by James Rouch
‘Sounds good in fucking theory,’ Dooley kept his voice down as he spoke to Cohen, ‘but unless those Reds are gonna be obliging enough to get out of their battle taxi and stroll our way, it ain’t actually gonna amount to a whole lot. I’m as keen to save that broad’s sweet fanny as the Major, and even that head-case limey sniper has his uses, ‘Dooley glanced at Libby, watching for any reaction to that remark, finding none, ‘but I can’t see what we can do, not with these pea-shooters.’ The M60 looked toy-like in his huge hand.
‘What we could do with is a miracle.’ Taking a last look through the binoculars before passing them to Dooley, Libby could see the trapped pair attempting to leave the crater and being forced to duck back as the slight movement attracted machine gun fire.
‘I think maybe we’ve got one.’ Without offering an explanation, Cohen picked up the radio and ran to dump it beside Revell. ‘Major, one of the Thunderbolts is still hanging about. He don’t want to take no eggs home and wants to know where you’d like ‘em laid.’
‘Tell him thanks; dead centre on the farm. Tell him we’ve troops close-by.’ The jet was in sight before the noise of its approach could be heard. It flashed across the fields towards the cluster of buildings, now partially hidden by drifting smoke. As it closed it lifted to roof-top height and, two hundred metres from its target, released an unpainted silver pod from each outer wing-pylon.
Tumbling end over end, the big elongated teardrop-shaped canisters fell away from the aircraft and arced towards the farm. Their impact was invisible to the dis- tant watchers, but the wall of yellow fire that rose beyond the house wasn’t. To a man, they stood and waited, watching the giant bubble of flame as it grew to its full size and began to rise and turn boiling black at the edges.
Libby counted the seconds to himself… two, three... the ‘four’ was only part formed in his mind when the moment came. The instant the fireball began to shrink it was suddenly transformed, becoming a searing white and doubling, tripling, to envelop the whole farm, as the miniature cylinders of oxygen within it released their pressurised contents simultaneously. House, barns, silos, everything disappeared within the all-devouring glaring maelstrom of white fire.
He’d seen it all, there was not a weapon that Libby had not witnessed in action, nuclear, conventional or chemical, but there was something overpoweringly awe- inspiring about super-napalm. Whenever it was used on the battlefield men would stand and watch, thanking God, or whatever they believed in, that this time it was not going down on them. How many times had he walked through the ashes of those on whom it had, and the ashes of how many men? A hundred, a thousand? He didn’t know because there was never enough left to form even a rough estimate, just a crumbling fragment of bone here, a fused rifle mechanism there, and that would be all that was left of a section, a platoon, even a company.
For five long seconds the white fire hid the farm, then in a moment it was gone, and the smoke that replaced it swiftly rose into the low clouds, propelled by the colossal temperatures that had been generated. In that brief span of time the farm had been destroyed, utterly. Only one end of the house still stood, and that at an angle, as though impatient to join its fellows heaped below it. The big sheets of metal cladding had been stripped from the barns and the surviving skeletal frames were buckled and glowing. A remaining silo dipped suddenly and its flame- scorched metal crumpled like aluminium foil as it hit the cinder-smothered yard. In the midst of the ruin sat the hulk of a personnel carrier. Its armour was no longer the standard Soviet drab grey, now the exposed bare metal showed alternate bands of straw yellow and deep blue between smudges of black, like an inexpertly quenched machine-tool.
Kurt made no attempt to conceal his leering pleasure as he watched Andrea running towards them. Her camouflage jacket gave little evidence of the superb body beneath, but he could imagine it. The smooth round breasts would be bouncing at every step, fighting the restraints of her bra. She’d be sweating now, and he imagined what it would be like to rub his hard body down in the damp valley between them. Shit, he should have tied her down and fucked her when he had the chance. What tricks he could have taught her! But not now, not now they were with this crowd of Brits and Yanks - she had too many protectors.
Not that the bitch needed any, Ernst had found that out the hard way. Kurt still remembered the scream, and the sight of the would-be rapist as he staggered out of the house, his entrails hanging from his slashed stomach down into the trousers around his ankles. He’d have gone for her then, but none of the others would help. When Karl had almost met a similar fate a couple of nights later, and had been lucky only to lose the end of his penis, they had given up the idea of taking her by force and resigned themselves to a frustrating time, taking it out on the available women refugees when they could. Now he was the only one of the gang left.
They hated him, this lot. The major, the sergeant, all of them, just because he had been a border guard. He knew he was there on sufferance, and only because Andrea was. Still, it was better than a prison camp, that would have been the alternative, and they couldn’t watch him forever. No point in escaping now, let them protect him, he’d make his break when they were out of the Zone, that was the best plan. But plan or no plan, if the war came to a sudden end then he would have to get out fast, lose himself among the millions of refugees. Remote though such a possibility seemed, it was one he had reason to fear. To the communists he was a deserter, to the West Germans a war criminal, his fate would be the same whichever side won and got him in their clutches.
If he ripped off all her clothes now she’d be good and hot, nicely lubricated underneath, he’d be able to slip in easy, once her hands were tied. Just the thought made him leak...
Kurt took his eyes from the girl, as he realised the sniper’s were on him. Nasty that one, cold, emotionless; even the big man, Dooley, was wary of him. ‘Let’s move.’ Revell added his urging to Hyde’s. ‘We’ve got to find a clearing for the chopper to do a pick-up. Come on, shift.’ ‘I’d rather walk.’ Cohen felt ill at the prospect of another ride. ‘Just give me a call and tell me where you’re heading, I’ll meet you there.’ ‘If you can run at a couple of hundred kilometres an hour you’re welcome.’ Hyde wiped rain from his face, and left a smear of mud across his disfigured features. ‘Otherwise shut up and get moving.’ ‘You want me to take the radio?’ Dooley extended a hand to the corporal. ‘You can piss off. If I want help I’ll want it reliable, and at reasonable rates. I’ll stick to Avis.’
‘Suit yourself, just trying to be helpful.’ Giving Burke a nudge that pushed him an involuntary three steps sideways, Dooley lifted his own load. ‘That Major of yours is in a bloody hurry isn’t he?’ Burke rubbed his shoulder as they started off.
‘He doesn’t like the battle to go cold, likes to keep things on the boil.’ As they walked, Dooley interrupted the conversation to dart forward and lift a low branch to save Cohen from having to bend, showering him in water in the process.
‘That’ll be two marks,’ he called to the corporal as he fell back alongside Burke again. ‘Would have been five, but I’m giving a special introductory offer.’ Dooley grinned at the inevitable obscenity he received in reply. ‘No extra charge for the shower.’ He took out a grimy scrap of paper, and with an equally filthy stub of a pencil noted the amount.
Burke took up again where he’d been forced to leave off. ‘That’s alright while he’s boiling Reds, like he’s just done, but why’s he in such a fucking hurry to see the same happen to us?’
‘You’re not dead yet, are you?’
‘Not for want of bloody trying.’
‘Quit worrying, the Major will take care of us. I’ve been with him six months, and I ain’t come to any harm.’
‘You mean you were a head-case when he first knew you?’ Ducking just in time, Burke avoided the casually swung M16 that slashed through the leaves above him. ‘I’m telling you,’ Dooley stabbed a finger the size of a salami towards Burke, ‘he’s good, good at his job, good
at looking after his men. The only difference between him and your Sergeant is that he keeps pressing on, when that shitty gargoyle of yours would stand back and wait for the smoke to clear before having another go.’
Burke dropped it. The big man had blind faith in his officer; it could be dangerous devotion in battle. There were lots of different reasons for obeying orders, but so far he’d found the most convincing one was that it avoided him having to do too much thinking himself. Sod it, there was no way he was ever going to get a stripe, so what was the point of putting on displays of initiative? In his lowly position it wasn’t required of him, while officers and NCOs were still on their feet, and by the time casualties forced him to take command of the section he’d be the only one left alive. Then there’d only be one order, and he could give that to himself while he was running.
‘Want a hand?’
Recovering from the trip that had brought him to his knees, Burke treated Dooley’s offer with suspicion. ‘I may be older than the rest of you, but not that much. Anyway I can’t afford your rates.’ ‘That’s alright, no charge.’ Dooley took Burke’s pack as he helped him up. ‘Just till you get your breath back.’
Cohen had witnessed the incident. ‘So for him it’s gratis?’
‘It’s for a buddy. You pass around a few of your diamonds and you’ll have some. I’ll be first in line.’
There was no need for Cohen to pause to consider the suggestion. ‘In that case I’ll die wealthy instead, lonely but wealthy.’ The radio crackled into life, and he hurried to catch up with the major as a message came in.
‘What’ll it be this time?’ Dooley watched him threading his way forward. ‘Whatever it is,’ Burke retrieved his pack, Til put money on your Major turning it into a fight.’
‘No takers,’ Dooley hitched the M16 to a more comfortable position and patted his ammunition pouches. ‘No takers.’
The Zone - Northern Sector
Attempts by the Royal Navy to sweep the Elbe estuary of mines, as a preliminary to forcing a passage to Hamburg, have been called off after the loss of the minesweepers HMS Brecon and HMS Middleton. The modified torpedo recovery vessel RNAS Tormentor is on its way to the area, and it is thought attempts will be made by RN divers to recover one of the new Russian mines.
Lieutenant General K. I. Pavloskii has been relieved of his command of the Soviet forces surrounding Hamburg, following the defeat of the third major assault in six weeks by the West German and British defenders. He is now in Moscow. His successor has not yet been announced. He will be the third to be appointed in five months. It is understood that there is no competition among the Russian General Staff for the post.
Polish and Hungarian divisions have now been positively identified opposite the Hanover salient. The increased use of satellite forces on this most active front is thought to be due to two reasons: ONE: The Russians’ aim to reduce their own losses in experienced combat units, currently running at four per cent per week. TWO: A desire to strengthen the ‘involvement’ of other members of the Warsaw Pact by increasing their casualty lists.
The Cuban battalion operating with the Soviet 2nd Guards Army near Munster is now known to have suffered eighty-seven per cent casualties in two days of fighting with the 2nd Battalion of the RAF Regiment. British losses are put at one dead, two missing believed killed, seven wounded.
SIX
The little country town of Budlingen was close enough to the western fringes of the Zone to have suffered extensively from looting. Added to the dereliction brought about by almost two years of neglect and nature’s unchecked advances, was the clutter of abandoned furniture and other goods outside virtually every shop and house. Most of it was weather-ravaged and scattered, but here and there stood neat stacks of televisions and other electrical appliances, still awaiting collection by gangs who had been unable or unwilling to return for them.
Tissue-thin wood veneer peeled from once polished cabinets, drooping down on to the clouded plastic covers of music centres. Grass and weeds flourished about and between them, adding an incongruous touch. ‘These places give me the creeps.’ Dooley looked around warily as they stood waiting for Revell and the sergeant to return from scouting for suitable sites and premises. ‘It’s no fucking wonder the refugees build their camps out in the country.’
‘Spooky or not, I’d rather have a decent roof over my head than live in one of the camps. A tent isn’t any substitute for tiles.’ Rubbing accumulated grime from a shop window, Burke peered in at the dusty shelves. They were empty save for a few large wicker baskets that had held loaves long ago. A mouse scurried across a counter top, tumbling noiselessly to a bouncy landing on the floor, before hurrying from sight.
There was a loud bang. Everyone jumped as Dooley smashed his boot through the screen of a large colour set and was showered with thick fragments of glass. He ignored the shouts of protest. ‘I always wanted to do that.’
‘You’re a bloody hooligan, a vandal.’ There was irritation in Libby’s voice. ‘If you have to do bloody stupid things like that, do it thoroughly. Use your thick head next time.’
‘You want to start calling names, save it for the shits in the Kremlin who started the whole stinking business. They’re the fucking vandals.’ Dooley had been about to hand out similar treatment to a second television, now he held back. ‘Fuck it, can’t I even have a bit of fun without someone having a go at me. You lot get on my tits.’ He stalked away, kicking a Hoover from his path.
Clarence sat on a twin-tub washing machine, scraping every last speck of brick dust from his rifle, stripping the bullets from the magazines and cleaning each one individually. The tension that was getting to the others had not touched him. He finished the last checks, loaded the re-chambered Enfield and slowly took aim at a street sign two hundred metres away. An instant after firing, a large area of paint jumped from its face, as the heavy bullet punched through the centre of the circle of sheet metal, deeply denting the post behind it. A second shot ploughed into a shop sign some yards further away and frosted glass and fluorescent tubes cascaded on to the path.
Satisfied, the sniper reloaded the magazine. The fight to come was more to his liking. Given good concealment, with just a little luck, he would push his score to over two hundred. It was a start. He had set the price of revenge at a hundred Russians for each member of his family. At his current rate he would achieve his target in about seven months. He had not as yet considered what he would do when he reached it. There would be time enough for that when it happened.
‘Here we go again.’ Burke watched Revell and Hyde returning. ‘I’ll be bleeding glad when we’ve used up the last of these things. Jesus but my arms ache.’ He prepared to pick up a case of reloads for their Dragon anti-tank rocket launchers. ‘I’m supposed to be a ruddy combat driver, not a sodding pack mule.’
‘Be grateful we’ve got them. This scrap is going to be at close range, we’ll be using the contraptions almost like bazookas, flight time will be too short for effective gathering and guidance. It’ll be a case of see, point and fire.’ ‘Is that supposed to cheer me up, Sarge?’
‘No Burke, just keep you informed. You’re always complaining no one ever tells you anything. Come to that you’re always complaining.’
For a moment Burke considered contesting the statement, but decided not to. ‘Well in future I’d rather stay ignorant, better for my peace of mind.’
‘OK Sergeant, let’s get set up.’ Revell was counting the ammunition cases when he heard the approaching engines. A black staff car and a half-ton truck were coming down the main street. ‘Damn it, don’t you know this road is closed? It’s going to be full of T84s inside an hour.’ He shouted at the car’s driver, who had pulled up nearby and had stuck his head out of the window.
‘Good. I’m in the right place then.’ Not put off by the greeting, a young lieutenant climbed out, as an assortment of variously armed cooks, clerks and combat engineers jumped from the back of the truck.
‘What the
hell is this?’ Revell looked on incredulously as the lieutenant had the new arrivals lifting cases of grenades and M72 Viper launchers from the truck.
Undeterred by the brusque demand, the lieutenant sauntered forward and threw a casual salute. ‘I heard there was a chance of a skirmish with stray Russian armour, so I rounded up some, eh, volunteers from the hangers-on around Corps HQ, borrowed the General’s car and a truck the supply boys didn’t seem to have too much use for, and motored out here looking for a slice of the action. When does the fun start. I’m not too late am I?’
‘You sure you heard his name right? Lieutenant Hogg? He’s not a grunt is he? You sure you heard the name right?’
‘Sure I’m sure.’ Cohen was stung by Dooley’s scepticism. ‘I heard him talking with the Major. He’s an engineer with 373rd Bridge Building Company. He was hanging about VII Corps HQ waiting for transport when he heard about us.’
‘I don’t give a fuck what he’s called. I just wish he’d stop smiling all the fucking time.’ By pretending to be making adjustments to the support legs of the Dragon missile launcher, Burke avoided helping the two Americans carry the sealed reload rounds in from the doorway. ‘It’s fucking unnerving having someone around who grins like a bleeding Cheshire cat all the time. Where is he now?’
Broken glass from the smashed front of the hardware store crunched under heavy ammunition boxes as they were set down beside the launcher. Dooley took out one of the Dragon rounds and clipped it to the side of the sight-and-command module. ‘He’s upstairs with the Major.’
