Six helicopters were hit, one of them twice, and they fell among the litter of flares and chaff they’d spawned. They filled the sky above the valley with tumbling burning wreckage.
A big-bodied troop carrier side slipped through a series of jarring manoeuvres and pancaked into the centre of a field, bouncing viciously hard in an impact that drove its landing gear up through the fuselage and wrenched off the complete tail assembly.
Masses of flashing tracer from the distant Vulcan multi-barrelled cannon curled from the farm and enveloped the wreck in an inescapable wall of steel. It erupted in flame.
For the surviving machines that was too much, and they turned in every direction to take the shortest route away from the valley. For one it was a fatal mistake.
Keeping his finger down hard, Burke sent a full three hundred rounds across the side of the gunship’s cockpit and cabin. Pieces of canopy flew off in a sparkling shower and the craft appeared to stop dead. His second burst passed low, glancing off the Hind’s belly armour , but it wasn’t needed anyway.
Rearing up, the helicopter virtually stood on its tail before stalling and tumbling into a seesawing motion that sent it smacking into the side of a hill.
The sound of cheering made Revell look around, and he saw all his and Voke’s men yelling and dancing with glee and abandon. They’d got what they’d been waiting for, the chance to hit back hard, and they were celebrating.
‘Sergeant Hyde.’ Revell knew the rejoicing would have to be short-lived. ‘I want five Stinger teams left up here under the best cover we’ve got. Everyone else down below.’ With a last quick satisfied glance at the pyres decorating the valley and surrounding slopes.
Revell made his way to the strongly sandbagged position on the ground floor shielding the MG ranged on the track.
He squeezed in between the walls of gritty jute and then almost fell as his foot slipped in a broad pool of congealing blood. By a terrible freak of chance, while the men above, virtually unprotected, had escaped the slightest injury this time, a single cannon shell had entered the small aperture left for the protruding machine-gun barrel and decapitated its gunner.
Unlocking the bloody fingers still clenched about the Browning, the major rolled the headless trunk aside. Ignoring the mess in which he knelt he gave the barrel a succession of taps to bring it to bear on the right coordinates and fired. He kept firing until there were only three rounds left in the belt, and stopped then only because a round jammed.
Calmly, methodically, he cleared the blockage, fired the last two AP rounds, then threaded in another belt and blasted that also into the rolling smoke. Hands tingling from the vibration, he attached a third belt, but didn’t fire.
Beside him the headless corpse broke wind and added that stench to the wreathing wisps of cordite. From a corner, in an untidy pile of empty ammunition boxes, a face looked at him, its glassy-eyed stare appearing locked in an expression of conflicting determination and surprise.
Overhead impacted the first of the restarted Soviet artillery fire. It seemed somehow remote, unreal. Revell ducked from the strongpoint, and after arranging a replacement for the dead man, headed for the cellars.
It was cool, almost cold, underground, but the tainted smoke from the burning transports had penetrated even to here, making his eyes water.
Wiping the tears away left clean stripes among the dirt coating the back of his hand. What looked like an old hobo leaned against a cellar door, and it was a moment before he recognized Old William.
The elderly Dutch pioneer looked as if he had dressed in the dark, making his selection of clothing from rummaging about at the bottom of a ragbag. His face and hands were deeply wrinkled, made more obviously so by the dirt that engrained them.
Revell wondered if even the lieutenant’s upper estimate as to his age was near correct, but the man’s grip on his over-oiled Colt Commando was firm enough and he passed him without comment, amused to receive a nod of recognition.
In a small alcove off the partially collapsed main hall, Scully had established an improvised cookhouse, on a small scale. Behind a thick blackout curtain made of tapestry he had set up two petrol stoves. A strong smell of coffee blended with the less recognizable aroma from a large pan of bubbling, glutinous soup.
Peering into the slowly churning brown sludge, Carrington took a deep breath and tried to guess its contents. He failed, but thought he detected a whiff of beef. ‘I give up. What’s in it?’
Gesturing to a pile of empty ration boxes, Scully went on stirring the mixture, using both hands to keep the bayonet he used moving. ‘Everything except the Mars Bars. Don’t worry, it’s hot and there’ll be plenty of it and it won’t send you all tearing off for a shit at the same time.’
An oatmeal block floated to the surface and he made several stabs at it, before it was churned back into the depths.
Not entirely convinced, Carrington took a taste from the ladle. It was unusual, but not unpalatable. ‘I’ve had worse.’
‘One more word and you won’t be getting any. Now sod off and let me get on with my work.’ Scully leaned across to look at the pan of coffee, considered for a moment, then added another half handful of powder. For good measure he added a bag of sugar.
A powerful explosion dropped a sprinkle of dust on the top of the soup. He went to skim it off with the ladle, then changed his mind and stirred it in.
Having improvised a crutch, Ripper was organizing the teams keeping the weapons supplied with ammunition, of the correct type at the right time.
Surprised at the Southerner’s unexpected show of organizational ability, Revell saw no reason to interfere in what seemed to be a smoothly running operation.
‘Just like when I was a boy.’ Ripper hopped about, talking loud and slow to his men, or waving his arms when that method of communication failed. ‘I used to work of an evening at our local supermarket, filling the shelves.’ He hobbled aside, bumping into the major as he dodged out of the way of a party carrying mortar bombs. ‘Got so good at it I could anticipate what was needed before it ran out. This is much the same, only I’m using my ears to figure what’ll be wanted next, instead of keeping my eyes on a passel of old girls bumbling about the cookie section.’
Sampson had matters under control at the aid post as well, but was fretting over the condition of one of the girls, and a man with a gaping chest wound.
‘I can’t do any more, Major, except to keep them comfortable as best I can.’ Rinsing his hands, he wafted them dry. ‘She needs surgery that’s way out of my league, even if I had the setup and instruments to try.’
‘And him?’ Revell indicated the chest-wound case.
‘Beyond any help, I reckon. Whatever it was that opened him up, it didn’t penetrate, just cracked a couple of ribs pretty cleanly. Certainly don’t seem to be any fragments floating about. Must have been the blast, damaged his lungs.’
Gasping hard for breath, the man was beyond registering anything that was going on about him. The little blonde knelt beside him, constantly wiping away the blood that trickled from the corner of his mouth. Restlessly he tossed his head from side to side, frequently knocked her hand and daubed blood on his cheek. Each time she patiently cleaned him and began again.
‘Is that the girl Burke’s gone all broody over?’
‘That’s her; name’s Karen Hirsh. My German’s not so good, and she doesn’t have a lot of English, but I gather she was some sort of a nurse, or was training to be.’
‘I’m surprised at Burke’s good taste.’
As they watched, a change came over the man she tended. For a brief moment, through his pain, comprehension returned, and it showed in his face.
With fingers crusted with dried blood he reached for his attendant’s face. For an instant he looked puzzled, then he smiled. Perhaps he saw instead a wife or daughter or mother, but even as the smile formed he gave a long sighing exhalation and his arm fell back.