Along the canal to the south lay three other bridges but all quite narrow, a footbridge and two side by side single lane structures which had once upon a time carried rail tracks serving a small barge port, south of the autobahn bridge. 15 Platoon were guarding these along with another section of sappers from 25 Engineer Regiment, whilst D Company headquarters had contrived, as company headquarters are want to do, to set up in the large blue and yellow liveried premises of a well-known Swedish furniture store at a retail park half a mile south along the expressway, where conditions were reported to be hellishly comfortable.
The Bundeswehr had responsibility for the defence of the airfield abutting the north east of the autobahn and expressway junction, but it still left a mere seventy three men and women to prevent a mile and a half of key real estate from falling into enemy hands.
Two junior NCOs were shaken awake; the cold and wet rainwater running down the sleeve of a wet proof jacket assisted the process of rousing both soldiers who had only been relieved as pointsmen barely half an hour before. Lance Corporal Maggie Hebden opened one eye, frowning in irritation.
“Whoever it is, I just came off a twelve hour stag so fuck off!”
Her tormentor pulled the zipper of her sleeping bag roughly down its entire length, spilling out the warmth that had accumulated there.
“Route maintenance….there’s signs missing apparently and a couple of packets nearly went astray down the road so get yer arse out of yer maggot now!” growled the section commander “The sooner it’s done, the sooner you can get back to kip.”
“Sorry, Staff.” Maggie said and sat upright, shivering in the cold.
Just a dark shape against the canvas wall of the 9x9 they were using as a communal sleep area, the senior NCO nudged another form with the toe cap of a muddy boot, ensuring Maggie’s oppo was not considering anything so foolish such as going back to sleep.
“Take ‘nine three’ and hook up the trailer sharpish.” he said, unmoved by the angry response but not taking umbrage to it either.
“There’s coffee if you’re quick.”
The tent flap rustled as he departed and Maggie switched on her torch in order to use the shiny bottom of a mess tin to peer critically at her reflection.
“Did anyone ever tell you that you look really sexy when you’ve just woken up?” Lance Corporal Tony Myers asked as he unzipped his own bag and clambered out into the cold, damp and musty smelling air.
“No?”
“They’re never likely too, either.”
He ducked just in time, avoiding the flying item of field dining ware.
Tony was looking north-east, his face set in a grimace against the rain, his helmets fabric cover sodden so that the rim dripped like a leaking faucet in a dozen places. He rolled back the camouflage net entrance for Maggie to drive the long wheelbase Landrover out onto the hard shoulder before reversing under the flyover to the signing trailer. They had been able use an insulated power cable running horizontally along the concrete side of the expressway’s ‘on ramp’ to secure one edge of the camouflage nets and create a ‘garage’ they could drive in and out of. It made life far easier than having to roll up and stow the items every time a vehicle was used and unfurled again at the completion of the task.
Despite the constant rain the battle was easily located by the flashes of gunfire and explosions reflecting off the underside of the clouds.
Maggie left the engine running and joined him, helping manhandle the trailer, hooking it up and connecting the chunky rubber clad electric socket.
“They’re still at it.” He observed, referring to the direction he had been looking, the Vormundberg battle.
“And let’s hope they are still going strong when the 4 Corps Yanks get here…” Maggie began, but her voice tailed off in embarrassment. People were fighting and dying over there in the distance.
They shared a mug of strong, hot and sweet compo coffee made with evaporated milk as Staff Sergeant Vernon gave them the unwelcome news that he had no exact location for where the fault was supposedly located so they had to check a twenty six mile stretch of autobahn to Lehrte, where TP 31s area of responsibility began.
The driver who had called in the complaint had been less than helpful.
“You’ve signs down on the approach to a junction.”
“Which junction?”
“The junction with the cocked up signage, of course!” Click! Brrrrrrr!
With the trailer hooked up and connected they paused to stand together at the edge of the autobahn’s embankment facing the dark forest as they loaded their personal weapons, SA80s. These were of the older Block 1 model, the problem child, brought out of whatever cobweb bedecked armoury they had lain in since the MOD had given up trying to offload them.
352 Provost Coy’s Block 2s had all been redistributed amongst mobilised infantry reservists.
Tony clambered over the tailgate and laid his rifle across his knees whereas Maggie slotted hers into the weapon rack behind the drivers and front passengers seats.
SOPs stated that for safety purposes vehicles should always proceed in a manner that did not conflict with the intended direction of the traffic, in other words they were supposed to drive east for a mile to the maintenance vehicle gate between the carriageways, drive west for eight miles to the junction that marked the extent of their assigned ‘turf’ before returning slowly in order to locate and correct the errant signage, a fifty four mile round journey.
After conducting a dynamic risk assessment that had taken less than a heartbeat Maggie decided to head west on the eastbound hard shoulder. This would avoid head-on collisions with any heavily laden Foden and get her back into her nice warm green maggot in at least half the time. However, they could have been on another planet as there was no traffic, no street lighting and not so much as a single unguarded bulb to be seen anywhere on the sodden landscape. Only the sound of to-ing and fro-ing helicopters ruined the effect.
Those few civilians who had not fled west were keeping a very low profile.
The black, wet ribbon of the autobahn stretched off into the distance as Maggie adjusted her PNGs and let out the clutch to pull away, but remained in second gear. On reaching the far side of the canal the Pointsman there moved the metal caltrops, the tyre puncturing spikes to disable vehicles attempting to run the roadblock, aside for them and Maggie gave him a friendly wave that was acknowledged with an unsmiling but perfunctory nod, the passive night goggles he wore adding to the cold and emotionless automaton effect.
“Miserable bugger isn’t he?” said Tony from the back as the linked, sharpened spikes were noisily dragged back into place behind them.
“Well dancing a jig every second for being the only one still alive after the Spetsnaz came calling would not really be appropriate, now would it?” Maggie replied without looking back.
“I suppose not, but what’s he got in that bergan side pouch he always has with him on point duty?” Tony asked, staring at the object of discussion as they drove past it.
“It isn’t scoff, he doesn’t go near it. He just sticks it on the verge by the chicane halt sign and collects it again when he’s relieved.”
“Did you ask him?” Maggie asked.
“No.”
“Then why ask me?”
Tony was silent for a moment.
“He’s still a weird fucker.”
As the Landrover drew away, the checkpoint with its covering infantrymen in a trench, and the solitary military policeman on traffic point duty were quickly swallowed by the night.
Maggie had undergone her recruits cadre at Chichester, or ‘Chi’ as referred to by members of ‘The Corps’, with the lone pointsman. He had been a very affable, happy go lucky young soldier back then though a little immature, and seriously keen on a WRAC member of his unit.