Alpha Squadron? They should be here somewhere. What was their net wavelength? He found it. ‘Alpha Nine, this is Charlie Bravo One.’
‘Alpha Nine… what’s your problem Charlie Bravo One?’
‘We’re coming through you. Battle group orders.’
‘How many tanks?’
‘One.’
‘One? What the hell happened?’
‘TOT.’
‘Poor sods… okay Charlie Bravo One, we’ll keep our eyes open for you.’
There were two dull explosions in the wreckage of the village now to the Chieftain’s right quarter; they were followed by long staccato bursts of GPMG fire just audible above the sound of the engine. DeeJay accelerated again as they reached more open ground.
‘Where they sending us, sir?’ Inkester asked the question with an obvious note of detachment in the query. He was talking for talking’s sake.
‘Back twenty-five kilometers.’
‘Twenty-five? There was sudden interest. ‘R and R, sir?’ Optimism showed in the gunner’s voice.
‘Maybe.’
‘Thank God, sir… Christ, thank God! You hear that DeeJay, we’re going out of the line… back twenty-five kilometers… Yoweeee! Fucking good, eh?’ A pause… ‘Stink… Stink you shit-arse… you hear the WO? We’re going out… buy you a beer, Stink, …buy you a dozen.’ Excitedly to Davis: ‘Sir, whereabouts they sending us?’
‘Orchid, Inkester, and cool it. Do your job, lad, don’t chatter.’
‘Sir?’ Spink’s voice. ‘What about the rest of Charlie?
‘They’ll be pulling back, too…’
‘You couldn’t contact them?’
‘Maybe radio malfunction!’ No point in talking about the losses now; there would be plenty of time later, perhaps too much time.
‘Sir, I’ve got mates in…’
‘Concentrate, Spink, the damned war isn’t over yet!’ God, it certainly wasn’t; he could still hear explosions close behind the Chieftain… it only took one shell to knock out a tank, and they were still in range… one fast troop of Soviet recce PT-76s, and Bravo One could get hers. ‘DeeJay see if you can pick up what’s left of the road… should be on the lower ground to our left.’
He glanced behind; the war was everywhere. The entire horizon to the east glowed, spat flames and fire trails; the night sky was not black, but the colour of blood.
Five times Charlie Bravo One had been stopped at roadblocks or check-points, twice by infantry and three times by MPs of the traffic control organization. And most of the traffic Davis encountered was travelling in the same direction as himself; very little moving towards the battlefront. All he had seen heading eastwards in the past hour were two motorized companies of German anti-tank infantry, and a solitary armoured reconnaissance unit. The villages through which Bravo One had driven were already wrecked, demolished by bombing or long-range missiles. They were still defended by infantry, but seldom by any visible armour. Davis had noticed engineers and their mine-laying equipment, a few supply vehicles, but little else. He had seen greater concentrations of equipment during peacetime exercises. Where the hell was it all now? He hoped it was somewhere hidden in the darkness, waiting. If not, dear God, NATO defences were pathetic.
Bravo One was approaching Braunschweig, the tracks scattering sparks from the surface of the road. Davis was startled by the changed appearance of the city’s outskirts; every building was flattened, blasted. Craters in its surface had been roughly filled with the bricks and concrete of its wrecked houses, and only a narrow track, kept clear by engineers’ bulldozers, allowed the passage of the vehicles.
DeeJay cut the speed. Ahead of Bravo One was a line of transports, heavily loaded Stalwarts forming a slow-moving convoy that, even at night, was such an obvious target their company made Davis nervous. Had he been certain there were other bridges still open, he would have been tempted to continue by another route.
There were no refugees this time, at least he saw none who were alive. Further back, towards the battlefront, there had been many dead at the roadside. Their bodies lay tumbled amongst their possessions, scattered and crushed by the wheels of heavy vehicles, victims of the drifting gas clouds, machine gun bullets of Russian fighter planes strafing the roads to add to the confusion and make the movement of NATO troops and supplies even more difficult.
Bravo One at last reached the bridge, and yet another roadblock. Military police again, and supporting them a platoon of infantrymen in their protective clothing behind a sand-bagged machine gun post. Davis watched the MP sergeant examine the hull of Bravo One with his flashlight; there were no identity marks. The man walked to the rear of the tank and used the infantry telephone. Davis was astonished it still operated.
‘Where the hell do you think you’re going all on your own? Give your identification!’
His temper’s as worn as mine, thought Davis. Sod’s probably been on the go for two days. ‘Charlie Bravo One. Battle Group Quebec. Warrant Officer Davis… you want my fucking number, too?’
‘You’ve no insignia or markings on your hull.’
‘Replacement tank. We’ve worn one bugger out already.’ Davis made his tone of voice friendlier. There was no point in aggravating the man, it would only cause more delay.
‘Where are you from?’
‘If you want the name of the village, I’ve no idea. We’ve been ordered to Orchid, from somewhere west. If you want to know who gave me the order, I can’t help you; I was too busy at the time. Check back to Quebec.’
‘You contaminated?’ It seemed as though the thought had just occurred to the sergeant.
‘Of course we’re bloody contaminated. The whole battlefront is contaminated. We’ve been washed down once, but we had to go back in.’ Forty hours of fatigue and stress had sharpened Davis’s temper. The effort to remain polite was too much.
‘Okay, take it easy, I’m only trying to do my job. We’ve had deserters attempting to get by in vehicles, as well as on foot. Bastards! I wouldn’t waste time with a court-martial!’
Deserters? They hadn’t occurred to Davis before. Now the thought didn’t upset him too much. Perhaps they were the only sane ones. ‘Can we go ahead?’
‘If you wait, we’ll check you out. Sorry, we have to do it.’
It took several minutes while the MP radioed Group HQ.
‘You’re okay, Charlie Bravo One. Your blokes are building up west of the Mittellandkanal and the Ise. Heard about the north, sir?’
Davis shook his head wearily. The north? Christ, there was enough going on around here. The north was a million miles away.
‘The Belgians and Germans are holding the Lübeck suburbs, and the south bank of the Elbe as far as the River Luhe. The Dutch are doing pretty well across the Lüneburger. We don’t know much else though.’
‘Thanks,’ said Davis. ‘We’ll push on then.’
The man’s voice held him. ‘For God’s sake take it easy on the bridge. The structure’s not too good… bombs… had raids most of the day, they keep getting planes through… the rockets are the worst… long-range… you hear them coming after they’ve exploded. There’s a decontamination unit beyond the city, on the 214 just before you reach Watenbüttel. You won’t miss it, nor the route through Braunschweig — it’s the only cleared road. Just follow it. On your way, sir.’
NINETEEN
Davis could smell the decontaminant, antiseptic, drying on Bravo One’s hull as he pushed open the hatch. The fresh air was sharp, chill, inviting, clearing the fumes and the stench of body filth from his nostrils. He stood and directed DeeJay to the camouflage netting bay that was already in position. When DeeJay cut the engine, Bravo One settled as though it were as fatigued as the crew.