Sar'n.'
Eric Shadwell, the loader, called, 'There's something wrong with the Clansman, I've lost the troop net.'
'Jesus, why now?' swore Davis, then remembered he was still speaking through the Tannoy. He switched it off. 'Then get it re-netted...and move, laddie.' The last thing he wanted to happen now was to lose communication with the rest of the troop. Everything seemed to be happening too quickly, and he knew how dangerously mistakes could compound.
Shadwell was twisting at the controls of the radio set, then yelled: 'It's okay...I think it's okay.'
Davis spoke into it: 'Charlie Bravo Nine, this is Charlie Bravo Two, Manoeuvre completed successfully. Over.' He ducked into the turret and slammed close the hatch.
Sidworth's acknowledgement was laconic. 'Roger Charlie Bravo Two...' Then there was a break and Sidworth said, 'Here we go, Bravo. Watch for the command tank...wait as long as you can...out.'
The last black fog columns of the HE explosions were drifting clear of the plain and joining td form a rising grey curtain when dark smoke grenades began bursting.
Davis saw the enemy armour. He had expected perhaps a single squadron, edging cautiously into the fields of the plain in the direction Sidworth had indicated. But far below him were row upon row of Soviet tanks, sixty or seventy, already crossing the misty corridor of ploughed ground that with its barbed wire had constituted the frontier. As his fear magnified them, for a moment they appeared as invincible monsters far greater in size, far more heavily armed than anything he had ever imagined. Where was the minefield? Could nothing stop them? What were the NATO gunners doing? Why weren't they firing? A minefield was only any good when covered by artillery. Davis controlled his growing sense of panic. Fear could take away a man's reason, make him commit fatal errors. He had a lot to live for...Hedda, the twins,...their future...his own. His hands were trembling, so he gripped the turret controls more tightly. Work to the book, he told himself. Take it easy and stay calm. Don't forget the lessons, the hundreds of hours of practice. Trust Bravo Two, she's a good tank. He took several deep slow breaths, then forced himself to concentrate on the terrifying landscape ahead.
The smoke screen was becoming denser but he could still see the advancing Russian tanks. They had already suffered heavy casualties. Several were burning in the ploughed strip of land that was freshly pitted with craters. In the woods beyond, more smoke, obviously from oil and fuel fires, was wreathing above the trees. He tried to identify the enemy vehicles. Some, at the head of the attack formation, were the new T-80s fitted with mine-clearing ploughs, but he recognized T-72s and the earlier T-62s It looked as if the Soviet division was using every available piece of armour it could find to add weight to their thrust.
Part of the battle group's Swingfire battery was concealed in a shallow gulley skirting a thin plantation of larches. From his position well above them on the ridge of high ground, Davis could see their vehicles, and even a few of the men. They were less than three thousand meters from the first wave of Soviet tanks, and had either survived the storm of the barrage, or been moved quickly into position under cover of the smoke. He watched two of their missiles leave the launchers almost simultaneously. He was unable to follow their course, but one of the leading T-80s disappeared in an inverted cone of fire, and a second later there was explosion at ground level beside a T-72, which slewed sideways as it shed a track.
There were two Soviet Hind-F gunships swinging across the border woodland, and Davis heard himself shout an impossible warning to the crews of the Swingfires. The two aircraft came in at little more than a hundred feet, ominous dark vultures hovering above the ATGWs. One of the vehicle's gunners must have seen them for there
Eric Shadwell, the loader, called, 'There's something wrong with the Clansman, I've lost the troop net.'
'Jesus, why now?' swore Davis, then remembered he was still speaking through the Tannoy. He switched it off. 'Then get it re-netted...and move, laddie.' The last thing he wanted to happen now was to lose communication with the rest of the troop. Everything seemed to be happening too quickly, and he knew how dangerously mistakes could compound.
Shadwell was twisting at the controls of the radio set, then yelled: 'It's okay...I think it's okay.'
Davis spoke into it: 'Charlie Bravo Nine, this is Charlie Bravo Two, Manoeuvre completed successfully. Over.' He ducked into the turret and slammed close the hatch.
Sidworth's acknowledgement was laconic. 'Roger Charlie Bravo Two...' Then there was a break and Sidworth said, 'Here we go, Bravo. Watch for the command tank...wait as long as you can...out.'
The last black fog columns of the HE explosions were drifting clear of the plain and joining td form a rising grey curtain when dark smoke grenades began bursting.
Davis saw the enemy armour. He had expected perhaps a single squadron, edging cautiously into the fields of the plain in the direction Sidworth had indicated. But far below him were row upon row of Soviet tanks, sixty or seventy, already crossing the misty corridor of ploughed ground that with its barbed wire had constituted the frontier. As his fear magnified them, for a moment they appeared as invincible monsters far greater in size, far more heavily armed than anything he had ever imagined. Where was the minefield? Could nothing stop them? What were the NATO gunners doing? Why weren't they firing? A minefield was only any good when covered by artillery. Davis controlled his growing sense of panic. Fear could take away a man's reason, make him commit fatal errors. He had a lot to live for...Hedda, the twins,...their future...his own. His hands were trembling, so he gripped the turret controls more tightly. Work to the book, he told himself. Take it easy and stay calm. Don't forget the lessons, the hundreds of hours of practice. Trust Bravo Two, she's a good tank. He took several deep slow breaths, then forced himself to concentrate on the terrifying landscape ahead.
The smoke screen was becoming denser but he could still see the advancing Russian tanks. They had already suffered heavy casualties. Several were burning in the ploughed strip of land that was freshly pitted with craters. In the woods beyond, more smoke, obviously from oil and fuel fires, was wreathing above the trees. He tried to identify the enemy vehicles. Some, at the head of the attack formation, were the new T-80s fitted with mine-clearing ploughs, but he recognized T-72s and the earlier T-62s It looked as if the Soviet division was using every available piece of armour it could find to add weight to their thrust.
Part of the battle group's Swingfire battery was concealed in a shallow gulley skirting a thin plantation of larches. From his position well above them on the ridge of high ground, Davis could see their vehicles, and even a few of the men. They were less than three thousand meters from the first wave of Soviet tanks, and had either survived the storm of the barrage, or been moved quickly into position under cover of the smoke. He watched two of their missiles leave the launchers almost simultaneously. He was unable to follow their course, but one of the leading T-80s disappeared in an inverted cone of fire, and a second later there was explosion at ground level beside a T-72, which slewed sideways as it shed a track.
There were two Soviet Hind-F gunships swinging across the border woodland, and Davis heard himself shout an impossible warning to the crews of the Swingfires. The two aircraft came in at little more than a hundred feet, ominous dark vultures hovering above the ATGWs. One of the vehicle's gunners must have seen them for there
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