Advance to Contact

CHAPTER SIX

The defensive fires bought the beleaguered platoon of Guardsmen the time to shorten their perimeter, bring the wounded into the centre of the position and do a proper redistribution of the ammunition. Relocation also necessitated a resumption of digging, the hacking out of fresh shell scrapes to replace those they had abandoned.

Twice the Guardsmen stopped the digging to defend the position against attacks coming from their left, and the second of these was unhindered by Claymores. In that second attack on their left, soviet paratroopers breached the perimeter and the fighting became a hand-to-hand melee of fists, boots, bayonets and entrenching tools before they were driven off.

The attackers left nine behind, seven lying inside and outside of the position and two wounded, who Colin had moved to the centre with his own wounded once they had been stripped of weapons.

Ammunition could become a problem later, so he had each rifleman give up twenty rounds which the gunners No.2s made up into belts using expended links. Those belts would be all ‘Ball’, with no tracer included but at the ranges the fights were taking place at there was no need.

He added another two sets of ID tags to the six already in a pocket of his smock and wiped off blood and hair from the edge of his entrenching tool, before continuing with his shell scrape.

Not too far away, the opposition had backed off and were carrying out their own reorg after the failure of their hasty attacks upon the British position, and following this there was a lull until more mortars could be brought up in preparation for a deliberate attack.

The Apaches thermal imager couldn’t provide an exact head count for the heat sources they had found but they reported between fifteen hundred and two thousand men were down in the trees, and headquarters 3(UK) Mechanised ordered the immediate reinforcement of the rear screen before requesting permission from SACEUR to employ MLRS on those concentrations not engaged or gravitating toward the Guards platoon in the forest.

Lt Col Reed had sent for Jim Popham, ordering him to take a company worth of the 82^nd men in Warriors to the point where 1 Platoon was supposed to pass through into the rear of 7^th/8^th Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders lines.

Once he had taken a platoon from each of the American companies Jim mounted the lead AFV and was about to give the signal for the ten vehicles to move off, when he heard the sound of someone rapping on the troop hatch door. It opened to admit Sergeant Osgood.

“Sir, may I have your permission to come along, sir please?”

Major Popham did not immediately give that permission. “Sergeant, I have all the men I need, why should I bring you?”

“Interpreter sir, you don’t speak Geordie.”

Jim opened his mouth to deny the request, but there was an edge of desperation in the man’s voice and he nodded his assent instead.

“Okay, let’s get this show on the road then, climb in and shut that hatch.”

Oz started to close it but a large meaty paw appeared in the open hatchway, followed by Arnie Moore’s broad frame.

The RSM didn’t ask the major for permission he just clambered in and growled at a young trooper, who hurriedly budged up to make room for him.

Jim’s voiced his exasperation.

“Sarn’t Major, just what the hell are you doing here?”

Arnie seated himself opposite Oz.

“Interpreter sir.”

The major gestured towards the Guards sergeant. “Apparently that alleged need has already been met, thank you.”

“Yes sir, I see that.” Arnie replied, and then nodded at Sergeant Osgood sat opposite.

“But he doesn’t speak American.”

Jim clambered into the fighting vehicles cupola, muttering something about his wife having more control over the second graders in her school than he had over grown men in a military unit.

During the lull L/Cpl Bethers found that a weariness had come over him, a reaction from the adrenaline that ceased its infusion into his system and he caught himself doing neck breakers, the involuntary nodding of the head as the brain switches off. Removing his helmet he bent his head to allow the rain to fall unhindered onto his neck in an effort to revive himself, but the exhaustion was too great and his eyes closed.

It could not have been more than a few minutes later that he awoke suddenly, his heart pounding in the guilty realisation that he had fallen asleep, and then he noticed his gunner was snoring. His small command had fallen asleep at the switch and he reached across to angrily shake them to wakefulness.

The flash of lightning startled him, but not as much as the impression he had out of the corner of his eye of a figure stood beside a tree just a dozen paces away from their position. Snatching up his rifle he brought it up to his shoulder, cursing the light that had robbed him of his night vision but the next bolt of lightning, following quickly after the first revealed only an empty landscape of trees and churned, water logged forest floor.

Bethers released the breath he had been holding before rudely awakening the gunner and his number two. Thunder boomed in the distance and all of them now lay with one eye closed to preserve night vision against the sudden flashes that preceded them.

Colin crawled around the perimeter checking the men and whispering words of encouragement. He too had found himself falling into a doze and recognising it for what it was he went off to do the rounds. Of his remaining twenty three men still able to fight he caught seven of them sleeping, and awoke each one by cradling an earlobe of the offender with an index finger, and then digging a thumbnail into the soft flesh. It brought instant awareness to the individual without causing them to call out in pain or alarm. Once back in the land of the living he whispered to each of these the same verdict on their lack of self-discipline.

“You just lost yer shaggin name, bonnie lad.” Then he moved onto the nearest NCO or senior Guardsmen to inform them of something quite similar, and ensure that they did their job in future.

Jim Popham found 1 Platoons Warriors in a long line behind varying depths of cover, where they could assist the Highlanders with their 30mm Rarden cannons if called upon. The 82^nd Warriors moved into laager a tactical bound behind them and their turrets swung outwards to cover interlocking arcs of fire. Jim left the APC, or ‘Track’ in Americanese, to pass the word. Stay close to the vehicles; don’t go visiting the neighbours who talk even weirder than the Coldstreamer’s. Maintain radio silence, only smoke inside the vehicles, and don’t goof off. As soon as it was light enough they would be moving out to link up with 1 Platoon, so their time would be best employed by preparing their weapons.

The younger and more inexperienced wanted to know why they weren’t already moving out, and he took the time to explain the frightmare, which that course of action would quickly become. In a night action in a forest against a superior force of infantry, Command and Control would go out the window as men became disorientated and got separated, fire fights between friendly troops would be a certainty, and no amount of available artillery support could prevent them from getting bogged down and surrounded in those circumstances, needing they themselves to be extracted.

He was approaching the sixth vehicle with his orders when a figure left the huddle of paratroopers stretching their legs and gassing in whispers beside it, shoulders hunched against the rain. The figure ducked out of view back into the fighting vehicle and after giving the men his instructions he went to investigate.

Three men sat in the darkness inside and by the shielded light of his minimag Jim recognised each of the paratroopers, but the boots and camouflage trousers protruding from the gunners seat in the turret were of British pattern rather than US Army.

Addressing the nearest trooper he asked the question. “Who’s that?”

“Koplenski sir, new guy.”

“Brandt, you are a heartbeat away from becoming a permanent resident on my shit list.”

Brandt gave a resigned shrug.

“It’s Company Sergeant Major Tessler, sir.”

Jim raised his voice slightly. “CSM, be so good as to be waiting beside my track when I return from rounds… … … don’t make me hunt you down and shoot you like a dog, ok?”

“Sir!” a disembodied voice replied.

Serge and Mikhail were lying two hundred yards from the Guards perimeter when they were joined by a soldier who knelt beside them to pull back on his equipment from where it had lain.

“Zdarovy?”

The soldier lay prone beside Serge before reporting.

“They are where they were reported to be by the survivors of the company they broke, Colonel General. The perimeter is about twenty metres inside their block of trees.” He described in detail the locations of the shell scrapes and each gun position.

“Strength?”

“Maybe an under strength platoon, sir. They will not be a problem for us.”

Serge was not quite as optimistic, whoever these enemy troops were they had already defeated three times their own numbers, the amount generally recognised for the successful over-running of a defended position. It was clear that only a planned assault would succeed where the previous hasty attacks had failed, hence the reconnaissance by his most experienced scout.

He squinted as lightning painted the forest momentarily white, robbing it of all colour, and then he had to blink frantically before continuing.

“Those damned mines of theirs are a problem, did you locate any or have they expended them all?" The soldiers answer was lost amid the sound of thunder and he paused before repeating himself

“Sir, I found none along either their left or right flanks, I believe they have used them all there. Three remain covering the track and at the rear they still have two, however neither of those will now function as desired when they need them.”

Nodding in satisfaction Serge dismissed the man back to his section with a word of praise, before sending a runner back to the first of the new mortar lines. The orders he gave his Spetznaz commanders sent Mikhail and his men to the left flank of the enemy position, to incorporate the remnants of the paratroopers company and set up a point of fire. Serge would take the other company to the rear where he would lead the assault. Neither company commander was happy with that item but Serge would not be swayed. Should the attack fail then they would reform and provide covering fire for Mikhail’s company to attack from the left.

Had they not expended all their RPGs in the house-to-house fighting in Braunschweig they would have employed them with telling effect here, but there was no point in wishing for what no longer remained.

Whoever succeeded would fight through the NATO position and reorganise amongst the gorse beyond the logging track, where the remainder would join them before moving off to attack the reported field workshops the recce patrol had seen.

“What arrangements for the wounded sir?”

“If they can move unassisted and still fight, then they come with us… otherwise they will have to be left behind. No dawdling on the NATO position my friends, once they go off the air their artillery may give it serious attention.” Serge knew the dawn was approaching and with it NATO air and ground units. They were running out of time and he wanted to finish things here and get clear of this forest to where they could create as much havoc amongst the enemy as he could.

Each of his men had been carrying a mortar round in their packs since they had evacuated Braunschweig, and with relief they had filed past a series of mortarmen on tracks, firebreaks and in clearings on the way to the start line, handing the munitions over where they were stacked up by type, high explosive and smoke. Some of the rounds were captured NATO munitions; the 81mm rounds performed perfectly well out of the Russian 82mm tubes. It went without saying that NATO could not utilise captured Red Army munitions in the same way and this went for all calibres of weapon. For decades, since the raising of the Iron Curtain they had planned on being able to make use of their potential opponents stores whilst denying those same forces the use of their own, and all by the simple act of producing gun barrels just a smidge wider than their enemies.

With five alternate sites roughly 300m apart, beside their current one, they could hopefully stay ahead of the NATO artillery, but they would not have the luxury of bedding in the base plates by firing rounds, and therefore accuracy would suffer. With the counter battery threat there could be no adjusting fire, they would send over a single belt of rounds and then relocate at the run, carrying the barrels, bipods, base plates, aiming posts and sights. The on-site stock of rounds at each mortar line would be abandoned once they displaced, but if NATO artillery did not respond then that position, and those rounds, could be utilised again.

The runner who arrived at the mortars had paced out the distance from the start line on his way, and fractional adjustments to the elevation of the barrels were made accordingly. Now that all was set the lieutenant commanding the section watched the luminous minute hand of his timepiece creep around its face.

Jim Popham was on his way back to his own Warrior when a rumbling started from the north. He thought it was still thunder at first but the sound continued on unabated, and he paused to listen for a moment to what would become known as the largest artillery bombardment in Europe since the Second World War, as the Red Army made a final effort to break the NATO line.

The sound was eclipsed by the detonations much closer to home of several thousand bomblets arriving on the largest concentrations of soviet airborne troops, and Jim flinched, putting his hands to his ears to drown out the cacophony of sound.

Ray Tessler was trying not to feel like a schoolboy sent to wait outside the headmaster’s office when Major Popham returned, however the American merely informed him he would command one of the 1 Platoon vehicles, as would Oz and Arnie.

On the soviet mortar line the soldiers glanced apprehensively up at the skies, wondering if an MLRS had targeted the real estate they were currently occupying. The forest still reverberated with the echoes of the bomblets that had just annihilated about two thirds of each battalion’s strength and the officer had to snap at them to return their attention to the business at hand.

The lieutenant raised his arm, in his uplifted hand the white pages of an open notebook stood out clearly in the dark and the number two men on each mortar inserted the finned base of a round into the muzzles and paused, retaining their grip on the round as they watched for the arm to fall. As the second hand completed the minute his arm swept downwards and the rounds were released.

The recoil sank the base plates an inch into the earth, and then the bipods retaining collars were unclipped, the barrels were unseated from those same base plates which were then hauled from the sucking mud by anxious hands.

‘Arthur’ was still scanning the forest and had computed the mortar lines location even as the first mortar barrel was being slung onto a shoulder by a soldier already running toward the next position, as fast as his burden would allow him.

The 155mm rounds landed slightly ‘over’, but still close enough to have killed anyone remaining. As it was the concussions bowled over the last of the retreating men despite the two hundred metres worth of trees between himself and the point of impact.

Coming so soon after the employment of the MLRS, Colin’s first reaction to the belt of mortar rounds straddling the logging track was that they were about to become blue on blue casualties, those targeted by accident by friendly forces. One Nine, the company commander, assured him otherwise and it was several minutes before this was repeated, the rounds landing alongside the firebreak to their left and bringing a tree crashing down.

Counter battery fire moaned mournfully overhead and with a large degree of satisfaction several Guardsmen cheered on hearing secondary explosions, but the men were not cheering five minutes later when the next belt arrived, landing square on to their position with one of the rounds exploding amongst the collection of wounded.

L/Cpl Bethers ignored the screams and switched on his nightscope. According to his watch the dawn should soon be breaking but for now it was as dark as pitch. The low pitched hum the device emitted cut out without warning, its batteries exhausted and Bethers placed it to one side and gripped the trip fares communications cord, carefully pulling it taut in readiness for use.

The next fall of mortar rounds was again by the logging track, but this time they were smoke rounds rather than HE and the defenders on that side listened hard for an attack to emerge from that direction.

B Battery received the fire mission but received a ‘stop’ order from the brigade artillery rep. On receiving the gun lines acknowledgement brigade sent the Apache back into the area for a damage assessment of the MLRS strikes. The Apache had monitored the cat and mouse game between the enemy mortars and their own artillery, and on their own initiative made a beeline for that area of forest. It wasn’t the mission they had been given, but that could wait a little longer.

Thoroughly winded by their exertions the mortar crews reached their next base plate position and flopped down in the mud, too spent to continue until they had at least regained their breath.

The sound of the helicopters beating blades came upon them quickly, but the trees masked the direction the low flying aircraft was approaching from until it cleared the pines at the northern end of the clearing.

Flaring to a halt barely six feet above the treetops its downwash whipped the branches of the conifers to frenzy, and the belly mounted chain gun pivoted downwards, questing the heat sources below. 30mm cannon shells marched across the clearing sending up geysers of mud in a line until it reached the weary mortar crews who were only just starting to react. Too late, much too late for all but three who managed to reach the trees, then finally the helicopter banked away to disappear into the rain swept pre-dawn.

Bethers hissed at his gunner to stop gawping over his shoulder and look to his front. “I can’t see shag all corpor… ” The unmistakeable sound of someone stumbling in the dark interrupted him and Bethers tugged hard on the communications cord, which set off the flare pot to reveal the approaching first line of soviet troops.

Taking up his clicker Bethers squeezed not once but twice, because the Claymore failed to detonate on the first and subsequent attempts. His gunner on seeing the difficulty immediately opened fire along with his number two, aiming short bursts at individuals amongst the trees. Bethers unplugged the firing cable from the clicker and hurriedly inserted into it the cable for his last mine, and with a final look to ensure the enemy were in range of where the mine should be he depressed the clicker’s generator arm.

The firing of the flare pot had got Colin’s attention but Bethers did not answer his radio. He was already crawling towards the rearmost position as the gimpy and riflemen to either side of the gun group engaged targets he himself could not yet see due to the severed boughs and splintered sections of tree trunks that had steadily accumulated on the forest floor since the ambush.

To add to their woes they were now being taken under fire from the left by crew served automatic weapons, firing on sustained fire rates.

He paused long enough to call in a fire mission to suppress the fire from the left before peering around the bole of a tree.

He could see the soviet troops skirmishing toward them through the trees and then his eyes fell on something closer to, in a tree a few paces from Bethers and his gun group. He recognised the firing cable wrapped around the object, strapping it to a tree trunk where it had been repositioned and faced down at an angle at the defenders.

Bethers finally connected the end of the cable into a clicker and Colin saw him glance toward the soviet troops, judging the moment to fire.

“NO BETHERS!”

The gun group and riflemen in the nearest shell scrapes disappeared amid black smoke, the welter of flying wood splinters, blood, bone and mud blown skywards by the impacting shrapnel from the Claymore. A white phosphorus grenade exploded, set off in the pouch of one of the gun group by the impact of a ball bearing passing through the pouch. The rounds in magazines next to the grenade began cooking off in the intense heat it produced.

Colin removed a grenade from a pouch and called up the remaining groups on his PRC 349, ordering them to send every other man to form a new line level with his shell scrape, and then knelt up to throw the grenade beyond the lingering smoke.

As he threw, the first figure emerged out of the smoke, silhouetted against flare pots glow and Colin snatched up his SLR, bringing it up into the aim and shot him through the chest. The grenade went off out of sight, and he heard screams from at least one injured man before hurriedly crawling backwards.

Coming through the trees with the second line of troops, Serge saw the first wave disappearing into the white smoke seventy metres ahead, and the firing from the flank paused while the gunners shifted aim, keeping the fire ahead of their own troops.

The first band of light appeared on the eastern horizon but down in the trees this was hardly noticeable. The rain was still falling from above as Serge urged his line forward and shouted at the third line to also speed up when firing from the contested position rose in ferocity. Splashing through puddles they were moving forwards at a jog to close on the position when cannon shells began exploding amongst the third line of the company. The man beside him hesitated, looking fearfully up towards the sound of the beating blades and Serge grabbed an arm, dragging him on to where the Apache would not be able to attack for fear of hitting friendly troops.

Mortar rounds, definitely unfriendly ones, landed in the vicinity of the second company, and the fire support from there faltered.

Serge ran across the firebreak and into the block NATO occupied, where he slowed to a walk, crouching over to present a smaller target and keeping tree trunks between himself and the sound of firing.

As he drew closer he saw the attack was stalled, so he took the next four men into the block to within grenade range. The flare pot had burnt itself out and Serge waited for more light, the risks of a grenade hitting a tree and bouncing back amongst friendly troops was too great.

A shermouli rose from the far end of the block to provide light for the defenders, and on a command from Serge they all threw together.

The shock effect brought a pause in the defenders fire, and Colin shouted for its resumption. The Guardsman on the gimpy to his right didn’t respond, Colin could see a leg unmoving on the other side of the tree he was lying beside, and he reached over to give it an angry yank. He found himself holding a severed limb which he gaped at for a second before getting a grip on himself, and none too soon either because the soviet troops were rising up from behind cover, still firing but with bayonets fixed.

He scrambled to his feet to meet the rush of the nearest soldier, steel rang on steel as he parried aside the others bayonet with the barrel of his own and following the movement through, driving the toe of the SLRs butt into the soldier’s throat before stepping back quickly into the on-guard stance. A large man with greying hair visible beneath the rim of his helmet rushed at him from the side and Colin pivoted but had to jump back a step when his parry was expertly avoided and the others sharp point narrowly missed impaling him. Colin dummied a jab with the intention of turning the blade in whichever direction his opponent dodged, but the illumination from the parachute flare died suddenly. Colin, unsighted, thrust to the left but the wind left his lungs with an audible “Oof” and he was driven backwards until he came up against the trunk of a tree.

He tried to move but something was holding him there, and of a sudden he felt light headed, dropping his own weapon and reaching down to find the cause he burned his hands on the hot barrel of his opponents.

He couldn’t feel any pain, and he was aware of a dark figure in front of him tugging at the weapon to free the blade that stuck through him and into the trunk behind.

Groping inside his smock, his hand finding what he sought and withdrawing it. His arm felt so very heavy, and the sky seemed to be getting darker rather than lighter. The dark form was working the blade from side to side now, and as it came free Colin fired twice before the 9mm Yarygin fell from fingers suddenly turned nerveless.

An hour before dawn an Argyll’s listening post had the men of that unit standing to, having reported movement toward the forests edge, 300m from the Scottish positions. Seven minutes later a trip flare went off at a track junction DF’d by the Jocks and it was engaged by a GPMG in the SF, sustained fire role. Mounted on a heavy tripod, all the DFs and FPFs, the Defensive Fires and Final Protective Fires, had been live registered, in other words they had previously put rounds onto the target when it had been identified as a possible approach route or forming up point. It was all part of the defensive preparation of a position.On that occasion the compass bearing and the angle of elevation of the barrel had been recorded for later use if called for. No further fire for effect was required once this was done; the gunner and his number two unlocked the mount allowing the gun to be pivoted about its axis onto the required settings. They then ensured the elevation bubble incorporated in the detachable C2 sight was level, and locked the tripod mount.

The gun that engaged the track junction wasn’t from the company that had it on its frontage, but its neighbour on the left. The GPMG produces an oval shaped beaten zone, the area where its rounds land, and by firing at an oblique angle to the target the beaten zone more effectively covered the area of the target.

Here in the Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders lines the Warriors laager was only about a mile from 1 Platoon, and Oz paid only passing attention to the streams of tracer arcing over to land a short way beyond the edge of the forest. He was about the only man left outside of a vehicle as the thunder storm drew closer and the electrical activity in the clouds had picked up the gauntlet thrown down by the Red Army artillery, giving a demonstration of how many decibels it was really possible to produce in two thousandths of a second.

There had been little in the way of small arms fire from the direction of his platoon since they had arrived here, only mortar fire at intervals and then finally the sound of a helicopter with rapid firing cannon out in the darkness.

He had his own radio on the platoon net and listened in silence to the sitrep’s that reported the growing list of casualties, impatient for the dawn to arrive and their departure from this place.

Major Popham had briefed the commanders of the three platoons plus Arnie, Oz and Ray on how he had decided they were going to do this. Rather than go in dismounted with the APCs following on, he was going to employ two parallel firebreaks that led almost directly to 1 Platoons position, and use the fighting vehicles speed and 30mm cannons to punch their way through any opposition. He would take the left hand firebreak, leading five of their own Warriors, plus two from 1 Platoon whilst the senior of the platoon commanders and the remaining six went down the right. On reaching an intersecting firebreak leading to the area occupied by the older trees and gorse they would across the logging track from 1 Platoon. From there they would have to play it by ear according to whatever CSM Probert could tell them about the situation at that time. It wasn’t a particularly intricate plan but they had to get straight who would do what should one of the mini flying columns, or both, get into difficulties. Conversing over the net with the battalion CP he had set up a fire plan with the mortars to provide support if and when it was needed, and these details of course were given out should he himself become a casualty.

After informing them that they had just thirty minutes to brief the men the platoon commanders went off to do their own O Groups which left Jim with little to do but wait, and he too was also getting tired of the inaction. A few desultory fire fights had broken out between the Argyll’s and the enemy in the tree line but he had a feeling the soviet airborne unit was finished as a serious fighting force. The same couldn’t be said of their comrades to the east though, and Pat Reed had confided that if the new US Corps didn’t arrive in the next day then SACEUR believed the reds would achieve their breakout across the rivers. Jim exited the Warrior and looked at the flashes reflected off the clouds to the east and shivered as rainwater found its way down his neck. Looking first at his watch and then toward the eastern horizon, he climbed back into his Warriors and took up the radio mike. “All stations Steel Falcon… prepare to move”

Oz climbed up the side of his Warrior and lowered himself down into the commanders spot. Putting on the vehicle headset he checked the mike was on ‘intercom’ before keying the pressel switch.

“Driver, start up.”

Pat Reed accepted a mug of tea from a signaller, blowing on the surface before taking a sip. The radio he was listening to was tuned to the 1 Pl net but he did not do anything other than listen in, monitoring the fight. When another signaller told him that Major Popham’s callsign was now on the move he glanced at his watch and dearly hoped that the intervals of mortar fire 1 Platoon were receiving were nothing more serious than harassing fire whilst their attackers withdrew from the vicinity. The warrant officers periodic sitrep’s took a change for the worse with the report of a mortar round killing five of the wounded and adding to the injuries of three others, but Pat still had his fingers crossed for his men until twenty minutes later.

“Hello One this is One One, contact at our six… wait out.”

Seconds later he heard Colin come on again.

“Hello One this is One One, several machine guns in forestry block to our left… shoot dee eff One One India and suppress, over!”

1 Company acknowledged and passed on the message to the mortar line by landline before confirming the rounds were on the way.

“One, roger dee eff One One India, wait… shot one three four, over.”

No acknowledgement was forthcoming from 1 Platoon though, and the signaller in the CP waited several seconds before trying again.

“Hello One One this is One, acknowledge my last, over?”

Pat knew now that the soviet airborne troops had merely been putting together a proper plan of attack. When next Colin came on the air he was shouting in order to be heard over the sound of gunfire.

“One One, roger shot… One One Charlie has been overrun… wait out to you… all stations One One send even numbered foxhounds to the centre… send even numbers to the centre!”

When next they heard from 1 Platoon it was not Colin’s voice but that of a young Guardsman fighting to keep the panic out of his voice.

“One One Foxtrot this is One One Bravo… Delta and Echo are gone… we need help here!” The fierce fighting was abundantly apparent in the background with the screams of hate and pain underscored by automatic weapons fire, the distinctive SLR and the explosions of grenades. The other callsign failed to respond though.

“Foxtrot this is Bravo… Foxtrot this is… … … ”

Pat heard a burst of fire; loud in its proximity to the radio that was transmitting, and it was neither an SLR nor a gimpy that was doing the shooting. The send switch was still depressed at the other end but there was no more firing to be heard, just the sound of Russian voices in the background.

Roaring out of the Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders lines in single file the Warriors then split into two columns, each heading for its fire break. It caused not a little consternation amongst the soviet troops who had made it as far as the forests edge. They had no anti-armour weapons left and no option but to get out of the way and hope the AFVs kept on going.

There were no officers left above the rank of captain amongst the soviet paratroopers and no formation larger than a platoon remaining, but the four hundred or so fought on anyway because they still had ammunition. The attack on the Scots was not a group decision, but rather one of instinct by some of the remnants of the three battalions to attack the nearest enemy position. Other groups had chosen to wait on the NATO forces to come to them, and were making hurried preparations inside the forest.

Major Popham’s Warriors had travelled no more than a quarter of a mile before encountering any resistance besides small arms fire and hand grenades.

Combat Engineers had been placing explosive in a hole dug into a wheel rut on the fire break when they heard the sound of vehicles coming their way, and had hurriedly finished up before scrambled into the trees, uncoiling cable as they went. They let the first two vehicles pass and detonated the charge under the third.

Ray Tessler’s Warrior was flipped over onto its side where it partially blocked the passage of any other vehicles. The gunner suffered a fractured pelvis, whilst Ray dislocated his left arm, broke three fingers and four ribs aside from his being knocked unconscious. Only the driver escaped the crash without injury, but caught shrapnel from a grenade as he was freeing himself from the wreck.

Grenades and small arms fire caused the vehicle commanders to drop back inside the Warriors and button up but had little effect otherwise, however, in order to proceed the wrecked APC would have to be moved, and that could not be done until the ambushers had been sorted out.

Colin faded in and out of consciousness, aware only of the pain and cold that gripped him. He was sat with his back to the tree surrounded by the dead, one of whom still grasped the AKM with its bayonet, washed almost clean of his blood by the rain. The same could not be said of Colin himself; blood had soaked him from the waist down. His field dressing, taped to his left webbing strap was so placed for ease of access, but his feeble attempts to free it had failed. His only method of preventing more from leaking out was a tampon carried in his own first aid kit, in a map pocket. The female sanitary product was ideally shaped for plugging bullet holes; hence its presence in his kit, but the bayonet wound was not circular and could not be completely filled. He was unable to reach the exit wound but in the entry wound it swelled up and helped go some way into sealing the hole.

The simple task left him exhausted, and as he leant against the trunk he found himself looking at the man who had inflicted the injury.

There was something familiar about the Russian he had fought but he lay on his side with his face turned away, and Colin wasn’t up to doing much of anything, let alone turning him over for a better look. There were no badges of rank displayed, and for a man of that age it was odd he would be a private soldier still.

Something was digging into Colin’s right buttock, and he moved forward slightly. The effort brought flashing lights before his eyes and then his vision dimmed as he slumped back against the tree, back into unconsciousness.

When he came to again he found an unrolled sleeping bag draped across him and a field dressing in place over the wound.

“I have to say that you are looking a little partied out, Sergeant Major.”

Nikoli was lying a short distance away; his uniform caked in mud and with a bloody dressing tied to a thigh. He had lost weight since Colin had been captured at Leipzig airport and sunken cheeks were highlighted by dirt and camouflage cream.

“You aren’t the fanny magnet you once were either sir, but with some decent sleep, a few squares, and of course if you tried putting a blade in your razor next time you shaved, it couldn’t hurt.”

The young Russian chuckled.

“I quite missed your parade ground sarcasm Colin.” He looked concerned as pain wracked the features of the British warrant officer.

“Do you have any morphine, only there are a dozen wounded… both yours and ours scattered about and I used all of mine putting them out. There isn’t much more I can do for them right now?”

The spasm passed and Colin shook his head.

“I used mine up a few hours ago, but one of the section commanders might have some.”

Nikoli unbuckled his fighting order; shrugging out of it he used a splintered branch as a crutch and pulled himself to his feet.

“I’ll be back in a little while.”

“I’ll still be here, sir.”

What had once been a forestry service managed blocks of cultivated pine trees in neatly ordered rows had become a hazardous jungle gym with shell craters, fallen trunks, shattered stumps and amputated limbs of trees amid those that still stood. It took Nikoli time to search this obstacle course before he found what he sought. It wasn’t a Guardsman but one of the generals Spetznaz troops, lying broken and discarded, and who clearly had no further need of the medication.

The soldier who had owned the pack was probably a combat medic aside his other duties, and he did not have single dose self-injectors, but a syringe and small bottles of morphine. Nikoli had picked up enough ‘Jack-of-all-trades’ lore to know how, and what dose to give.

On his return he injected enough to take the edge off the pain and wrote on Colin’s forehead the letter ‘M’, time and dosage with a marker carried in the dead soldiers medical pack. Colin felt a pleasant glow roll away the pain and muttered his thanks.

“It’s not enough to delay surgery, so tell me when it gets bad again, ok?”

Colin made a face to show he understood.

“I will lay you down to make you more comfortable, let me just move this poor fellow out of the way first.” Nikoli rolled the ageing soldier onto his back and froze momentarily, darting a glance at Colin before rolling him clear.

Colin had got a good look at the face in that moment and despite the barbiturate in his system it set him to thinking back, to when he had seen that face before.

Kneeling with his back to Colin, Nikoli went through the pockets of the corpse but they held only ammunition and the bits and pieces any ordinary soldier would have about them. Undoing the smock he found the wearer had on an aircrew shoulder holster worn over a thick woollen jumper, which was now soaked in blood from chest wounds. Ignoring the blood, which had soaked the lining of the smock he rummaged through the inner pockets. They were empty, but something was sown into the lining and taking his pocketknife he slit it open, extracting a waterproof plastic envelope. Twenty pages of handwritten foolscap paper and a CD Rom were contained within, and Nikoli ruffled through the pages.

Only Serge himself could possibly explain why he had not left these behind to burn in Peridenko’s dacha, or instead left them locked in a safe rather than hidden about his person. Most of the sheets contained code names, and contact details for named individuals inside Russia and in about twenty foreign countries, the remainder, about four sheets worth, were covered in Chinese characters, a language Nikoli knew nothing of.

Distant artillery fire and not so distant small arms fire had been continuous since Nikoli had regained consciousness, but a loud explosion much closer to was followed by the crack of 30mm cannon fire, grenades and automatic weapons, announcing that NATO was not far off. Whatever these papers and this disc were they must be destroyed before they arrived. Removing his Zippo lighter Nikoli tried to spin the striker wheel with a thumb to light it, but the wheel would not move the signal that only a tiny nub of flint remained.

“What are you doing Nikki?”

Nikoli looked at Colin over his shoulder, and gave a little smile. “I’m cold… loan me your lighter, I want to light a fire.”

Colin nodded and reached behind himself, his hand feeling around. Nikoli held out a hand but Colin’s came back into view holding the Yarygin, which had been causing his buttock such discomfort earlier.

“That’s your General, the one who was with you at the airport, isn’t it?”

“No Sarn’t major.” Nikoli shook his head. “Just some poor dumb bastard like you and me.”

The pistol was pointing at Nicola’s middle, and Colin had to use both hands to hold it in his weakened state.

“Put whatever you have there down, and move away sir.”

He almost reached for his own pistol, but it was attached to his webbing a good twelve feet away. Nikoli studied the wounded warrant officer, gauging the others resolve, and how fast he could react, he then had to weigh his own resolve and remind himself that his country was at war with Colin’s.

“You aren’t going to shoot me Colin, any more than you could back at the airport, so put the gun down, ok?”

The muzzle stayed pointing at him though, albeit less than rock steady. Nikoli still had his back to him, and slowly he raised his right hand, showing Colin the papers.

“They are just letters his girl wrote him Colin… here, see for yourself.” Tossing the papers at Colin, Nikoli saw Colin’s eyes follow the sheets of paper, and he dragged the pistol from Serge’s shoulder harness, rolling to the left as he brought the handgun to bear.

The sudden movement more than anything diverted Colin’s attention back to Nikoli, registering that the Russian was closing one eye and extending an arm with a handgun coming up into the aim at him. A flash of lightning made Nikoli flinch, snatching the shot

Colin fired a split second later but thunder from directly overhead drowned out the sound of the gunfire. Nikoli’s shot went wild; disappearing well to the wounded Guardsman’s right, but Colin’s entered the armpit below the outstretched arm, deflecting off the collar bone to exit slightly above Nikoli’s left hip, after penetrating both lungs and the heart.

A look of shocked surprise crossed the young officer’s face, and he started to say something but the light of life fled from his eyes, and his head slumped to the wet forest floor.

Colin sat unmoving for a full minute as he looked at his one-time friend, and then tore his eyes away, dropping the pistol to grab up one of the discarded sheets of paper. He couldn’t tell if it was a state secret or the intimate scribbling's of one sweetheart to another, and a sob escaped him followed by tears that coursed down his cheeks as he gathered up the remaining sheets and pushed them into a map pocket out of the rain, before again succumbing to unconsciousness.

The fire fight drew groups of soviet paratroopers like moths to a flame and Jim Popham’s columns both found themselves being engaged from all directions. Mortars, the Warriors Rarden cannon and the US paratroopers hammered each contact as they appeared; allowing the casualties to be carried to the remaining vehicles and CSM Tessler’s crippled AFV was nudged aside by another Warrior, giving enough room for the remainder to continue.

Jim couldn’t raise 1 Platoon on the radio and neither could anyone else, so the chances were that the position had been overrun already and they might have wasted their efforts getting here.

Midway to the fire break junction where both columns would turn right and rejoin, they came upon a scene similar to the wood the enemy Special Forces had hidden in, but there were far more bodies in evidence here. A long column of troops of about company strength had been following the firebreak and they now lay where the MLRS sub munitions had found them, in Indian file with each man ten paces from his neighbour. Away in the trees the rest of this company’s battalion had been in the process of digging in, and the puddles upon the saturated ground were red in the morning sun when the bomblets had landed amongst them. It was no surprise the survivors were taking every opportunity to have a crack at them, having lost so many comrades without warning. The Guardsman driving the lead Warrior slowed when he saw bodies lying in the way, but this was no time to worry about sensibilities.

“All Steel Falcon call signs, those guys are dead and they can’t feel anything anymore so kick down and drive on!”

As did everyone else, Jim closed his mind to what the 24,500kg vehicles were driving over, and leaving in their wake as the fighting vehicles traversed that length of the firebreak.

The beating of rotor blades brought Colin back to consciousness, and the shape of a British Army Air Corps Apache passed overhead, riding shotgun for the troops on the ground.

He was no longer alone amongst the trees, friendly troops hunted amongst the debris of war for those still living, it had also stopped raining. Hot packs, self-heating bags warmed through a chemical reaction in the contents, had been placed under his smock, warding off hypothermia. A medic had started an I.V drip, it hung from a branch above him and his dressing had been changed by the same medic who was too busy talking triage over a radio to notice his patient’s eyes were now open.

Oz hovered protectively nearby but was also unaware that Colin was awake again, as he was in heated discussion with someone out of view. Arnie Moore saw his eyes were open and Oz knelt to speak reassuringly, but had to put his ear to his friend’s mouth before he could hear what was apparently so urgent. The sound of helicopters which were arriving to casevac, casualty evacuate the wounded to field hospitals, was making his task difficult.

“What does he want?” Arnie asked when Oz finally stood back up after removing the sheets of paper from Colin’s map pocket. Oz looked at Nikoli’s body with regret and then stepped over to the body it was lying next to.

“You got any Russian speakers in this crowd, sir?”

Arnie took a second to think about it before going on the air to call up one of the troopers securing the perimeter. “What’s this about Oz?”

The British sergeant retrieved a computer disc from beside the second body, holding it gingerly by the rim.

“Colin thinks this guy is a General, so this stuff could be important.”

Arnie peered at the body with a dubious expression before shrugging and calling up Jim Popham.

By the time the trooper had arrived Jim had been filled in on what had transpired, and had also looked over the dead Russian sceptically. As the trooper arrived Jim looked at the name badge sown over a breast pocket.

“Beckett, did you study Russian in school?”

The trooper was not one of the regulars, but a reservist called back to the ranks.

“Fourth generation Russian American, sir.” The trooper explained. “Beketskeyev was a bit of a mouthful, so it got chopped a bit.”

Jim handed over the sheets of paper.

“What do you make of these, Beckett?”

The paratrooper read most of the sheets but on reaching those covered in Chinese script he raised an eyebrow and looked at the major with a ‘Are you taking the piss?’ expression.

“The ones in Russian, if you please… what are they?” the major wasn’t feeling particularly indulgent.

“Well sir, they seem to be contact details for various individuals who have code names, and some careless spook wrote their real names down too. At least that’s what it seems to be.”

Jim looked back at the dead Russian, noting once more the absence of any rank insignia before looking back at Trooper Beckett.

“Do you think its genuine?”

Beckett answered the question with one of his own.

“Say Major, did you hear anything about NSA analysts with high I.Q’s being drafted into the army?”

The question caught Jim unawares.

“No?”

Trooper Beckett handed him back the sheets.

“Me neither, sir.”

“You’ve got a smart mouth trooper, how’d you like to walk back from here?”

Trooper Beckett wasn’t put out.

“No more than you’d like trying to park in front of a hydrant in my precinct back in New York, once this is all over, sir.”

“You a cop?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jim pursed his lips for a moment.

“Let’s assume that what this guy was carrying is the real deal.” Beckett was listening respectfully, but he had the air of someone who knew the answer already, after all it was just a logical exercise in evidencing the find from a policeman’s perspective.

“There are people paid to be sceptical who will assess its authenticity, so how would we document it?” Jim finished.

“Sir, we stop anyone else putting their paw marks on it, seal it up and sign the bag. Then we take this guy’s photo, and the scene… someone’s got to have a camera in their kit, probably one of the younger guys.”

“Ok.” Jim hadn’t thought of that, and Arnie went off to hunt a budding ‘jimmy the click’ to fulfil the task. “Anything else?”

“Sure… the battalion Intel officer needs to get in on the act as affidavits need to be done from everyone here, and we take the dead guys prints.”

Major Popham cleared his throat.

“G3 is my other hat so that’s covered, and they are all good points except the last one, we seem to be fresh out of fingerprinting kits.”

Beckett withdrew a notebook from a pocket and knelt beside the body of Serge Alontov. Opening at a fresh page he took hold of the dead man’s right hand and separating a finger he pressed it to the blood matted sweater. The blood was coagulating fast and had long since passed the stage where it had run like water. Beckett rolled it expertly onto the open page, pausing to study his handiwork critically, and then nodding to himself in satisfaction before continuing with the remaining digits.

Jim was impressed with the rather gruesome improvisation. “Anything else you can think of trooper?”

“Yes, sir.” Nodding at the body Beckett carried on. “This guy and all his gear goes stateside or wherever the intelligence guys want him and someone here goes with him along with the documents, of course.”

That left Jim with the decision as to who got an early trip home.

“How long you been with us Beckett, you come with a recent draft of replacements?”

Beckett shook his head.

“Hell no, I joined the outfit at Bragg two days after the army remembered I was still a reservist, sir.”

Stepping forward, Arnie held out a hand to the trooper. “Well I guess you got elected then Beckett, it’s been good having you with us.”

Although he took the offered hand the trooper looked embarrassed.

“Sir, what about the rest of the guys, I don’t like the idea of abandoning them?”

“You go where the army sends you, Beckett.” Jim said reassuringly. “And if this turns out to be a big load of nothing, then I guess we will be seeing you again sooner rather than later.”

Hurried statements were written out by the witnesses and a young trooper with an instamatic camera used up half a cartridge of film before handing it to Beckett with his parents address, extracting a promise that the unrelated snaps would be delivered to them.

Back at the battalion CP Pat Reed was updated on what appeared on the surface to be an intelligence windfall. The brigade intelligence officer wanted the pages, the CD Rom, the body and in fact everyone and everything connected with it to be sent up to brigade for assessment, but a quick call to SACEUR prevented that pointless delay. Having pissed off his higher headquarters yet again, Pat past on the ultimate destination.

Black Hawks appeared overhead and the first pair landed on the deforested strip by the logging track, and the most seriously wounded were stretchered over and loaded aboard.

Oz walked beside Colin’s stretcher, reassuring him for the third time that Beckett had not been bullshitting, the sheets of paper carried intelligence info and not hugs and kisses. He carried in his hand the Yarygin and shoulder holster, which would only find its way into some REMFs kitbag as an un-earned trophy of war if it stayed with Colin, so Oz would give it to Arnie who had still not managed to acquire one of the sort-after items for himself.

As the first Black Hawk lifted off, carrying Colin, British and Russian wounded to field hospitals in the rear, Oz gave a wave to Beckett, awaiting his turn with his grim luggage, now inside a body bag, and then jogged away to his Warrior in readiness for the return to friendly lines.