Chieftains

'Probably. The areas of densest population always have it rough in wartime. They'll come in for heavy bombing in the industrial regions. I don't think I'd like to be a civilian in any of the German cities, and Hannover is a major link in the rail and road systems. But it's not our problem…'He jabbed a finger at the chart. 'This is our patch; and now, this sector…'

'His grandparents live in Hannover, sir,' interrupted the first lieutenant.

'I'd forgotten,' admitted Fellows. That was careless, he thought. He should have remembered Sache-Worrel's mother was German. His father had met her while serving in the British Army. He too had been a professional soldier; an officer in the infantry. 'Don't worry, we'll hold them long before Hannover.' He tried to sound convincing.

'At the River Fuse,' the first lieutenant spoke firmly, as if he felt it necessary to confirm Fellows' words for his friend's benefit.

Fellows didn't bother to reply. He glanced at his watch, it was 03.40 hours exactly. It would be dawn in forty-five minutes. He wondered what was happening behind the frontier. Intelligence would have a pretty good idea back at headquarters, but Fellows' squadron was committed to total radio silence.

FOUR

The most northerly-situated tank of the Fifth United States Force was commanded by Master Sergeant Will Browning. He was one of the few men in November Squadron with battle experience. He was one of the even fewer men in the entire United States Army in Europe who had survived a direct hit on a previous tank by a communist shell fired From a Russian-built T-54. He had been in action below Mutter's Ridge, north of Dong Ha in Vietnam.

Browning tried to think about the incident as little as possible. His survival was miraculous…a mistake had been made…he should have died with his crew. Almost superstitiously, it seemed better not to remind a God that he had overlooked a heavenly candidate who was now living on stolen time.

The 100mm high explosive shell had struck between the centre of Browning's M48's track and the bustle of its turret. The US tank's gunner had been following a VC target moving away to the right.

The M48's cast-steel turret was torn clean from the tank and hurled fifteen meters away. Somehow it carried Will Browning with it, still in one piece. A fraction of a second later the tank's ammunition exploded, tearing the already wrecked hull and the bodies of the crew into fragments. Browning was protected from greater injuries by the casing of the turret. He had suffered multiple fractures, burst eardrums and shrapnel wounds in his thighs and buttocks. Had he been a conscript the wounds would have ended his service, but as a regular cavalryman he was pronounced fit for further service eight months later.

It had not rained in the mountains of the Hohe Rhön east of Fulda, and the night had been clear and sharp with a touch of frost in the air above the high ground. To the front of the cavalry position the River Ulster followed the line of the East German border, before dissecting it two kilometers to the north. Backing them, three kilometers to the rear of the hill, was the highway linking Tann with Fulda where the Black Horse 11th Cavalry had been stationed.

Like most of those guarding the eastern frontier at this time, Master Sergeant Will Browning had been thinking about his own future. There was every possibility of war, and he knew that unlike most occasions in the past it would not begin with the signing of a declaration. Pearl Harbour had taught the USA a hard lesson, and with modern weapons a determined enemy would be foolish to give formal notice of its intentions by more than minutes. The preparations he had watched during the past hours no longer resembled those of an exercise. Three minefields had been laid in the fields beside the river; meadows which normally contained grazing cattle were now empty. Helicopters had flown across the woodland on the far slopes, seeding the forest tracks and glades with anti-personnel mines. When he had left Fulda, he had seen a party of German combat engineers placing demolition charges in the bridge. It was a simple and precise task, for every bridge of possible strategic importance built in West Germany since the Second World War had been constructed with future demolition in mind: special chambers to hold explosives were sited at critical points of their structures.