Dark Earth: Exercise Warhammer

Exercise Warhammer Part 8: Night Attack

The field mess tent was packed with the assorted staff, journalists and attached exchange and liaison officers as Tom Fowler sat down at the long table with his dinner. For some reason, he had a strange feeling it might be his last time at table for several days, so he had hooked right into the scoff on offer with gusto. It was good, solid Army cooking rather than the deliberately excessive spread of luncheon, but the level sophistication indicated that this was definitely staff food. Looking around the room as he worked his way through his meat, he could identify the field uniforms of the Royal Navy, RAF, Royal Marines, Canadian Army, U.S. Army and ze Germans, as could most young men of his generation, but it took him a double take and a few quiet questions to work out the Swedes and the Free Poles and he couldn't, for the life of him, work out why the Swiss had a chap here.

"One of the umpires." Tom looked up at the officer who popped himself down next to him, a tall fellow with short hair and the uniform of the Irish Guards.

"Hmm?"

"Saw you looking at old boy over there in the field grey trying to place him. The Swiss are umpiring the whole exercise, you see, after neither us nor Jerry could agree on the French."

"I should have thought that if there was one thing that we and the Germans could agree upon, it would be the French."

"Ha! Good one, that, and probably true to boot. Lieutenant Shawn Fynn, 2nd Irish Guards."

"Tom Fowler, the press."

"Egad. Not going to use me as a source for a juicy quote, are you?"

"What happens at the dinner table, stays at the dinner table." Tom lied smoothly, seeing the opportunity to get something out of someone that wasn't as potted as the shrimps in front of him. Get them comfortable, fed and then push for it. "I say, this is a sight better than what they had back when I was in the Army a few years ago, and I'd thought it quite spiffing then."

"Certainly better than school dinners, old man. Truth be told, they're filling us up now, for on the morrow, it will be field rations in cosy trenches and muddy foxholes when we kick off. Can't wait to give Fritz a good walloping."

"I thought we were friends with the Germans now. Allies at least."

"We are, by and large, but old habits die hard, not to mention that they beat us in that football friendly back in March. Damn cheek, beating us at our national game."

"Well, it is only fair, really. We beat them at their national sport twice in fifty years."

Fynn guffawed and cut into his roast beef. "They're not that bad, the Krauts, not these days. Got some damn nice gear that they're awfully proud of. Their Jaguars are decent fast tanks and they've heavier guns than us in every division."

"You think that is the way forward."

"Wiser heads than me say its been that way since Korea, if not Siam, but we stick by the 25pdr for our reasons, as you'd well know, being an ex-Army fellow."

Tom nodded. The British Army was fairly closely wedded to the notion of artillery fire as suppression and had kept to the 25pdr throughout the Second World War in preference to the 105mm field artillery pieces preferred by the Americans, French and Germans due to its superior rate of fire and range. Those days were changing, with the 125mm replacing the old standby, but even that new gun fired a shell half the weight of the German artillery. Warhammer would see the first large scale examination of the two competing philosophies on a European battlefield and the results would be quite influential.

"Interesting to meet a member of the Heavy Mob from the Guards. I thought you chaps set yourselves apart from the PBI."

"Times change, Fowler, even for us. We're not all devoted to the Trooping of the Colour or the Victory Day Parades, as you wags in the rags would put it. Our battalion just got back to Blighty from a tour in Rhodesia two months ago."

"How was it?"

"Hard. The Simbas coming over from the Congo are bloody persistent blighters, I'll say that, and rather nasty in what they do to captives and civvies alike. We saw quite a bit of horrid stuff when going across the border in hot pursuit; 'aggressive defence', as they call it. So much so that the magisters gave considerable thought to bringing in the W.G.'s department."

"That...that would violate the Hague, Geneva and Stockholm Conventions!"

"And half a dozen others to boot. But when you see what those blasted butchering savages do to a mission school, suddenly the idea of burning them and all that doesn't seem quite so beyond the pale. And that wasn't even the worst of it."

This had definitely taken a much darker turn than he had anticipated. And none of it would make it past the MoI censors. "Fascinating. Well, if you will excuse me, Lieutenant, I think I will -"

Tom's excuse was cut off by the harsh braying of a claxon and an immediate eruption of activity as the room's occupants abandoned their meals, grabbed their weapons and ran outside. He followed, half-stumbling over the upturned chairs into the chill night air and sprinting for the nearest bunker that he'd eyeballed before dinner. It was good that most of his momentum was arrested, as he was met by a pair of very sharp bayonets, three leveled submachine guns and a very large Webley held by Colonel Lethbridge-Stewart.

Trust his luck to choose the damn command post, he thought as he was bundled into the corner after the Colonel's grudging nod of recognition.

"What do we know, Captain?" Lethbridge-Stewart barked down the radiophone.

"Jerry has kicked off 12 hours earlier than scheduled, sir. Full attack across the corps front, interdiction fires on our LoCs and reported airmobile strikes on our reserves. We're currently engaging an allround attack on the division, with inbound contacts on the CP."

"Clever. But not clever enough. Carry on." He put it down, straightened his battledress and looked over at Tom. "We've got a few surprises of our own, Mr. Fowler, even if our German friends have stolen a march on us. In 90 seconds time, our rocket regiments will begin a simulated strike on their pre-registered targets, even though they're probably empty fields; but ten minutes after that, the rearward GW batteries will launch their Silver Swords on what we can find."

"...They weren't supposed to be deployed until D+4, according to your schedule."

"We've always made a point of having a few aces up our sleeves. Now, to deal with the incoming visitors, who are just about to arrive...now." He looked up from the crystal screen on the bunker table with a wan smile and, within a second, a tremendous cacophany of anti-aircraft fire could be heard from all around the post.

"Sir, the RDF shows smaller, faster inbounds than just the helos."

"Hmm. Jetpacks or rocketwings. The rumours are true. All posts, engage with small arms." He picked up his swagger stick and turned to Tom with a pleasant smile. "Fancy a bit of night air?"

Out they strode, into the night, which was now lit up as bright as noon by blazing searchlights and crackling with the sounds of rapid archie. Dozens of men were out next to their bunkers and foxholes, firing into the sky with machine guns and rifles at silhouetted targets. Lethbridge-Stewart looked up and spotted something that he indicated with his stick.

"Jenkins! Chap with the wings there. Five rounds rapid."

..............................................................................................

As the column of FV-432 Saxons and Chieftain tanks rumbled forward through the cold night at their bumpily breathtaking speed of almost thirty six miles a hour, Tom pulled his field jacket close and huddled down in his hard seat, determined to find what comfort remained whilst on the move. He'd never seen action during his stint in the Army, but the utility - nay, necessity - of getting whatever rest and easement he could get had been drilled into him until it was second nature.

From what he had gathered from the rushed and garbled reports streaming into 1st Armoured Division's field HQ, the initial German attack had succeeded in achieving tactical surprise and had knocked several holes in I Corps front, but although the defending divisions shifted and withdrew, they did not break. A similar story was taking place down in II Corps, while III Corps was being firmly held in place by a diversionary attack. The full force of the corps reserve was now being committed to reinforce the frontline positions, whilst 1st Armoured Division began what had only been called Plan Hamilcar. Tom didn't know which direction they were headed, only that it seemed to be away from the sound of guns.

Outside, the rolling thunder of artillery and the faint scream of fighter jets echoed through the darkness as both sides went at it warhammer and tongs. The telltale sounds of Royalists and Scimitars speeding past considerably faster could be heard occasionally, along with Sentinel armoured cars tearing past even them; only two other armoured cars in the world were faster than them and it jolly well sounded like it. That much was familiar, even within the battle track, punctuated by the irregular sound of Rotodynes and helicopters heading for the front. Here and there came the sound of multiple rocket launchers sending volley after volley screaming into the blackness; he pitied any poor German civvies in the exercise area on this night.

The Jerry 1st Feldarmee CINC, Feldmarschall Kurt Steiner, and his corps commanders de Maziere, Schnez, Gericke and Bennecke had definitely stolen a march on the British Army of the Rhine. The ground combat component of the exercise was ostensibly not supposed to kick off until midday tomorrow, although Tom had begun to have his doubts that everything was as it seemed. There was no doubt that the German units would give a sterling account of themselves and not just because they were playing on their home wicket; each of their corps had four divisions compared to three of their British counterparts and all of them had a fair bit of sticking power. Whether the British had enough aces up their sleeves to counter the early attack, if it was truly a surprise, would remain to be seen. He had noted that there had been no mention of IV Corps during the hurried briefing and garbled information earlier that evening; it was supposed to still be deploying.

In any event, now that Warhammer has kicked off in earnest, it seemed as if the previous eagerness that had been displayed by all and sundry to court him and feed him with information had been replaced by the cool diffidence of the impersonal killing machine he knew so well from his own time in the colours. A few of his fellow press men seemed to share his reaction, but the majority of the dozen who had been hastily herded in here with him seemed to be rather more overwhelmed by being part of an army on the march. One nagging thought seemed to stick with him, although he couldn't quite put it together. Fynn was supposed to be from the 2nd Irish Guards, a nominally independent battalion. The brigade insignia of an ever-open eye suggested something else, though, not to mention Sandy Ashton being around earlier...

His train of thought, even as it was on the right track on the correct and pulling into the station marked Sudden and Profound Realisation, was disrupted by a sudden alteration of circumstance. Before Tom could process the abrupt change, their Saxon had pulled out of the column and off the road, thumping across rutted ground before seeming to lurch downwards for several yards before coming to a halt. Several of the more unsuspecting chaps almost went bumping around the track and what sounded like a Spanish fellow let fly with an impressive string of oaths, curses and general execration upon all those responsible and their maternal relatives unto the tenth generation after rattling his noggin in the process. The rear hatch was flung open, revealing a harsh artificial light that left Tom and his compatriots quite bedazzled.

“Righto, chaps, out we get, if you please.” A staff officer in battle dress snapped with perfunctory courtesy as he waved them towards an open door. They were in some sort of underground cavern and Tom realised they had drive down a steep ramp. Around them were several other battletracks, also disgorging their occupants.

“Where are we?” asked a somehow familiar voice from across the cavern.

“Yeah, what’s the deal here?” echoed another in a hard New York accent, indicating that at least some of the journalists from the other side of the pond were in this pool.

The rather harried looking staff officer, a very tall cove with a neat black moustache, gave a slight twitch and then put on the type of broad, menacing smile that a certain type reserved for the afflicted and the foreign.

“Very well, very well! Gentlemen, sirs, Americans, welcome to Forward Support Base Alma. I am Captain Fawlty, HQ British Army of the Rhine and if you follow me through to the viewing bunker, we’re going to let you see our counteroffensive kick off, courtesy of the Royal Space Force, 1st Armoured and the Guards Division. Complimentary tea! Complimentary tea! Come along, one foot in front of the other - they call it walking!”

Fawlty, towering over most of the slowly moving press, began to shepherd the milling mob in to the promised offerings, Tom Fowler among them.

“The pieces seem to be falling into place now, eh?” The familiar voice came again as they walked into the bunker.

“Bailey?”