas is there about?’ Willis asked curtly.
‘It’s being used along the entire front as far as we can tell. Wherever the Russians are being held they’re using chemicals. There have been chemical attacks on most of the airfields they can reach, and any supply concentrations.’
‘What about the civilians?’
‘What about them? Gas? We don’t know.’
‘Bastards!’
‘I’m a bit out of date.’ Like a hundred years, you berk, thought Davis. ‘I’d say, nasty. Not going too well in the north… that’s all I know.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
‘We want you at Capricorn, soonest.’
‘Thirty minutes.’
‘Roger, Valda. Good luck.’
Capricorn. Davis switched back to the squadron net, then checked his code and maps. Capricorn, one kilometer north of Gardessen. Another step towards the Channel. It was always backwards, and it always felt as though it was Davis himself who was being forced into the corner.
The mortar bombs were coming over at precise intervals, a pair every ten seconds on to the squadron position, exploding simultaneously, but sometimes just sufficiently separated for the double concussion to be noticeable. Whatever types of mortars were being used they were damned big, sending a shockwave through the ground which moved the Chieftain on her suspension and made the hull vibrate. Davis didn’t know enough about Soviet equipment to be able to identify them, but thought they must be at least 160mm, perhaps even the giant 240s. The regularity of their arrival was nerve-wracking.
The troop’s position was below the western ridge of a low hill, little more than a gentle rise in the ground. Three thousand meters to the front and right was a village, and to the troop’s left, another. It had been night for almost an hour, but the steady mortar bombardment had been taking place since dusk. The village ahead was burning, bright flames colouring the smoke, sparks swirling upwards into the sky. But although it was night there was no real darkness. Parachute flares, fired at intervals almost as precise as those of the mortars, were swinging down above the battleground bringing colourless daylight.
In the ruins of the village ahead the infantry were fighting. Several times Davis had seen the trails of missiles hurtling from the rubble; and occasionally he heard the sounds of 120mm guns which he could recognize as those of one of the other reformed troops, Alpha. He didn’t know who was throwing up the flares. It was impossible to judge from this distance, they were drifting northwest along the length of the battlefront, and they seemed to offer little advantage to either side. Someone, somewhere, must have thought they were being helpful. It was like watching an old black and white film — All Quiet on the Western Front. Christ, there was nothing quiet about this battlefield!
Inkester was humourlessly acknowledging the arrival of each pair of mortar bombs, his voice flat with fatigue. ‘Miss… miss… miss…’ A monotonous monosyllabic chant.
‘Charlie Bravo One this is Charlie Alpha… standby. We’re pulling back.’
Davis acknowledged, and passed on the information to his remaining two tank commanders. He could not put names or faces to their voices yet, but their radio techniques were already familiar. He kept his eyes on the outline of the village. With the magnification of his light-intensifying lenses, he could see movement; the occasional dodging infantrymen scurrying between the piled rubble, silhouetted, stooped, bent almost double. A dark hull, recognizable as a Chieftain, passed in front of a blazing building, looking like an identification cut-out at a training lecture. He knew how its crew would be feeling; they had survived for a little while longer. If they could retire now behind Bravo Troop, then they would have another small respite… perhaps the opportunity to catch a few minutes’ deep… a hot drink. And like Bravo One, the interior of their vehicle would be stinking, fetid. You pissed or shat in bags, if it were possible. Sometimes it wasn’t, and you held on as long as you could. Eventually, in some unexpected moment of stress, you let it go. That kind of stress never presented itself in training, so if you lacked battle experience you were always unprepared. Davis’s NBC suit was still dry inside, but the fighting compartment of the Chieftain stank, and it probably wasn’t all the responsibility of the new loader, Spink.