Chieftains

A large number of sensors, still operative deep in the ground through which the Soviet division was attempting to move, were feeding information back to the artillery observers and continuously giving them new targets. Unfortunately, in many cases, blanketing the area where an electronic sensor detected and reported transport movement also meant the destruction of the device. But nevertheless they were proving effective. The Soviet division had for the moment lost its momentum; the head of the attack had weakened.

Warrant Officer Davis still knew little of the progress of the war outside the Elm Sector. He had heard rumours that the Russian forces had captured Lübeck and Hamburg in the north, and the Americans in CENTAG, supported by the French and German corps, had pushed the invaders back into East Germany as far as the town of Nordhausen. He realized however, the stories were unlikely to be fact, as he felt certain the NATO forces would not be permitted to advance into Warsaw Pact territory. Everyone was guessing, and those with the most fertile imaginations guessed the wildest. Stones grew in wartime, and everyone liked to think they knew something special or had experienced something unique; like the Angel of Mons. Angel of bloody Mons. Christ, we could do with one here, he mused. But the Angel of Mons had been only imagination, too…no' one had even mentioned one until years after the First World War when some London journalist wrote a fictional short story about the battle and the intervention of a host of Heavenly warriors; then everyone remembered – or thought they did The Russians in Hamburg? They might well get there eventually, but by God they would have had to shift to be in the city by now. Hedda and the kids? They'd be okay. Hedda would see to that. Bloody good bird, Hedda. Bird? Lady. Warrant officers' wives weren't birds. And the kids, too. They were nearly officer's kids now. And he wouldn't be spading the rest of his army career as a warrant officer, there would certainly be more promotion ahead…a commission to lieutenant…captain…major? Christ, it was impossible. Hedda the wife of a British major, hell, she would lap it up. It would be great for them all.

There had been a lull for the past half hour, following a rocket barrage that passed beyond Charlie Squadron's present positions, and landed harmlessly in open farmland There was still artillery fire from both sides, but it all seemed to be aimed behind the front lines. There was nothing to be seen moving in the vision-intensifying lenses…the Russians were somewhere in the darkness…they were there…but they weren't coming right now.

There was a ripple of movement in the ground and the sky far across the Schunter glowed briefly.

'There's another, Sarge…sir,' said Inkester. He was still having problems remembering Davis's new rank. 'What you reckon they are?

'Lance missiles.' Damn, thought Davis, I've joined the guessing game!

'Hell of a warhead, sir! Did you see them SPs go in a while back? Glad I wasn't on the receiving end. Bloody hell, it's like fucking bonfire night a million times over. Wish I knew what was going on though.' He raised his voice. 'Here, DeeJay, you bleedin' awake?

'Yeah…' DeeJay's voice was muffled, hollow.

'You want an egg banjo?'

'Don't be daft.'

'I've got one…got two. Put 'em in me pocket, back at the reform.'

'Christ, a bloody cold egg banjo!'

'They ain't cold. You want one?'

'Stick it!'

'What about you, sir?'

'No thanks,' answered Davis. He could imagine it, slimy in his mouth, the fried egg sandwich covered in oily thumbprints. He sighed, it would be dawn soon. Another dawn; it had to be better than the last one. Just twenty-four hours, and everything had changed. What would happen next? What were the bloody government doing? Talking! The government always talked, and usually ended by cutting back on defence funding. Well, they'd soon know if they'd cut their bloody budgets too hard; they probably knew now. A couple of thousand more battle tanks along the frontier would certainly have helped matters. How many had been lost? God, it must be hundreds already. 'Spink?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Knock us out some char.'

'Yeah, earn your bloody living,' called Inkester.

'Give the lad a chance. How're you feeling now, Spink?'

'A bit better, sir.'

'You don't smell better,' said Inkester. 'You're like a big tart, pissing yourself when a gun goes off. They ought to lave issued you with a nappy…'

'Inkester, shut up! One more remark like that and you're on a fizzer. I mean it, lad.'