“Don’t they ever rest?”
The question was rhetorical. Major Lewis didn’t answer.
“What have we got left still to pull back?”
“Just one recce troop and the remnants of a combat team, a couple of Chieftains and three 432s by all accounts. Oh, and some engineers. They’ve been laying a few last minute surprises. They’re about two klicks away in Barfelde and Gut Dotzum. They won’t be there for long.”
“What are their latest reports?”
“Lots of movement. Heavy concentrations of enemy formations in the Hildesheim forest. Our latest air recce showed troop concentrations around Sibesse, Westfeld, Diekholzen, anywhere they can find space. There’s just so damned many of them.”
“Did Four-Div make a dent?”
“Oh, they’ve hurt the enemy all right, but certainly not enough to stop them.”
Alex reflected on the battered units returning from the east. Ambulances had been crossing throughout the day, the wounded being rushed to the rear where they could get better treatment. Not all of the Chieftains had returned; dozens must have been left behind: some completely destroyed, along with their crews; others couldn’t be recovered as they were under the guns of the enemy. Some had been hauled back on tank-transporters in the vain hope that they could be reconstituted and brought back into the fight. That was not all that had passed through the village and across the bridge. Thousands of refugees had thronged the bridge, shuffling by with fearful faces, many carrying or supporting older or infirm friends or members of their family. They had good reason to be scared: the reputation of the Soviet soldier at the end of the Second World War had been passed down by the previous generation. There was a feeling that the Soviet Union wanted its revenge on the West German population, thinking that they had not been punished enough. Let off lightly by the soft Western capitalist countries. Some of the refugees were lucky, having cars or lorries to travel in, many with their entire worldly goods piled so high that the load was in danger of toppling. Their speed though was no faster than the walking pace of the hundreds that walked alongside or around the mechanical means of transport. The army had allowed them to cross until midday, when a local West German unit was tasked with diverting them to a bridge further south. A military bridge had been placed there deliberately to pull the refugees away from Gronau, to allow the retreating British a free passage across the river to relative safety.
Lance Corporal William Graham slithered into the foxhole, watching he didn’t catch his helmet on the overhead cover. The Milan team of two men had improved their position over the last twenty-four hours, knowing that, when the enemy came, they would need every scrap of cover they could find as their fighting position would be the only barrier between a potential major injury or even death. A bunker would have been better, but the prefabricated, curved interlocking sections had given the hole some shape, some stability enabling the soldiers to make a relatively safe defensive position. It was deep enough to serve their purpose, the upper edge just below the tops of their shoulders, and wide enough so they could lean back against the opposite wall. They had a good view out of the front, and had quick and easy access to the Milan firing post. The top cover consisted of pieces of a broken pallet, layered with earth and some turf on top to help hide their position. Graham’s feet touched solid ground, and he avoided spilling any of the hot liquid from the still steaming mug of tea he had brought to share with the Milan crew.
“Cheers, Will, you’re playing a blinder there.”
Alan Berry grabbed the black plastic mug, savoured the smell of the hot sweet brew, and took a sip before passing it to his oppo, Rifleman Michael Finch, on the other side of the Milan.
“Here you go, buddy, the Corp’s spoiling us at last.”
“Fuck off, Al, you have the life of Riley.”
“Of course I do. Look at this lovely five-star accommodation for a kick-off.”
The three soldiers laughed quietly.
Corporal Graham rested his elbows on the front edge of the trench and peered into the gloom, although he could now see the landscape slowly taking shape, but still without colour.
Berry propped his elbows alongside. “They’re going to come today, aren’t they?”
“That’s what we’ve been told, mate. I see no reason not to believe them”
The mug was passed back over, and they both took it in turns to take a swig of the now half-full mug before passing it back.
“Take as much as you want, Mike, don’t worry about us,” whispered Berry.
The two continued their conversation.
“You’ve seen some of the units pulling back?” asked Graham.
“Yeah, some of them were in shit state.”
“They’ve taken a bit of a hammering, that’s for sure.”
“Our turn next.”
There was a pause as the rapidly emptying mug did the rounds again.
“You scared, buddy?”
“Yeah, bricking it,” Graham confided.
“Why have they left us alone so far?”
“Dunno, but they’ve been knocking ten bells of shit out of the guys back there,” said Graham, pointing back over his shoulder.
“Probably to wake the fucking REMFs up,” hissed Finch.
This brought another gentle laugh.
“Nah, although they deserve it,” continued Graham. “They’re just hammering our supply lines and reserves. Making sure they aren’t getting through to us.”
They had listened to the whine of large calibre shells flying high overhead as the Soviet artillery pounded 1st British Corps’ rear area. There had been many false alarms as Soviet fast ground-attack aircraft had shot past, but again their targets were NATO forces to the rear; disrupt supplies and reinforcements getting to the front, interdicting the men and equipment badly needed to shore up the defence line being assembled to hold back the Warsaw Pact juggernaut. A huge cheer had gone up when a Tracked Rapier, from across the River Leine, had launched a missile that had torn one of the intruders out of the skies above. The pilot, not having a chance to eject from his stricken plane, went down with his aircraft which exploded in a ball of flame somewhere behind Bravo-Troop’s position. The soldiers watching cheered, but for some reason their hearts weren’t in it. Many had served in Northern Ireland, sniped at by the IRA, losing close friends from a burst of M-60 fire or a sniper’s bullet fired from an antiquated Lee-Enfield. But this was on a different scale. Ambulance vehicles had been crossing the bridge throughout the day. Soon it would be their turn.
“But some are getting through to us, aren’t they?” asked Berry, seeking some reassurance from his NCO.
“Yeah, yeah, of course they are. Where do you think this NAAFI tea comes from?” he suggested, holding up his mug that had made its way back into his hand, but was now empty. Hot, sweet tea was pretty much the only luxury they regularly had, although the occasional hot meal was a welcome relief. Graham peered at the luminous dial of his watch, a gift from his girlfriend, Sarah, given to him on the day he was promoted to Lance Corporal, the first step on a very long ladder. It was a proud day for him, and his family. Now he was second in command of a ten-man infantry section.
It was 0330; they had been on stand-to since three, higher command convinced that an attack would come today. A full scale assault or just a probe? No one really knew. He heard a rustle off to the left, his SLR rifle swinging round in the direction of the noise. The figure of a British soldier loomed out of the gloom, and Corporal David Carter, the section commander, crouched down at the rear of the Milan firing position.