‘Tango Four Three Charlie’, their venerable old Leopard 1, had been hit during one of the attempts by the Chinese 14th Tank Regiment to clear the way to Canberra. The round had caused damage not repairable within three days and so it was replaced. Their new ride had seen action in Germany and had itself been damaged at some point before being purchased, or donated, to the Australian Armoured Corps. Whoever had taken the time to respray the interior in bright white fire retardant paint had not swept up. Che had found a small section of fire-charred jaw bone wedged beneath the gunners seat.
The regiment had seen changes, the addition of another squadron and the creation of a second battalion, equipped with all used but good condition Abrams. The regimental commander been killed in an air strike and everyone moved up one. Lt Jenkins went from Troop Commander, to Squadron Adjutant, to Squadron Commander in the space of a fortnight, all thanks to air strikes. HMAAS Albatross and Merimbula had been the bases of operations where all the sorties against the defenders had originated in the ANZAC and Pom sectors.
When they had taken Bega, Pambula Beach and Kalaru the long drive north had begun, leading them past the Fleet Air Arm base. On the first day of the campaign Albatross had been raided by special forces to curtail those air raids, it was back in friendly hands, but driving past it the wrecked Chinese aircraft were still where they had been when destroyed by the SASR.
“Whinging Pom Monkey at One O’clock, boss.” Che informed Gary. A British RMP corporal with filtered torch was indicating they go left. Gary checked the map and saw they were now close to their harbour area where they would ready for the final push to evict the Chinese 3rd Army from Port Kembla, and shove them north into ruined and irradiated Sydney.
From ‘owning’ ten thousand square miles of Australia the Chinese now held an area twenty five miles long and ten miles deep. No one held the ground north of them, no sane person would want to. The US 2nd Marines, 10th Mountain and 5th Mechanised Division had cleared Newcastle and then moved to the north west of Kembla, giving Sydney a wide berth. The Jocks, The Highland Brigade, were to the west and the ANZACS, with their tame Poms on attachment, had locked down the south along with the Guards Division.
It was dark in the harbour area, too dark to carry out maintenance on the vehicle without breaking black-out discipline, so they ate cold rations and slept.
Jim Popham lay pale and wan, attached to tubes and drips. He looked curiously shrunken when Pat entered the ward, his eyes dark hollows. Pat had spent the last couple of hours visiting the wounded from his so he had the whole poker face thing mastered. Visiting Mark Venables had been particularly difficult as the Hussar had been badly burned.
“No grapes?” Jim managed a painful smile at Pat not bearing gifts.
“Sorry, the greengrocer and florists were closing early for Christmas.”
Pat Reed took a seat beside the paratrooper’s bed and looked around the ward. It was pretty full.
The Mercy was a converted supertanker and a pretty impressive vessel. Along with her sister ship, Comfort, they were taking the burden off hospitals on shore.
“What’s their story?” Pat asked, nodding to the bed opposite.
“Soon to be weds, apparently.” Jim said.
Nikki Pelham had her hand gripping that of the patient in the bed opposite, and the two of them seemed oblivious to everyone else around.
“They didn’t think he was going to make it for a day or two.”
“So what is your prognosis then?”
“Apparently the surgeon worked wonders and I can still play the saxophone, which is also slightly miraculous as I couldn’t play one before I got hit.”
An artillery round had hit the Scimitar that Jim had been stood upon.
“So how is it going then Pat, are they going to fold do you think?”
“In a word, no.”
No one knew what was motivating the Chinese politburo, but it certainly did not seem to be common sense.
“General?”
A navy nurse had her professional smile in place and he looked at his watch. It was time to go.
“Take care Jim, I will look in on you again.”
“Don’t forget to duck, Pat.”
A Chinook took the visitors back to shore. Pat looked down at the big white hospital ship, its red crosses emblazoned along the sides and wondered how many new visits he would be making after the next attack.
0400hrs and a ground mist covered the coast to the south of the port of Kembla. The full moon in a cloudless night sky illuminated it, and those preparing for battle viewed it with either wonder or dread.
At Albatross the crews had been roused for the first sorties of the day and Nikki looked at her coffee and decided on water instead. Across the mess hall table her new RIO almost had a permanent startled look about him, and she wondered if he had even started shaving yet.
Her RIO looked at her with trepidation. This was his first operational sortie and the driver was a legend, Commander Nikki Pelham.
Absolutely no pressure at all, hey?
“Er, Ma’am…the flight surgeon was looking for you?”
She had felt pretty dreadful these last few days since the air raid, but with her promotion had come the position of XO, and XOs didn’t wuss out. Maybe someone told the flight surgeon she was out of sorts? Post-traumatic stress disorder after surviving two vaporised carriers and nine months almost constant combat. The only other possibility was the mandatory drink and drugs tests, and she did little of the first and none of the second.
“I’ll catch him later,” she said dismissively “Come on, it is time for the mission briefing.”
He had no idea what today would entail.
“What are we doing, CAP?”
“CAS for the Brits.”
“Is CAS more difficult than CAP?”
“It’s just a walk in the park, Kozanski”
“Johnson Ma’am, my name is Johnson.”
“Yup, that fits.”
Thirty miles north at that same moment in time the most important meal of the day was being eaten cold out of a can of compo and very little time was spent over the washing-up before moving off to the FUPs.
“Company Sarn’t Major Osgood?”
“Sir?”
“You are a tad over-dressed aren’t you?” RSM Tessler stated critically. Oz was cammed up and ready to go, stood beside one of the company headquarters FV-432s and about to seat himself with the FAC.
Oz had been in the thick of it in the very first battle of the war but had been put in the back seat, as it were, for a rest in Germany. He was now equipped more like a buckshee rifleman in one of the sections instead of someone with a job at the back of the fight.