by James Rouch
‘They’re not going to like us doing it to them again.’ York noticed a slight but perceptible falling off in the quantity of enemy radio traffic. ‘I think they’ve got themselves near enough ready now, Major. The flap’s over, now they’re just sitting there, waiting, like a bloody great cat for a little weak mouse.’
‘Not as weak as all that.’ Revell held his fire a moment longer.
The lead escort ships were slowing down as they drew abreast of the island, to make a corridor of defensive fire for the carrier as it passed.
In the silence of the room, Revell could hear mortar fire, punctuated by the crack of a cannon and the near continuous rattle of machine guns. Hyde too had a fight on his hands, but he had started early. It was time for them to join in. ‘Fire.’
FOURTEEN
Above the thunder of the mortar barrage, above the crash and clatter of cannon and automatic fire, Hyde heard the multiple rocket launchers go into action. He had to turn, squirming around in his trench, to watch the projectiles ride their tails of flame into the sky. Their scream blotted every other noise from existence as they leapt upwards in a never ending stream. He couldn’t watch them all, the Russian marines were getting close, and he had to turn back to add the puny contribution of his rifle to the pathetic volume that was all his squad could muster against the weapons massed against them.
Soviet infantrymen were falling, many of them, but there were always more to keep the attack pressing forward. The wave of relief Hyde had experienced when the rain of mortar shells suddenly ceased was instantly wiped away by the realisation that it marked the moment for the enemy to close in and finish the unequal battle.
‘Take that, you shits.’ Determined to use every last round, to sell himself as dear as he could, Hyde sent a burst into a knot of marines ‘advancing ahead of the main body. Four of them went down. He replaced the clip and sighted again. He could see the open mouths of the men who were still advancing, they must be shouting but he couldn’t hear them.
A mortar shell fell close, and Hyde felt needles of fire in his side. This might be his last chance, he took careful aim.
The Russians seemed to dissolve, fall apart. There was a gigantic explosion and bodies and limbs were suddenly flying through the air. A dozen more of the massive detonations followed in quick succession and the attack faltered, stopped, and was destroyed.
The open ground was torn into a bloody moonscape under the pulverising blows. The knocked-out tank disappeared inside a huge fireball that lifted to reveal no vestige of the machine. Stalled, abandoned by its crew, the second 172 was lifted and thrown thirty yards, all forty-six tons of it, to land upside down in a steaming crater.
As shock wave after shock wave washed over him, Burke clung to the earth. At every blast the hard ground smacked into his face, but he didn’t move, preferring its punishment to the consequences of raising his head. Two enormous explosions that erupted almost simultaneously ended the pounding, and after a moment he cautiously looked up.
The scene had been changed beyond all recognition. What had recently been snow-covered ground, swarming with white-clad yelling troops, was now a wasteland of churned and heaped soil, dotted with the gruesome and not always identifiable remains of broken bodies.
A handful of shocked and wounded Russians wandered about the periphery of the area. Now and again one would collapse to become another grisly ornament on hell’s landscape. Dark red flame licked from a trackless tank upside down in a crater.
‘That wasn’t our stuff that was from the ships. The Ruskies have clobbered their own ruddy men.’ Libby emerged from the ground, to join the others who were looking in awe at the results of the bombardment.
Even Andrea could only stare, for once not thinking to aim at the enemy wounded tottering away between what was left of the trees.
Several pillars of black smoke were rising from the north of the island accompanied by the sound of ammunition burning, and an occasional fountain of white fire laced with red and green tracer.
‘I sure as hell don’t know why those guys are going that way, there just ain’t nothing left for them to go back to.’ Ripper half-lifted his rifle to his shoulder to take a shot, but lowered it again.
‘The state those poor buggers are in, they don’t know where they’re going.’ Hyde could feel the slivers of metal in his side as he moved the muscles in which they were embedded. He’d had worse, much worse. Most of the others were flecked with blood, and Dooley had a long cut across one cheek. He kept fingering it, and asking Ripper if it looked like it’d leave a scar, his tone suggested that he was hoping it would. ‘Right, back to the house. We’re not needed here any more. The Russian navy had done our work for us.’
‘Obliging blokes, aren’t they?’ Libby shouldered his rifle. He was eager to get back within the shelter of those four walls. It might lack creature comforts, but the house was a better place to wait for their pick-up than out here. Hell, he was getting fond of the place. In his mind’s eye he’d been working on various ideas of how to turn it into a nice home for him and Helga. Now he was almost looking forward to spending a few more hours there.
As he took his first step towards it, the whole length of the village erupted. Libby stopped, seeking the house through the dust and smoke and flying snow. It was still there, still safe.
Two more of the big missiles struck, bracketing the house and hiding it inside a storm of giant debris. Slowly at first, then faster, Libby began to run towards the village. Briefly he saw the house again; a wall had gone, the roof, much of the upper floor, then another round plunged down and flame hid it once more. Fraser was smothered in blood. He half-staggered, half-fell over the mangled tangle of bodies partially blocking the stairs.
Peering past the medic, Revell could make out daylight, or as much as could be seen through the thick dust and smoke. The whole of the top of the house had gone. Two white bars from his eyes to the corners of his mouth had been inscribed on the youngster’s face as his tears washed he blood and dirt from their tracks. Revell sat him down in York’s chair, first pushing the radio-man’s headless body aside.
‘Where is it, where is it?’ Cline scrambled about on the floor. He picked up a scrap of paper, then a second. ‘It’s all gone, my notes, all gone.’
‘Did we get the Gorshkov?’ Using his sleeve Revell wiped Fraser’s face, finding no injury.
‘I don’t know. They were jamming, more than I’ve ever seen. Have you seen the rest of my notebook?’ Glass broke under his hands but Cline didn’t notice. There was no more to be found. ‘Lousy bloody Russians.’ As though doing it for the first time, he continually turned the two scraps over and over in his hand. They were blank pages from the back of the book. ‘Should have taken more notes, filled it, then there’d be something on these.’
‘Is there anything left of the radio?’
‘No, Major.’ Boris pushed the equipment’s remains on to the floor. ‘Everything is broken, everything.’ Strips of clean bandage bound around his wrist made a stark contrast to the flame-singed remnants of his jacket. He pulled the remains together, but there was nothing to fasten it with, and little enough left to fasten. With difficulty, he began to strip the blood-soaked anorak off York’s body.
It was too much for Fraser, to see the decapitated corpse lolling back and forth as Boris clumsily worked at it with his one good hand. The medic drew his hood around his face and closed the opening with his hands, clenching them tight until the knuckles were pure white.
There was a fire at the back of the house, and other buildings nearby, what was left of them, were also beginning to burn. They might as well leave now, they’d be forced to soon enough anyway. There was nothing worth gathering up, Revell knew that without looking. He guided Fraser, and pushed Cline, ahead of him. Outside, the row of bodies had gone and little of what had previously been surrounding the house was still in place. The very paths had been torn up or buried, and deep craters dictated a zig-zag path as they moved away. Smoke stung
his eyes, and he felt the heat of the flames consuming the heaps of rubble. It was a strange sensation that warmth, almost alien, like a brief recollection of a half- forgotten memory.
The numbing shock of the barrage was slow to wear off, Revell felt it clouding his mind, struggled to shake free of it. For no obvious reason, perhaps only due to blind instinct, he turned towards the shore.
Someone was shouting, running towards him. The major let go of Fraser, and reached for his 12-gauge assault rifle. He had hung on to it through everything, but now as he unslung it, it felt unfamiliar. As he brought it up to fire at the approaching figure, he realised how badly damaged it was. Deep inside, his mind sluggishly recognised the irony. The weapon was like him, intact but incapable of functioning properly. As he slowly examined it, fire-scarred hands carefully took it from his grasp.
There was no expression on Hyde’s face, there never could be, but Revell sensed the sergeant’s concern. ‘I’m OK, just a bit scrambled; take charge, will you.’ Only distantly did he hear Hyde bark a string of orders. Faces around him were indistinct, he just wanted to get away, be by himself, but there was something else he had to do first, something he had to tell the NCO. The thought crept through the darkness in his head, trying to surface. ‘Get the men over to the shore, the cabin. If anyone comes to pick us up, that’s where they’ll look first.’
‘That’s a fucking great ‘if’.’ Dooley took the major’s arm, and began to lead him, as he had earlier lead Fraser.
Revell didn’t resist. It was good to temporarily relinquish the responsibility of choosing what route to take. His legs moved mechanically and kept moving, even when his mind switched off completely.
‘The captain says he’ll send the signal when we surface.’ Hyde settled himself on the floor of the submarine’s control room beside the major.
Awareness was coming back to Re veil, but it was a slow process, and he needed moments to form thoughts that would normally be instantaneous. ‘Is there any word about the Russian ships?’
‘Not a lot, but the captain says that’s good. They should have popped up in the North Sea by now, but they haven’t. The Swedes are kicking up bloody hell. Doesn’t matter that the barrage destroyed the Lance, seems some of the Russian ‘overs’ went on to clobber seven sorts of brick dust out of the mainland. Accusations and counter-accusations are flying all over. Probably won’t come to a fight, but suddenly the Swedes aren’t friends with Moscow. Oh yes, one of their main complaints is about a ruddy great aircraft carrier that’s gone aground off Gothenburg. Thought you’d like to know that.’
Little by little, Fraser had edged out from the self-imposed internal exile of his hood. He looked around the shining clean control and crew-filled room. This was a better way to go to war, isolated at a distance from the death and ugliness. A crewman handed him a large mug of soup and he clasped his hands about it. The submariner was about his own age, and Fraser felt he could talk to him.
‘I’ve never been in a sub before, what sort is it?’ ‘Oberon class, HMS Onyx. She’s a hunter-killer.’ Fraser put the soup back on the tray, pulled his hood tight across his face, and hid from the war.
Document Outline
PDF THE ZONE 3 Hunter-Killer.bmp
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