The Third World War: August 1985 полностью

After the luxury of letting his thoughts stray for five minutes he went down the hole again and picked up a direct telephone to AOC 11 Group, his Air Defence Commander.

Air Vice-Marshal Bill Williams, the AOC, was a very experienced fighter pilot, but of course he was not old enough to have been in the 1939-45 war. He had a feeling, one way or the other, that this war was not going to last very long; as an airman to the core he had no wish to have to tell his children that he had spent all of it underground. So that morning he had handed over to the Group Captain Ops and flown one of the Tornados on the Baltic Exits combat air patrol. The very one, in fact, in face of which the raiders had turned back. Later he remembered his telephone conversation with the C-in-C because it seemed to mark a watershed in the relentless battle that he was running.

Understandably, he was keen to give his chief a first-hand account from the front line of battle. The C-in-C, who knew most things that were going on, forestalled him.

“Hello Bill — I see you had a good trip. What were they?”

“Backfires we think, sir, but we didn’t get a visual. They turned back as soon as they got us on their radar. We couldn’t close them — not this end of the Baltic anyway — and we thought they might be spoofing.”

“How are things in the Group?” asked the C-in-C.

“Well, you know our battle claims and our air and ground casualties. We’re still keeping a four to one kill ratio including aircraft losses on the ground and that seems to be good. Everyone’s tails would be right up now except that they’re so bloody tired. The aircrew are still all right — just — and we’re enforcing rest periods between sorties for them, but the ground crew have only been snatching sleep as and when they can since the first scramble. They’ve taken the casualties on the ground absolutely marvellously, especially in the runway repair teams. There have been plenty of medals earned by those chaps if we ever get round to that sort of thing. But they’re pretty well flaked out now. I hate having to say it but I can’t see how we can keep this pace up for more than a day or two. How do you think things are going, sir?” There was a pause before the C-in-C answered — he wanted to be encouraging.

“Several of their raids have turned back in the last eight hours and that must mean something. I think it’s just possible that they’re coming round to the idea that they probably can’t win this one.” He paused again. “I only hope they don’t twig that they probably could if they raised the tempo and kept at us for another week or so. Bill, you’ve got to keep your men going and it may be quite a time yet.”

As the C-in-C hung up, a Sergeant placed a folder of intelligence reports and photographs on his desk. He studied them very closely. Half an hour later he called the Air Defence Commander again:

“Bill, we’re getting some very good Int stuff by satellite now about our counter-air ops. The losses of 1 Group, and of the Germans and USAF, in Tornados and F-111s, have been pretty heavy but COMAAFCE reckons the exchange rate is a very good one and I agree. With what they’re doing, together with the cruise missiles, it looks as if we’re fairly ripping those airfields to bits.”

“Can I pass that round the Group?” asked the AOC, hoping for anything that would help hold back their battle-weariness.

“Of course,” said the C-in-C, “but, Bill — for your ears only in case I’m being too optimistic — if these reports are as good as they look your chaps should be getting a little more rest before long.” “