Wilf, deliberately avoiding the temptation to switch his attention to the stricken Harrier, kept his eyes on the pilot and watched as the pilot’s parachute canopy dropped lower and lower until it disappeared from sight. He tracked the last visible position as best he could, mentally calculating on his internal map where he was likely to have come down. The two Jaguar attack aircraft were causing mayhem amongst the Soviet convoy, tens of rockets exploding amongst the armour and trucks. Wilf swung the binoculars round, looking to the south-east, picking out the orange and yellow flashes of the strike followed by plumes of smoke, the sound bombarding his ears seconds later.
“That’ll teach the fuckers,” growled Badger.
“Did you get his bearing?”
“Yes, about three-twenty, north-west.”
He turned to Badger. “Come on then. Let’s go.”
Wilf led the way, picking up Hacker and Tag on the way.
“Going for the pilot?” asked Tag.
“Yes, but we need to move sharpish.”
“Yeah, while they’re a little occupied,” added Tag with a laugh.
“Hacker, point,” instructed Wilf.
Hacker readjusted his M-16, the barrel mimicking the direction of his eyes as he scanned their route ahead. He took them back into the trees of the forest that straddled the E30, and headed north-west. They were at the south-eastern end of a smaller forest that jutted out to the east, a limb of the much larger one, pointing in the direction of the village of Aligse. Their hide was a mere two kilometres north from their current position.
Hacker forced the pace, knowing they needed to get to the pilot quickly. Although the two Jaguars would be ensuring the enemy kept their heads down and focused on surviving the onslaught, others may be tracking the progress of the pilot’s chute and following him down. At this very minute, they could be homing in on possible landing sites. Anyway, the Jaguars wouldn’t hang around too long.
Hacker weaved through the trees, Badger following behind, then Tag, with Wilf as tail-end-charlie. Wilf would have preferred the patrol to be moving more slowly, but he knew they would have to sacrifice some caution for speed. Options and outcomes swam around his head. They were in an ideal location for monitoring enemy troop movements. The E45, to their west, ran north to south. South of them was the E30 running east to west, where the Jaguars were still causing havoc. The aircraft wouldn’t stay in the area for much longer, thought Wilf. More and more surface-to-air-missiles would be tracking the RAF strike aircraft, and Soviet fighters wouldn’t be too far away. To their north, running south-west to the north-east, was a further autobahn, Route 3. He didn’t want to leave the RAF pilot to the mercy of the Soviet army, but with troops potentially moving in on the area, they were at risk of being compromised. And if the Soviets brought in dogs to track down the enemy pilot, they could well come across their Mexe-hide. Although deep and well hidden, they had learnt from trials, and experience, that dogs had the knack of finding the most perfectly disguised hide. If not the hide, they would pick up on the CPU’s trail at and round about their base. The thought of their primary mission being aborted and potentially the team ending up on the run was not a promising prospect. After about a kilometre, they arrived at the northern edge of the forest, and Hacker waved them down. Tag and Badger kept watch to their rear and flanks whilst Wilf made his way to the front.
“Clear?”
“Yeah. I suggest we go left, keep in the forest, cut across the k122, then north along that hedgeline, that will take us across to the opposite edge.” Hacker pointed ahead of him.
“Going even further west, staying in the forest, then hanging north, but keeping inside the trees would be better,” Wilf countered, scanning the fields to their north-west and north-east, looking for a sign of the enemy, and at the same time looking for the moving pilot, or the flutter of a parachute.
“I know, Wilf, but we haven’t got the bloody time. That pilot is going to be up and away pretty quickly once he’s got his bearings.”
“You’re right as usual, Hacker.” Wilf grinned, slapping his friend on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”
Hacker adjusted his webbing belt; the twenty magazines of 5.56mm ammunition for his M-16 were quite a weight, along with a Claymore mine, grenades, two small packs of plastic explosive, not forgetting food and water. He marched at a pace along the edge of the tree line, completing a recce of the minor road before leading them across it. Once he was satisfied they were opposite the hedgerow, he beckoned the patrol forward and slipped out of the forest, leading the way. Looking left, across the open ground, scanning for any enemy soldiers, he kept close to the thick hedgerow that separated the two fields it crossed. Tag stepped out after him followed by Badger with Wilf following on. Hacker led them at a brisk pace, conscious that all the time they were out here in the open, in broad daylight, they were at risk of discovery by the enemy who were swarming all around this area in preparation for continuing their drive west. The hedgeline ran north for about 400 metres before switching to the north-east, where they crossed over the Bruchgraben, an irrigation canal. A convenient log, probably left by a farmer, acted as a bridge enabling them to cross it and remain dry. Another 500 metres found them back under the cover of trees, to the relief of all four of the SAS troopers.
They lay down in the inner edge of the tree line, each facing outwards towards one of the cardinals, their boots touching. Just waiting, watching and listening, ensuring they weren’t being followed by an unseen force.
“Any suggestions?” asked Wilf, inviting a Chinese Parliament.
“This is fucking mad, Wilfy. We need to do a bunk now. We couldn’t help him even if we can find him in this bloody lot.”
“What do the rest of you think?”
“Badger has a point, but we have to at least try.”
“I agree with Tag,” added Hacker.
“You’re outvoted, Badger,” Wilf informed him.
“Wankers, the lot of you,” Badger grumbled. “But, if we’re going to do it, let’s fucking well get on with it.”
“We split into pairs,” ordered Wilf. “I’ll take Grumpy.”
“Don’t you start,” responded Badger, but with his face cracking into a gentle smile. Deep down, he didn’t really believe in his suggestion: leaving a British pilot to fend for himself.
Wilf got up, followed by the others. “There’s quite a gap between trees, so we go at fifty metres apart. We follow a bearing of three-twenty, but as soon as we get near Route 3, we back off and call it a day. If we’re bumped, RV-one is the eastern edge of the lake, south of Alte Schanze. You all know it. RV-two, southern edge of the smaller lake north-east of Unter-den-Linden. Clear?”
They all acknowledged.
“Let’s go.”
The patrol split up, moving until the pairs were about fifty metres apart. Then, heading on the bearing agreed, they started to make their way through the trees. Within their pairs, they drifted a further ten metres apart from each other, maintaining visual contact at all times, scanning for the enemy, searching for the downed pilot. The diagonal distance of the forest was about four kilometres. It would take them at least an hour to do a reasonable search on their current heading. The sound of two helicopters tearing past, over their heads, caused them to hit the deck, but the sound of the rotor blades soon disappeared as the aircraft headed south. There was no sound of the helicopters stopping or turning back, so they continued their quest to find the downed RAF pilot.
Wilf saw Tag signalling to get their attention, indicating they should join him. They had been searching for nearly thirty minutes, and even Wilf was beginning to doubt the sense of their decision. He hissed to Badger, and the two SAS troopers made their way to where Tag and Hacker were staring up into the trees.