Chieftains

The shells were exploding closer, some just behind the Chieftain; heavy stuff plunging deep into the ground before it detonated, each hurling several tons of earth skywards.

'Charlie Nine, this is Zulu, do you have contact?'

'No contact yet.'

The sound of the combined NATO and Soviet bombardment was now so great that Davis found it necessary to concentrate to prevent the dislocation of his thoughts. It was a monstrous duel, with the divisional armour at its centre. A shell landed five meters away, making the Chieftain shudder, splattering the hull with day and thin mud. The woods to the left were being systematically demolished by a creeping barrage climbing the steep hillside, turning ancient trees to chaos.

Davis saw blue sky through the smoke as more heavy artillery shells landed nearby, rocking the tank violently.

'Hullo Charlie Nine this is Black Dog…target, over…' An infantry request to Davis for support.

He replied, 'Charlie Nine, send, over.'

'Black Dog…missile launcher moving into position…your gun barrel two o'clock northern edge of poplars. Will fire burst for your reference, watch for tracer. Over.'

'Charlie Nine, wilco. Out.'

'Got your eyes on the position, Inkester?' Davis watched the left end of the poplars. A few seconds later he saw a line of tracer bullets pass between the first and second of the distant trees, towards the ruins of a small farm building. 'Okay, let's get on it' Inkester brought the gun round and Davis saw the building in the sights. Inkester's first round exploded, but even with the ten times magnification Davis was unable to see the result.

'Hullo Charlie Nine, this is Black Dog. Left twenty reduce fifty, over.'

'Charlie Nine, wilco. Out.' The miss had been due to the difficulty in calculating the exact target of the tracers fired from cover away to the Chieftain's left. Davis made the necessary corrections. He enjoyed working with the infantry, it was like playing to an audience. The Chieftain lurched as Inkester fired again, and this time the explosion of the shell was more spectacular.

'Hullo Charlie Nine…this is Black Dog…you are on target, out.'

On target. One more kill, thought Davis, coolly reported as if it were a dummy on a range.

'Tank,' shouted Inkester.

Davis had seen it simultaneously. 'Zulu, this is Charlie Nine…T-62 eleven o'clock, am engaging, out'

'Zulu, roger. Out.'

The smoke ahead was denser now, but Davis could still see the outline of the first tank as Inkester lined it up and fired.

The attack, fiercer and more determined than Davis had experienced in the past days, lasted almost four hours before dying away. But, for the first time, all the NATO tanks had remained in position and there was no withdrawal. Squadron after squadron of Soviet armour and mechanized infantry had hurled themselves against the NATO line and been repulsed. Ahead of Davis the smoke fog was drifting away towards the north-east, unrolling the devastated landscape of the battlefield in front of him, uncovering the obscene carcasses of wrecked vehicles, the corpses of men.

Inkester shouted a wild, jubilant cheer.

'We've beaten them off, sir…' There was enough of Spink's face visible through the eye-pieces of his mask for Davis to know the loader was grinning.

Davis just nodded. He had learnt too much in the past days to be anything but cautious in his hopes. He was feeling satisfied that the line had held, but knew it must have been as costly for the NATO forces as for their enemies.

He checked his troop on the network. There were no casualties, and the feeling of relief warmed him further. There might well be losses amongst the squadron, but at least he had managed to keep his own team intact. Team. With dismay he realized his original intention to avoid establishing close ties with his replacement crews was already falling apart. He knew it was a weakness he might well regret.

The sky had brightened and the cloud was now broken so that patches of sunlight drifted across the open ground, chasing the columns of dark smoke spiralling from the battle debris. He could see only one living being amongst it all; four hundred meters away a solitary Russian infantryman, still wearing his mask and protective clothing, wandered aimlessly in the open. Others must have seen him, but none fired. After a few minutes the soldier turned and stumbled slowly away until he was lost in the distance, a lonely bewildered man, perhaps demented, insane. The medical officers called it battle-fatigue.

'What are the Russians up to, sir?'