War with Russia

All his mind could register was noise and light, the crack of bullets and a crazy, flashing kaleidoscope of intense color: orange-and-white explosions and the vicious red of tracer rounds smashing through the air as they ripped past him in the darkness. And then, almost blinded by the light of explosions and gunfire, another noise engulfed him. It was louder than everything else and all the more terrifying for it—the deep, steady whump–whump–whump of a heavy machine gun. Morland risked peering for a brief moment over the heads of the barley. There, from a darkened watchtower, came the unmistakable muzzle flashes as the machine gun pumped round after round at them.

Then, to their rear right and also to their left, he picked out the very much faster, higher-pitched, chainsaw-like rat-ratta-tat-tat of what sounded like 7.62 machine guns, the tracer rounds shattering the darkness and cutting strips in the barley off to either side of their group. And as if this wasn’t enough, there was the crump of what could only be a mortar or heavy grenade launcher. It was already bracketing them; loud explosions and shrapnel whistling through the air. But all off to the flank, which did not make sense. In fact, how he had survived the initial maelstrom of steel was an even bigger mystery, but he was not complaining. However, and of this he was in no doubt, the Russians had been waiting for them.

And then instinct and training kicked in. “Take cover…!” Morland yelled as he jinked forward and dived down, then rolled to his left, trying to ensure that anyone targeting him would no longer know where he was. He then willed his body deep into the ground to get away from the hell above. His nose was full of the smell of fresh earth, while all around the cacophony of tracer racing past, explosions and mind-bending, psychedelic light continued.

Deep in the barley he saw nothing.

That means they can’t see me… Check on the others…

He screamed out names to make himself heard above the din and could just make out faint answering shouts. There was nothing for it, he had to get round to everyone and find out for himself. And stay low.

They can’t see you if you stay below the level of the barley.

He crawled back to where Krauja was lying; eyes wide open now, unfocused with terror. But, thankfully, unharmed.

He shook her until she focused on him and he gave her a smile to try to reassure her. “We’ll be OK… Just follow me!” he yelled above the noise.

The moment of terror passed and she nodded her agreement. Next they crawled back to find Bradley the giant Kiwi signaler, also unhurt, holding his SA80 above the corn and firing back on automatic, the fierce light of a Maori warrior in his eyes.

“Well done Brad… stay close. Aimed shots, if you can. Without getting your head knocked off…”

On Morland crawled around the circle. He found Webb, the ODA captain, speaking into his radio. “I’ve sent a TIC—troops in contact report. There’s aircraft up there on call, so we should have close air-support pretty soon.”

“If we can survive that long,” replied Morland.

Slowly he peered above the barley. There were tracer and muzzle flashes from their left, more sporadic now. That had to be that machine gun. More to their rear right. And then, from the perimeter watchtower, the constant fire of the heavier machine gun. It was as he had first thought: they had walked straight into a trap. What was it his instructor had drilled into him in the “Reaction to Ambush” lesson at the School of Infantry at Brecon: “Those caught in the kill zone, assault through using fire and movement.”

Bollocks to that! Whoever wrote that had never been ambushed by the Russians. Time to return fire. Even if there was no possible chance of winning a fire fight with three machine guns. Then find cover.

He yelled at the others, throat straining in an effort to make himself heard above the noise. “Form base line! Rapid fire! Peel off and skirmish to sunken lane!”

Then he tripped over something in the barley. It was the ODA sergeant, lying spread-eagled on the ground. Morland knelt beside him: no movement. He looked to have been hurled backward and onto his side by a burst of machine-gun bullets, which had taken him across the chest. Gouts of blood were still pumping out onto the earth from a series of gaping exit wounds across his back.

Webb, who was following him, joined him, felt the pulse on the sergeant’s neck and shook his head.

Leaving the body, they crawled to where Lukša had been point man. And there, as the fire continued to play all around them, they found the Lithuanian slumped in the barley, left shoulder soaked in blood and left arm now a bloody stump from the elbow.