He was completely ignored by Hyde and Revell as they compared the view from the cupola with their map. Carpet bombing of the far bank had breached it, allowing the river to flood beyond its normal confines and increase its width by spreading into the neglected fields.
‘Most of the landmarks have gone, and the rest of the landscape has been so knocked about it’s hardly recognisable.’ The sergeant snatched another look through a periscope, then studied the view on Burke’s screen.
‘Take your time. I’d rather you were sure.’ The pencil Revell was holding tapped a random Morse code on a corner of the map board.
Although the words didn’t say it, Hyde sensed the impatience underlying them. He climbed up for another look. There was something, about a thousand yards off, the ruins of a building. It was in the correct place, but the outline wasn’t how he remembered it. If it was the old processing plant then the roof and both silos and chimneys were missing. Other components of his field of vision looked vaguely familiar. A pile of rubble where a large house had been, leaning stumps where a copse of tall oaks had stood. Damn those bombers. Sod it, it felt right, it must be…
‘Yes, this is about it. We’re closer than I thought, but our detour accounts for that. We’ll cross here, and then it’s only a couple of miles to a place where we can leave the Cow in safety while we find the workshops. That’s if the Airforce have stuck to the rules and not bombed closer to the camp than they’re supposed to.’
Cautiously Burke eased the machine forward until it overhung the six-foot drop to the sluggishly flowing water. A shouted warning, and then he nudged it a fraction further and the skimmer swung down. A curtain of spray rose up as the leading edge of the skirt and hull dipped into the Aller, and air being thrust out by the turbofans fought to keep the craft on an even keel. There was another towering cascade as the rear of the hovercraft pancaked down and stabilised the machine.
Spray clouds surrounded and followed them across the river and again in the swamp-like fields beyond.
‘How is he?’ Collins leant across to where Rinehart was trying to re-secure the bulky dressing that ineffectually bound Nelson’s gaping wound. ‘Pretty bad. Can’t see him hanging on long unless we can get him fixed up proper, real soon.’
The bandage slipped, and as it fell from the wound it was followed by a gush of blood that brought with it shards of bone and blobs of spongy white matter. ‘Here, hold this.’ Rinehart pushed the sterile dressing back in place and while Collins held it with eyes averted, bound it to the wounded soldier’s head with many intricate windings of crepe. ‘He’s gonna wake up again soon, and when he does he’s gonna make an awful noise.’
‘What we could do with is a nice big-boned nurse, all starch and black stockings, with a juicy fat arse and nutcracker thighs.’ Dooley made crude appreciative noises by smacking his lips together.
‘Don’t forget the tits.’ Having overheard, Burke joined in. ‘Don’t forget the tits.’
‘Never do. That’s why I like bending them over and taking them from behind. That way you get plenty of good handfuls as well. You can’t do it from the front, least I can’t, they always tell me to use me elbows ‘cause I’m too heavy.’ The big man grinned at Collins. ‘How about you, kid, how do you like them? Had any tasty schoolgirls lately? Or aren’t you old enough for them yet?’
‘Shut up, you poisonous lout.’
In the noise of the compartment Clarence’s words weren’t clear and it was a few seconds before their meaning sunk in and wiped the leer off Dooley’s face. A ham-sized fist rocketed towards the sniper.
Clarence didn’t move until the last possible instant before the huge paw would have struck him, then he half-turned in his seat as the dirty knuckles swept past his chin with only a fraction of an inch to spare, and brought up his rifle from between his knees, driving the tip of the barrel into Dooley’s forearm. It sank past the sight into the thick flesh.
Dooley bellowed as the pain made his fist spring open. He held his arm and examined the livid bruise that was fast spreading on it. ‘What sort of fucking trick is that?’ There was an agonising sensation of intense pins-and-needles in the limb, and he couldn’t move his fingers. ‘Feels like you’ve fucking broken it.’
‘It isn’t, you’ll recover.’ Taking a clean, neatly folded tissue from his breast pocket, Clarence wiped and scrubbed his rifle. He kept on long after any trace of the big man’s sweat had been removed by the short, brusque actions. ‘Neat, very neat. You’ve got good reflexes there, man.’ Rinehart had watched with amazement and admiration.
Though he waited for some acknowledgement of the compliment, none was forthcoming. ‘You’ll have to forgive old Dooley here. He’s really a no-holds-barred man, he don’t usually go in for such refinements as punching.’
‘He’ll find out.’ Flexing his hand as a degree of feeling returned to it, Dooley didn’t look up as he spoke.
‘Save it for the Commies.’ Revell had been about to intervene when Dooley made his move, but he’d seen the look in the Britisher’s pale unblinking eyes and instinctively known that he didn’t have to. If the big man had been more observant, he too might have held off and saved himself a deal of pain. But maybe not – Dooley was the sort who always had to learn lessons the hard way.
Hyde hadn’t even bothered to watch what was going on, let alone get involved. ‘You don’t bother much about your men, Sergeant.’
‘I don’t have to, Major. They get in and out of trouble quite well enough on their own. If it’s minor stuff, I let them get on with it.’
Revell was finding it difficult to fathom the British squad. They were an unlikely mixture. A lonely kid, a near psychotic sniper, a brilliant combat driver who could tire himself just by breathing, an efficient turret gunner who was frighteningly normal by comparison and a horrifically mutilated sergeant whose principal control over his men was his total confidence in them, and their trust in him.
Combined with the individuals Revell still had left out of his command, it was a weird assortment of types and talents, but maybe just because of that it had the makings of one hell of a good team, so long as it could learn to work like one.
‘Just two miles from the refugee camp now, Major.’ The sky was beginning to lighten, and Hyde couldn’t decide which was best, normal optics or the various imaging systems available to him. ‘The Russians have a dawn-to-dusk curfew on the place, so that still gives us twenty minutes before the first of the mobs will be leaving the shelters on foraging trips. Then they swarm all over the area, scavenging for anything they can find.’
‘Where’s this place we can hide up? It’ll have to be good.’
‘Isn’t it just.’ Burke’s words lacked enthusiasm. ‘You just drive.’
‘Sod it, Sarge, isn’t there anywhere else?’
‘No, it’s dead ahead now. Take us in very slow and don’t put us down till I tell you.’
Burke brought the skimmer’s speed down to a crawl. ‘You’ve got to be fucking joking. Did you think I would?’
The Iron Cow began to climb a gentle slope towards the dense dark wall of trees at the perimeter of an area of woodland. Very carefully, Burke piloted* the hovercraft between two well-weathered stakes. Barbed wire grated beneath the belly of the machine and then the noise was gone and the tangled mass of undergrowth engulfed them.
Several times, despite the intense care he took, their driver couldn’t prevent the skimmer from nudging trees it had to squeeze past. Angular dark shapes, tantalisingly indistinct, were glimpsed at the edge of the screen as they drove in deeper. Sergeant Hyde stood behind the driver’s seat, scrutinising every inch of the woods and signalling slight corrections of course by tapping Burke’s left or right shoulder.