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Inkester had the main sight on another tank, a T-80 which had appeared at the edge of the smoke. Davis anticipated the explosion of the gun, but before Inkester could fire the tank swerved and began belching flame through ventilators and hatches.

'Blowpipe missile,' shouted Davis. He could see movement on the lower ground to his left. 'Some of our infantry. Why the hell don't they keep us informed?' There were shell bursts in the trees near the infantry position, and the smoke laid by the enemy artillery was much closer. The noise of the battle had become as great as that of the initial artillery barrage. Davis could hear the crump of mortar shells and feel the ground shivering beneath the Chieftain. It was like standing in a railway tunnel as a ten-coach intercity roared by.

He was about to try to help the infantry with prophylactic fire along the hedges beyond their position, when Inkester shouted again: 'Traversing right…three o'clock.' Davis saw movement at the edge of the barrage. Dark hulls in the smoke…the sudden flashes of white flame. Inkester began bringing the turret around.

The bank of earth three meters ahead of Bravo Two was hurled aside. The concussion knocked Davis backwards, his head smashing against the equipment behind him. He heard a second explosion and was thrust forward out of his seat. Someone was screaming…the interior of the Chieftain was pitch-black, the atmosphere thick with the stench of fuel and swirling dust. 'We're going to brew up,' thought Davis. 'Any second now we'll go.' Bravo Two was quivering as though it were alive. He tried to struggle upright, but could find no purchase for his feet. Shadwell was yelling beside him. There was a burst of light above, then a terrifying crash. The Chieftain's hull echoed…there was excruciating pain in Davis's ears. Bravo Two rocked as though it were resting on a water-bed, then something seemed to hammer down on the turret with terrible force, twisting the tank sideways, forcing it deep into the earth as though struck by a gigantic fist…

Magpie, the stay-behind-unit of the Royal Tank Regiment, had not suffered from the intense Soviet barrage that preceded their armoured assault. Few of the missiles and shells had landed in the strip of ground that included their underground bunkers, though they had felt the thump of explosions transmitted through the heavy clay to the concrete chambers in which they and their light Scimitar tanks were sealed. The position was shell and bomb proof, and even the heavily camouflaged entrance which was its weakest point was protected by an overhanging shelf of concrete looking, with its natural weathering and subtle design, like nothing more than an outcrop of limestone.

There was a sense of isolation making the men even more nervous. They were now totally cut off from the NATO armies; a small island, encompassed by an ocean. The war had swept past them, friends must have already died, but as yet they had seen none of the action.

Captain Mick Fellows hoped he had transmitted none of his own doubts to their minds. It was bad enough that he himself should be having misgivings about the entire project. And waiting through the long hours until darkness came again, and with it his final instructions from HQ, was making him even edgier.

What the hell was he doing here anyway? Volunteer? They'd said that; made him feel proud about it too, for a while. They had used an insidious form of pressure: 'Need the best man, Mick…someone reliable, cod-headed…any ideas? Important task. It'll do your career a bit of good!'

'Captain Fellows, sir.' It was Lieutenant Sandy Roxforth, one of his Scimitar commanders, at the observation platform. 'There's some movement outside.'