The woods appeared to be alive with green-clad infantrymen and there was little room for the Chieftain to manoeuvre. The driver hesitated as another grenade exploded against the thick armour below the main gun. Studley shouted: 'Keep going...and fast' He felt the Chieftain accelerate. Trees snapped beneath its weight as it crashed forward through the undergrowth. A group of men scattered thirty meters away and Studley followed them with a long burst of fire from the machine gun. He saw an infantryman run diagonally towards him from the left, the man's path curving through a patch of open ground as he ran to meet the Chieftain. His arm was already raised, and Studley caught a glimpse of a long-handled anti-tank grenade trailing its drogue towards the tank as the man threw himself flat. The grenade only fell short by a meter, exploding in the soft earth as the Chieftain reached the clearing where the APCs had been stationed; all that remained were their wrecked and smoking hulks, the crews dead, nearby.
'Don't stop...' There was no need for Studley's order, Horsefield was already pushing the Chieftain towards its maximum speed. It lurched and bounced across the open ground, crashing through a dense copse of young trees as the ground dipped towards the command position.
'Hullo Bravo Nine, this is Sunray Rover One...'Studley was being thrown around in his seat by the violent movement.
'Hullo Sunray Rover One this is Bravo Nine.'
'Where are you?'
'Four hundred meters south of Primrose...and still under attack, over.'
'Infantry?' questioned Studley.
'Armour. Two T-64s...wrong, three T-64s in position near derelict barn.'
'Barn?'
'It's on fire. There seem to be vehicles burning, too. The T-64s are downwind, in smoke.'
God, so that was why the RTO had sounded hysterical. The command post had been attacked, and by the sound of it, destroyed. Studley's immediate emotion was anger. 'Disengage, Bravo Nine. Russian infantry in woods to your left. Get through them Go to Firefly. Verify.' There was no response. 'Hullo Bravo Nine...Hullo Bravo Nine...verify, over.' Studley was dismayed to find he was directing his anger at his own men, and felt ashamed. He spoke again, more calmly. 'Hullo Bravo Nine...verify please, over...'
There was a lengthy pause, then a voice. 'Shit!' Another short break and then he recognized the voice of one of his junior lieutenants. 'Hullo Sunray, this is Colin...damn sorry, sir. We've lost Nine...lost contact...a lot of Soviet armour...Sunray. Go to Firefly, wilco...' There was a pause. 'It's getting warm here, Sunray...sorry, sir, over.'
'Roger Bravo...out.' The lieutenant was polite...terrible radio technique thought Studley. Still young for leadership of a squadron, he had sounded overwhelmed, temporarily confused. Keep your damned head, lad, Studley willed. There was no time for him to contemplate the destruction of the command post and the loss of the staff.
He called through to the Headquarters command Sultan. 'Hullo Ops, this is Sunray Rover One, have you been eavesdropping? Over.'
'Hullo Sunray Rover, this is Ops. Yes, we understand the situation.'
'Give me Amphora.' This was Max Fairly's code name. It was a small personal joke, a reference to the 2nd IC's slightly pear-shaped figure.
'Hullo Sunray Rover One. Reference Amphora; regret no can do. Amphora is MBK.'
Missing believed killed? Max? Perhaps he had misheard the Operations Officer. 'Say again. Over.'
'Hullo Sunray Rover One. Reference Amphora; regret Amphora is MBK. We have had a report on the incident from Kilo Nine.'
'Ops, take over. Send all to Firefly. I'll join you soonest.' He switched to the intercom. 'Horsefield...move us out.' He tried the group net a few moments later, but the Soviet jamming had taken over the wavelengths. It was more efficient than had been estimated, and was making communication difficult...at the moment impossible as the high-pitched whine cut deep into his head. He switched it off. Poor old Max...Max! Damn them! And how complete was the encirclement of the battle group? Total? If so, could the circle be broken? Studley realized he should have pulled back when his adjutant had suggested it earlier. Studley had erred in his decision that the group should hold its position longer. Everything had looked fine...no reason to suppose a breakthrough would happen so quickly. God, he had cocked it up, his first battle! He had made a mistake; a costly one.
The thought of the adjutant drew Studley's mind back to the overrun command vehicle. 'Horsefield...go right...more right...I want a look at the command APC's. And keep your eyes peeled...'
Corporal Riley interrupted him: 'Sir...traversing three o'clock.' Broadside on, not thirty meters away, was the green hull of a Soviet fire-support tank, the insignia of its parachute battalion clearly showing on its skirt. At point-blank range, it was impossible for Riley to rotate the turret fast enough to counter the forward movement of the tank. 'Halt the bloody tank, Horse,' Riley yelled fiercely. Horsefield dug both his feet hard on the brake pedal.
The turret stopped traversing. The fire-support tank was not more than sixty meters away, standing amongst the trees. Studley could see men moving near its rocket launcher, silhouetted against the skyline. It seemed a lifetime before Riley fired and the Chieftain echoed the instantaneous explosion of its shell against the hull of the Russian vehicle. Studley saw one body arc high into the air before the smoke obscured the wrecked tank.
Horsefield had no intention of remaining stationary longer than necessary, and began moving the Chieftain forward at a brisk pace. The smoke cloud from the wrecked vehicle was drifting across their path, a useful screen. Visibility was now less than forty meters; the smoke thickening. Studley could feel heavy concussions but couldn't hear the sounds of the explosions which accompanied them. The ground ahead was clearer, and he thought they must have reached the outskirts of the wood, only a hundred meters from the command position. A vehicle was burning, spurting red flames in the smoke. There were bodies hunched around it; he couldn't identify them, but thought the helmets were Russian. There was another wrecked vehicle, this time a British APC, and beyond it a burned-out Chieftain, its hull ripped open and its turret and gun missing. The ground was churned and cratered...more bodies. Horsefield swerved, found it impossible to avoid the corpses, and drove over them...he recognized their combat smocks as NATO-issue and hoped there were no wounded amongst the motionless figures he was crushing beneath the tracks.
There were dark shapes in the smoke not twenty meters away, closer, men moving. Studley identified a T-72, the nearer of the vehicles. 'Reverse, Horsefield.' The figures scattered as the Chieftain loomed out of the smoke behind them. The turret of the T-72 began moving. Horsefield crashed the gearbox into reverse so fiercely the tracks skidded. For a few moments the fifty-two tons of the Chieftain kept her slithering forward, then the tracks gripped. The muzzle of the Chieftain's 122mm gun was no more than four meters from the rear of the T-72 when Riley fired. The close proximity of the detonation twisted the Chieftain sideways and a billowing spray of burning fuel swept over its hull. Horsefield was trying to regain control when a second explosion tilted the Chieftain on to her side. It dropped back with a bone-jarring crash then settled. Horsefield began accelerating again. He couldn't see where they were going, and was hoping the colonel was watching to the rear. He locked the right track and hammered the Chieftain into forward gear, to swing her round. The Soviet RPG-7V anti-tank rocket, fired by an infantryman forty meters away, hit the Chieftain on the flat slab of armour directly beneath Horsefield's feet. The hollow-charge high explosive round punched its way through the metal as it exploded, killing Horsefield instantly, wrecking the driving compartment, and spraying the interior with fine shrapnel; a heavy scab of metal ricochetted from the floor and buried itself in Sergeant Pudsey's chest as a searing white flame leapt around the breech of the gun, the charge bins and the stacked ammunition. Studley's head felt as though it had burst. He could smell explosive, burning fuel. The air was unbreathable. He was choking.
He attempted to force open the turret, the hatch lever was jammed, but gave way slowly. Everything was confused, unreal. He was unable to focus his eyes, and when he tried to shout to the crew his lungs contained no air; his chest muscles and diaphragm were cramping in painful spasms. He grabbed at the edge of the turret and fell forward, sliding down the hull and landing on his stomach beside the track. He was immediately sick. He knew the Chieftain's ammunition might explode and tried to drag himself further away, flopping like a seal across the ground as his arms gave way beneath his weight. It was all night-marish...swimming in fine dry sand...the sour taste of bile in his mouth...throbbing pain...
He lay still.
He was thrown on to his back with a jerk that almost dislocated his neck. The brightness of the sky was blinding. There was a man's face above him; mist slightly clearing. He felt his NBC clothing pulled apart, roughly...hands searching his coverall pockets. The helmet? American? Russian! Cut high above the man's ears, grotesquely sinister. He was dragged on his back, his head jolting against the earth before he was hauled into a sitting position against a tree. He recognized an AKM rifle aimed at his chest, then vomited again. More hands searched him. He tried to say: 'Let me die in peace, in my own time,' but the only sounds he could make were deep rasping groans between his retchings. He collapsed on to his side.
They let him lie for a few more minutes, until the surging waves of nausea had passed, then pulled him back against the tree. He faced the smoking wreckage of the Chieftain, fifty meters away. Beyond it, a mass of twisted metal was all that remained of the Soviet T-72.
His breathing was easier now, and the throbbing in his head had lessened. He felt mentally numb, each individual thought leaden. One of the men who had been supporting him was kneeling beside him winding an olive-green field dressing around the lower part of his left leg. I'm wounded...wounded and they're dressing it...that means I'm alive...and they aren't going to kill me...not yet anyway...maybe they'll kill me later...I'm a prisoner...God, I'm a prisoner.
There was no sign of any others of the crew. He stared at the wreckage...how had he escaped? The others were still inside...dead! His stomach heaved again, but he managed to hold it.
He turned his head and spat his mouth clean. There was the iron taste of blood at the back of his throat. One of the soldiers shook a cigarette from a packet, lit it, and pushed it gently between Studley's lips. He had seldom used tobacco, but rested his head back against the trunk of the tree and drew in the pungent oriental smoke.
What now, he wondered? Dear God, what now?
'Charlie Bravo Two, this is Nine...' The voice was persistent in Morgan Davis's ears – Lieutenant Sidworth acting as mother hen to his diminishing brood. 'Charlie Bravo Two, this is Nine, over.'
'Bravo Nine, this is Charlie Bravo Two, over.' Davis's voice was shaky. The screaming to his left was continuous, and the Chieftain's engine was revving so high the whole tank was vibrating.
'What the hell's happened Charlie Bravo Two? I've been trying to contact you for the past four minutes, over.'
'I think we've been hit'
'What's the damage?'
'I don't know yet, Nine...'
'Then damn well find out. We're pulling back to Firefly. Make it quick...understand? Out.'
Davis shouted down into the fighting compartment but the sound of his voice was lost in the noise. He switched to the Tannoy. 'Hewett...what's going on down there?'
'Fuckin' linkage is jammed.' DeeJay's voice warbled, competing against the roaring motor.
'Get it bloody well unjammed. Inkester!' The Chieftain was full of swirling dust. Davis reached down and found the gunner's shoulder. 'Inkester?' The shoulder moved. 'Are you okay?' Inkester nodded, his head just visible in the dim light. The roar of the engine dropped suddenly and its sound reduced to a steady throb.
'It's clear, Sarge...it might jam again, but it feels okay.' The engine sound increased again and died as DeeJay tried the pedal.
'Shadwell? What the hell's the matter?' The screaming had diminished as the sound of the engine had lessened; almost as though Shadwell, hunched on his loader's seat, had suddenly become aware of the shriek of his own voice. Morgan Davis leant over and shook him. 'Shadwell...' The man moved and Davis could see his face, blood-spattered. 'Oh, Christ!' He twisted himself out of his seat and wriggled into the fighting compartment. 'Where are you hurt, lad?'
Shadwell held up his left hand, he was gripping it tightly at the wrist. Davis reached out as Shadwell groaned again. Three of his fingers were missing. 'Breech, Sarge. Fucking breech got me.'