by Andy Farman
So, the Grenadiers and Sappers put on a convincing act of preparing to throw a bridging unit over the demolished section under fire, and the mortars put down smoke and HE to enforce that illusion. That smoke screen also covered the Scots Guards as they waded across undetected, followed by the Life Guards Scimitars.
2CG completed the clearing of Cambewarra and rejoined the their brigade in time to hear the sound of bagpipes, the strains of Highland Laddie wafting on the wind. The Scots Guards had taken Back Forest Hill and the road to the sea was open.
Puckapunyal Army Base, Victoria: Same day 0800hrs
Turning onto finals and descending towards runway 03 of ‘Pucka’s’ short tarmac strip, Nikki noticed that the tentage was thinning out rapidly in expectation of moving to HMAAS Albatross once it was recaptured by the British Guards Division.
The Pearce Wing had been revitalised by the arrival of USS Constellation’s air wing and the army training establishment was one of three fields they were using.
The wheels screeched briefly and having only 700m to play with she braked firmly. Having completed the roll out she followed black-washed arrows on the grass to a dispersal, flanked as ever by earth filled cargo containers that acted as blast walls.
Gerry was there waiting and she saw his expression when he sighted the damage, a flicker off fear before the façade of rugged humour dropped back into place.
“Steve and Monica?” he asked after she had shut down and exited.
She answered with a brief shake of the head and added a few words.
“Fifty nine milly ess pee.”
“The same one that did that?” he nodded toward the starboard vertical stabiliser which looked like a giants sawn-off had been used on it at close range.
“Yup.”
The crew chief came over, clucking his lips and shaking his head.
“Patching it will take an hour but the avionics took a hit and you have lost a hardpoint somewhere.”
The armourers were removing the unused ordnance and she now saw a cannon round had amputated the rearmost portside ordnance hardpoint. The 500lb JDAM that had been there was now obviously sat in a field somewhere with UXB status. A matter of inches had been the difference between breathing and instant oblivion.
“That could have made your eyes water a bit” Gerry observed.
Nikki looked around for her RIO but Candice was in the shady side of the dispersal, flight helmet under one arm, batting her eyelashes at her latest target, an F-18 driver with Gerry’s new squadron.
Nikki was hungry and she and Gerry left Candy and headed to the RAAF Mess tent which was also under deconstruction but had pre-prepared sandwiches, coffee, tea and rocket fuel, an orange flavoured cold drink that was high in electrolytes but removed your teeth enamel, or so it was rumoured.
They sat outside on a fallen tree trunk, away from the labouring cooks folding away the canvas and trying to jam the end results back into bags they had slid out of with far greater ease a week before.
“Any news on how it is all going so far?”
Gerry’s squadron was supporting the ANZAC advance back to the coast across the Bega Valley.
“We lost Danny Bigsopp covering the Pom Tornados going in over Merimbula Lake, the Tornados took out the runway okay but Danny ditched in the sea a hundred yards or so off the beach, and those mongrels machine gunned his life raft from the shore.”
“You get them?”
“Oh, yeah.” That was it, just two words. When Gerry was reticent it meant a lot had gone unsaid. Nothing to describe the flak, the AAA or the ground fire from defences now fully alert as he had settled accounts.
“You Yanks are doing well, I hear. They are already in Newcastle’s suburbs.” he added and turned to peer off at the horizon, raising a hand to shade his eyes as he tried to make out what type the aircraft were that he had just heard.
“The Brits have a tough nut to crack but they are making progress.” Nikki said, but Gerry did not answer, frowning at something in the distance before a look of alarm crossed his features and he shouted whilst dragging Nikki backwards off the tree trunk, flopping back to lie protectively on top of her.
“AIR RED!…AIR RED!”
The scream of multiple jet engines passing low overhead was painful on the ears, as was the cannon fire that tore into the tented area and those working there. A series of massive explosions made the ground leap beneath her and then the raiders were gone. Only now did the air raid siren begin.
Gerry rolled off her but she remained laying there, her hands covering her head as rubble and debris fell back to earth, the result of the 500lb and cluster bomb units the attackers had dropped in the hit and run raid.
Jumping over the log Nikki ran back towards the dispersal. There had been one canvas wall still standing in the mess tent and that was now peppered, ripped and ragged by shrapnel and the cooks lay still and bloody. Only a middle aged reservist in a white apron that had turned bright crimson was sat upright, deathly pale and muttering to himself reassuringly.
“It’ll be al’right; the doc will fix this easy, just a stitch or two.” He was clutching his belly, trying to prevent any more of the shiny entrails from pouring out.
“MEDIC!” Nikki shouted but did not stop until she could see the rest of the way to where her F-14 had been. One of the hefty earth filled containers was lying some twenty feet from a crater and the burning wreckage of what had once been an aircraft. The Tomcat, ground crew, armourers and Candice LaRue were all gone. She turned to speak to Greg, to voice her horror but he was not beside her. Only now did she feel the wet stickiness of blood on her neck and it wasn’t hers. The wounded cook was where he had been, still sat upright but silent now, and with eyes glazing over. She ignored him and ran on to the tree trunk, to where Gerry was lying unmoving.
“MEDIC!”
C Troop, D Squadron, 1st (AU) Armoured Regiment: Rose Valley, NSW. 19 miles south of Port Kembla.
0242hrs Sunday 23th December.
The Princes Highway was still the axis of advance, a whole week and one hundred and sixty nine miles later, as the crow flies.
The 1st Corps of the Chinese 3rd Army was drawing in on itself, not running away, so ‘Tango Four Three Alpha’ was not on the highway but to its left, using the elevated roadway as cover from suspected enemy positions near the sea.
This was an area of New South Wales that actually looked a lot like the old South Wales, just north of Llanelli, not that any of the crew could vouch for that.
The long highway from Bega was littered in places with burnt out vehicles, the victims of strikes by the NATO air forces, artillery and nuisance raids by Australian SASR and New Zealand NZSAS Patrols in six wheeled LRPVs.
A narrow strip now known as The Devils Highway to the south of them. A 666 metre wide strip of land between Burrill Lake and the ocean was where a Chinese logistic regiment had been caught out in the open by the air force. Forty seven fuel tankers and trucks carrying stores, ammunition and the like. The lead vehicles were taken out and then the rear, trapping those in between. Of course those remaining tried to either get past the burning vehicles at the front. It had been a log jam and the men below were helpless but it was a high value target. Enough fuel and ammunition to draw out the fighting ever longer. When D Squadron arrived the vehicles were still there, charcoaled along with the occupants. The combat engineers attached to the pommy Guards had created a detour and thrown a pontoon bridge across the inlet at its narrowest point, but the breeze had been from the west, blowing over the fire blackened causeway and Chuck Waldek, in the loaders hatch next to 2Lt Burley, had up-chucked, no pun intended, down the hatch and down Che Tan’s neck, the smell had been that bad. The inside of the turret of their second hand M1A1 was a small space in which to perform the pugilistic arts but they had nonetheless managed to do each other some damage.
‘Tango Four Three Charlie’, their venerable old Leopard 1, had been hit during one of the attempts by the Chinese 14th Tank Regiment to clear th
e way to Canberra. The round had caused damage not repairable within three days and so it was replaced. Their new ride had seen action in Germany and had itself been damaged at some point before being purchased, or donated, to the Australian Armoured Corps. Whoever had taken the time to respray the interior in bright white fire retardant paint had not swept up. Che had found a small section of fire-charred jaw bone wedged beneath the gunners seat.
The regiment had seen changes, the addition of another squadron and the creation of a second battalion, equipped with all used but good condition Abrams. The regimental commander been killed in an air strike and everyone moved up one. Lt Jenkins went from Troop Commander, to Squadron Adjutant, to Squadron Commander in the space of a fortnight, all thanks to air strikes. HMAAS Albatross and Merimbula had been the bases of operations where all the sorties against the defenders had originated in the ANZAC and Pom sectors.
When they had taken Bega, Pambula Beach and Kalaru the long drive north had begun, leading them past the Fleet Air Arm base. On the first day of the campaign Albatross had been raided by special forces to curtail those air raids, it was back in friendly hands, but driving past it the wrecked Chinese aircraft were still where they had been when destroyed by the SASR.
“Whinging Pom Monkey at One O’clock, boss.” Che informed Gary. A British RMP corporal with filtered torch was indicating they go left. Gary checked the map and saw they were now close to their harbour area where they would ready for the final push to evict the Chinese 3rd Army from Port Kembla, and shove them north into ruined and irradiated Sydney.
From ‘owning’ ten thousand square miles of Australia the Chinese now held an area twenty five miles long and ten miles deep. No one held the ground north of them, no sane person would want to. The US 2nd Marines, 10th Mountain and 5th Mechanised Division had cleared Newcastle and then moved to the north west of Kembla, giving Sydney a wide berth. The Jocks, The Highland Brigade, were to the west and the ANZACS, with their tame Poms on attachment, had locked down the south along with the Guards Division.
It was dark in the harbour area, too dark to carry out maintenance on the vehicle without breaking black-out discipline, so they ate cold rations and slept.
USNS Mercy: Bass Strait, 100 miles SE of Melbourne. 1135hrs, Sunday 23rd December.
Jim Popham lay pale and wan, attached to tubes and drips. He looked curiously shrunken when Pat entered the ward, his eyes dark hollows. Pat had spent the last couple of hours visiting the wounded from his so he had the whole poker face thing mastered. Visiting Mark Venables had been particularly difficult as the Hussar had been badly burned.
“No grapes?” Jim managed a painful smile at Pat not bearing gifts.
“Sorry, the greengrocer and florists were closing early for Christmas.”
Pat Reed took a seat beside the paratrooper’s bed and looked around the ward. It was pretty full.
The Mercy was a converted supertanker and a pretty impressive vessel. Along with her sister ship, Comfort, they were taking the burden off hospitals on shore.
“What’s their story?” Pat asked, nodding to the bed opposite.
“Soon to be weds, apparently.” Jim said.
Nikki Pelham had her hand gripping that of the patient in the bed opposite, and the two of them seemed oblivious to everyone else around.
“They didn’t think he was going to make it for a day or two.”
“So what is your prognosis then?”
“Apparently the surgeon worked wonders and I can still play the saxophone, which is also slightly miraculous as I couldn’t play one before I got hit.”
An artillery round had hit the Scimitar that Jim had been stood upon.
“So how is it going then Pat, are they going to fold do you think?”
“In a word, no.”
No one knew what was motivating the Chinese politburo, but it certainly did not seem to be common sense.
“General?”
A navy nurse had her professional smile in place and he looked at his watch. It was time to go.
“Take care Jim, I will look in on you again.”
“Don’t forget to duck, Pat.”
A Chinook took the visitors back to shore. Pat looked down at the big white hospital ship, its red crosses emblazoned along the sides and wondered how many new visits he would be making after the next attack.
Port Kembla. Monday 24th December.
0400hrs and a ground mist covered the coast to the south of the port of Kembla. The full moon in a cloudless night sky illuminated it, and those preparing for battle viewed it with either wonder or dread.
At Albatross the crews had been roused for the first sorties of the day and Nikki looked at her coffee and decided on water instead. Across the mess hall table her new RIO almost had a permanent startled look about him, and she wondered if he had even started shaving yet.
Her RIO looked at her with trepidation. This was his first operational sortie and the driver was a legend, Commander Nikki Pelham.
Absolutely no pressure at all, hey?
“Er, Ma’am…the flight surgeon was looking for you?”
She had felt pretty dreadful these last few days since the air raid, but with her promotion had come the position of XO, and XOs didn’t wuss out. Maybe someone told the flight surgeon she was out of sorts? Post-traumatic stress disorder after surviving two vaporised carriers and nine months almost constant combat. The only other possibility was the mandatory drink and drugs tests, and she did little of the first and none of the second.
“I’ll catch him later,” she said dismissively “Come on, it is time for the mission briefing.”
He had no idea what today would entail.
“What are we doing, CAP?”
“CAS for the Brits.”
“Is CAS more difficult than CAP?”
“It’s just a walk in the park, Kozanski”
“Johnson Ma’am, my name is Johnson.”
“Yup, that fits.”
Thirty miles north at that same moment in time the most important meal of the day was being eaten cold out of a can of compo and very little time was spent over the washing-up before moving off to the FUPs.
“Company Sarn’t Major Osgood?”
“Sir?”
“You are a tad over-dressed aren’t you?” RSM Tessler stated critically. Oz was cammed up and ready to go, stood beside one of the company headquarters FV-432s and about to seat himself with the FAC.
Oz had been in the thick of it in the very first battle of the war but had been put in the back seat, as it were, for a rest in Germany. He was now equipped more like a buckshee rifleman in one of the sections instead of someone with a job at the back of the fight.
There was no one else in earshot.
“Take care of yourself out there mate,” Ray offered him his hand.
“You too, and now I’d best get aboard before the grown-ups notice.”
The battalion mounted up and moved out, heading for the forming up point and thence to the start line.
At 0500hrs the artillery opened fire, targeting the Chinese forward positions and at 0530hrs the combined NATO divisions stepped off.
At Albatross Nikki performed the pre-flight inspection on her aircraft as it sat like a brooding bird of prey in its cage of blast walls. It was a D Model, a rare breed these days, and the only one with ‘The Orphans’, the survivors of the Nimitz and Constellation. Nikki was also of course the last survivor of the John F Kennedy, and the last time she had flown an F-14D had been off its deck. This aircraft sported a brand new red star, her twentieth confirmed kill, which made her the navies top serving scorer with a four victories lead on the next nearest contender. Aces of course will still carry out a thorough pre-flight unless scrambled, checking surface condition, panels and fasteners, looking for leaks and misplaced screw drivers, and FOD hazards a tired mechanic could have overlooked. Twenty three headings on the checklist, with sub headings in between, before she signed for it.
Out in the darkness the a
irfield was very much alive despite the blackout.
British Tornados and Jaguars, Australian and US F/A-18s, and of course the Tomcats. The odd menagerie that had been The Pearce Wing was gone now, and so to had many of its colourful members. Even a skilled pilot is on borrowed time flying elderly F-5s and Hawk trainers against the Sukhois of the Chinese and Russian naval air wings who were their opponents. The half strength wings had been reinforced by new aircraft from China, via Mactan and the tankers based there. That of course had ended with the capture of the airfield and base there.
Over three thousand miles away to the north west the Italian, German and French air forces were operating out of Mactan and Mindanao, where Christians and Muslims had put aside their differences for the time being and ended Chinese occupation with the help of French and British marines. The writing was on the wall for the People’s Republic but saving face seemed more important than suing for peace.
The enemy naval air wings in Australia were the first item of business today for the RAF. The Tornados were bombed up with JP233 runway denial weapons and the Jaguars were the Wild Weasel flak suppressors paying an early morning visit to Illawarra airfield, on the edge of the lake by the same name. It was the last operational airbase in Australia that the Chinese had.
The remainder of ‘The Pearce Wing’, the Orphans and the Aussies, were providing close air support for the ANZACs and British Army ground units along with USAF A-10s out of Jervis Bay, with USAF F-15s and 16s flying CAP out of Canberra International, as were the tankers, AWACS and JSTARS. It was set to be a busy day and a crowded sky.
