It had been impractical to attempt the same over by 1 Company; the slope was too shallow so mines had been planted where they could be the most use.
With the Warrior in position there was nothing to do but wait, and the RSM felt the need for a mug of good Java, but he’d have to make do with British Army freeze dried coffee granules instead.
“Do you have time for a coffee, Padre?” Arnie commented, but he did not receive a reply. The Padre was squinting off to one side at a thicket a hundred or so metres away.
“Padre?”
“Sorry sarn’t major, I thought I saw a stretcher being carried into some bushes.” The battalion aid station and casualty collection point was in the opposite direction to the one the bearers he was sure he had seen had been heading.
Arnie was unaware that any of the battalion had yet been injured and said as much, but the Padre apparently was not so sure.
“It will only take me a moment to check, RSM.”
Arnie was going tell his loader to grab a first aid kit and accompany the Padre, but he was already striding purposefully away and Ptarmigan was carrying the news that 40 Commando had been overrun. Arnie glanced after the retreating back before shrugging; he and his crew had more urgent work to be getting on with, but he told his loader to keep an eye out for the Padre from the commander’s position, and then got busy himself.
The Spetznaz major had spent an hour and a half looking for a position such as the one he was now in, with line of sight to not two, but three prime targets, a company CP, an ammunition resupply point, and the enemy battalions principle command post. This spot was also sufficiently divorced from the enemy defensive positions as to be safe from all but an unlucky round from his own side’s artillery, but they would not of course tempt fate and his six remaining men were hacking at the ground with entrenching tools. The only fly in the ointment was a nearby enemy fighting vehicle that had since turned up, and although he and his men carried only small arms and grenades, he had the means to make it disappear permanently if it did not move on. All in all, the major considered that he and his men had done quite enough for one war and the time was approaching for them to sit the rest of this one out. After the next three targets were taken out their communications gear was going to ‘malfunction’, and he had no intention of putting his ass in harm’s way again. With continental Europe in Soviet hands there would be a period of chaos, where an intelligent man with a touch of ruthlessness could set himself up in business before the forces of law and order again appeared. Food shortages would be the most obvious of the woes about to befall the western Europeans, but the major had sufficient contacts in the army supply services to ensure sufficient stocks. After all wars, food becomes a more important currency than even gold, for a while at least.
Before ‘Civilisation’ was again fully restored; the major intended to be Europe’s wealthiest. It was this dream he was focussing on when he suddenly noticed a middle aged, and apparently unarmed British captain had entered the thicket and was glaring at him and his men. Incongruously the British officer did not appear to have a personal weapon with him, and he wondered what kind of fool ventured out unarmed during a battle?
“Who is in charge here?”
The major allowed a surreptitious glance toward the enemy APC before answering, and noted that its turret was still facing to the front but a figure in its turret was looking towards this section of undergrowth with a pair of binoculars. His men had paused in their digging, and two were eyeing their weapons that lay close by, but by a barely noticeable shake of the head he conveyed to them that they were to make no sudden moves. Under the current circumstances, killing this man had to be an act of last resort.
“That would be me, sir.” The Russian officers accent was pure East End of London, and the captain was unaware he was conversing with the enemy, but he wasn’t done with the major and his men either. The slightly portly captain was looking hard at him.
“And just who is “Me, sir”…I don’t recognise you, Corporal?”
“Corporal Brown, sir.” The major let a hand slide behind his back, where the fingers curled around the hilt of an ugly looking fighting knife with a serrated blade that he wore on his belt. “This is what’s left of my section; we are all that remains of 40 Commando, sir.”
Although the Padre had the greatest respect for the fighting qualities of the Royal Marines, there was something unsavoury, and distinctly seedy about this individual.
“The only survivor’s Corporal, or just the fastest runners?”
The major allowed the right amount of indignation to show in his response.
“We was ordered out sir, ordered to evacuate these wounded.” He nodded at the two stretchers, covered by ground sheets so that just the boots of the occupants protruded.
“They died before we got here, so we’ll fight on with your unit sir.” He gestured towards his men.
“That’s why we’re digging in…so we can give those bastards some payback!” He saw a hint of uncertainty in the captain’s eyes.
“If we’d run sir, wouldn’t we just carry on going?”
The captain considered those words, and the Spetznaz officer felt a sense of satisfaction when he saw the other nod in apology and begin to turn away. His fingers relaxed their grip on the knife hilt, but then the captain paused and asked who his officer was?
That the captain wanted a name was obvious, and for all the Spetznaz officer knew this Britisher might well be on first name terms with every damn officer in the Royal Marines, so he picked a name at random and hoped his run of luck would carry him through.
The Padre had thought that he’d find some confused or even shell shocked stretcher bearers stumbling around when he had first spotted these men, but having got to them it had occurred to him they may have ‘done a runner’ from their own unit once the going got tough. The marine corporal however, was looking him straight in the eye as he stated their intention to fight on beside his own unit, and the Padre regretted his earlier impression. He was about to leave when it occurred to him that a mention in the regimental diary might not go amiss at a later date.
“Who is your officer, corporal?”
“Second lieutenant Chartridge, sir…” The Padre knew only two RM officers and both were colonels so the name of a ‘Subbie’ meant nothing to him, but then the marine ended the sentence with, “…he’s our platoon commander.”
The Russian knew that somehow he’d screwed up because the British captain’s eyes narrowed.
“The marines don’t call their sub units Platoons corporal, they call them Troop.” With surprising agility he suddenly sprang across to the stretchers and hauled off the ground sheet covering the nearest one.
“Good God above!”
The British officer was transfixed by the sight of the severed pair of legs and the laser designator lying upon the canvas instead of a dead body, and the major leapt, aiming for the British captain’s throat but missing it, slicing into the side of his neck instead. A look of shock came across the captain’s face and he jumped backwards, a hand pressing against the wound in an effort to stem the stream of arterial blood that was fountaining from it. The major couldn’t let this man raise the alarm and went to grab him, to stop him from getting into the open, but the stretcher tripped him. One of the major’s men bounded after the mortally wounded captain who was still moving backwards towards the edge of the thicket, his free arm extended towards his attackers in an effort to ward off further injury.
The loader saw the Padre stumble backward into view and then another figure appeared, swinging an entrenching tool with both hands. The flailing arm failed to parry the blow aim at the neck, and the loader shouted in alarm whilst reaching for the pintle mounted GPMG.