Chieftains (26 page)
'Concentrate, Spink, the damned war isn't over yet!' God, it certainly wasn't; he could still hear explosions close behind the Chieftain...it only took one shell to knock out a tank, and they were still in range...one fast troop of Soviet recce PT-76s, and Bravo One could get hers. 'DeeJay see if you can pick up what's left of the road...should be on the lower ground to our left.'
He glanced behind; the war was everywhere. The entire horizon to the east glowed, spat flames and fire trails; the night sky was not black, but the colour of blood.
Five times Charlie Bravo One had been stopped at roadblocks or check-points, twice by infantry and three times by MPs of the traffic control organization. And most of the traffic Davis encountered was travelling in the same direction as himself; very little moving towards the battlefront. All he had seen heading eastwards in the past hour were two motorized companies of German anti-tank infantry, and a solitary armoured reconnaissance unit. The villages through which Bravo One had driven were already wrecked, demolished by bombing or long-range missiles. They were still defended by infantry, but seldom by any visible armour. Davis had noticed engineers and their mine-laying equipment, a few supply vehicles, but little else. He had seen greater concentrations of equipment during peacetime exercises. Where the hell was it all now? He hoped it was somewhere hidden in the darkness, waiting. If not, dear God, NATO defences were pathetic.
Bravo One was approaching Braunschweig, the tracks scattering sparks from the surface of the road. Davis was startled by the changed appearance of the city's outskirts; every building was flattened, blasted. Craters in its surface had been roughly filled with the bricks and concrete of its wrecked houses, and only a narrow track, kept clear by engineers' bulldozers, allowed the passage of the vehicles.
DeeJay cut the speed. Ahead of Bravo One was a line of transports, heavily loaded Stalwarts forming a slow-moving convoy that, even at night, was such an obvious target their company made Davis nervous. Had he been certain there were other bridges still open, he would have been tempted to continue by another route.
There were no refugees this time, at least he saw none who were alive. Further back, towards the battlefront, there had been many dead at the roadside. Their bodies lay tumbled amongst their possessions, scattered and crushed by the wheels of heavy vehicles, victims of the drifting gas clouds, machine gun bullets of Russian fighter planes strafing the roads to add to the confusion and make the movement of NATO troops and supplies even more difficult.
Bravo One at last reached the bridge, and yet another roadblock. Military police again, and supporting them a platoon of infantrymen in their protective clothing behind a sand-bagged machine gun post. Davis watched the MP sergeant examine the hull of Bravo One with his flashlight; there were no identity marks. The man walked to the rear of the tank and used the infantry telephone. Davis was astonished it still operated.
'Where the hell do you think you're going all on your own? Give your identification!'
His temper's as worn as mine, thought Davis. Sod's probably been on the go for two days. 'Charlie Bravo One. Battle Group Quebec. Warrant Officer Davis...you want my fucking number, too?'
'You've no insignia or markings on your hull.'
'Replacement tank. We've worn one bugger out already.' Davis made his tone of voice friendlier. There was no point in aggravating the man, it would only cause more delay.
'Where are you from?'
'If you want the name of the village, I've no idea. We've been ordered to Orchid, from somewhere west. If you want to know who gave me the order, I can't help you; I was too busy at the time. Check back to Quebec.'
'You contaminated?' It seemed as though the thought had just occurred to the sergeant.
'Of course we're bloody contaminated. The whole battlefront is contaminated. We've been washed down once, but we had to go back in.' Forty hours of fatigue and stress had sharpened Davis's temper. The effort to remain polite was too much.
'Okay, take it easy, I'm only trying to do my job. We've had deserters attempting to get by in vehicles, as well as on foot. Bastards! I wouldn't waste time with a court-martial!'
Deserters? They hadn't occurred to Davis before. Now the thought didn't upset him too much. Perhaps they were the only sane ones. 'Can we go ahead?'
'If you wait, we'll check you out. Sorry, we have to do it.'
It took several minutes while the MP radioed Group HQ.
'You're okay, Charlie Bravo One. Your blokes are building up west of the Mittellandkanal and the Ise. Heard about the north, sir?'
Davis shook his head wearily. The north? Christ, there was enough going on around here. The north was a million miles away.
'The Belgians and Germans are holding the Lübeck suburbs, and the south bank of the Elbe as far as the River Luhe. The Dutch are doing pretty well across the Lüneburger. We don't know much else though.'
'Thanks,' said Davis. 'We'll push on then.'
The man's voice held him. 'For God's sake take it easy on the bridge. The structure's not too good...bombs...had raids most of the day, they keep getting planes through...the rockets are the worst...long-range...you hear them coming after they've exploded. There's a decontamination unit beyond the city, on the 214 just before you reach Watenbüttel. You won't miss it, nor the route through Braunschweig – it's the only cleared road. Just follow it. On your way, sir.'
NINETEEN
Day Three
Davis could smell the decontaminant, antiseptic, drying on Bravo One's hull as he pushed open the hatch. The fresh air was sharp, chill, inviting, clearing the fumes and the stench of body filth from his nostrils. He stood and directed DeeJay to the camouflage netting bay that was already in position. When DeeJay cut the engine, Bravo One settled as though it were as fatigued as the crew.
He reported to the Command HQ, but no one seemed interested in him, and a lieutenant ordered him to return in two hours' time. Exhaustion was making him feel old, indecisive. He checked his watch; it showed half an hour past midnight. It took him a little time to work out it was now the third day of the war. It was Saturday morning, and he was still alive. He didn't want to return to the Chieftain, at least, not yet. The tank was too closely linked to death and the horror of the past hours.
It was a clear night above him, and for the first time since dusk he was able to see the stars. They were things that never changed, could be related to memories of better times. Everything else might be different, altered, except for the fine pattern of the night sky. Looking at the stars now was like watching old friends. They were always there; even when there was cloud you knew ,they were resting somewhere above it all. Towards the south-east some were hidden now...the rising smoke of the battlefront? No, cumulus. Davis looked more carefully. It was cloud, dense clouds, thunderheads building to the south; rain clouds! He sucked his finger and tested the breeze; it seemed southerly. 'Let it rain...please God let it rain.' He was speaking his thoughts aloud.
'I've been making the same prayer for the last hour.'
Davis hadn't noticed the man standing nearby in the darkness, and the unexpected voice made him jump.
'I didn't mean to startle you.' It was an officer's accent. The man moved closer and Davis could see a white collar beneath the combat jacket', a padre. 'I think our prayers might be answered. I've modified mine now; I'm praying it rains quickly, and heavily.'
'It's what we need, sir. Something to bog them down...prevent them bringing up reinforcements and supplies...hold their armour.'
'Yes. Is that your Chieftain?'
'Yes, sir.'
'I went over there a few minutes ago; thought perhaps the men might like a chat. I think they were all asleep.'
It didn't take them long, thought Davis. Rest was more urgent than food for them at the moment. "They've only had a couple of hours kip since it all started, sir.' He could make out the padre's face now, he wasn't as old as Davis, perhaps in his late twenties. Apart from his collar and badge, he could have been any officer.
'You've been at the front the whole time?'
'Most of it, sir.'
'I was there briefly this afternoon, with an infantry company. They tolerated me for an hour, then sent me back here again. I suspect I was in the way.' He sounded amused, but then his voice was more serious again. 'It's all madness...total madness. I was with a Roman Catholic priest, both of us in NBC suits; he gave the last rites to a Russian soldier who couldn't even see what he was...perhaps didn't even care...wouldn't be able to hear him behind his own respirator and hood. We both prayed...it's all madness!'
Davis was uncertain what he should say. Army padres usually attempted to raise men's spirits, but this one...'You're probably right, sir.' He stared longingly in the direction of the Chieftain. Waves of fatigue were flowing through his mind.
'Would you care to join me in prayer?'
'I'm sorry, sir. I have to sort out a few things, if you don't mind.'
'Perhaps tomorrow morning?'
'Goodnight, sir. Davis walked away. He felt uncomfortable; he had a feeling the padre had needed him, wanted his help. Perhaps it had all been too great a shock, for the man, at least an active soldier's training provided some form of cushion against the reality of war.
There were three bundles lying close to the Chieftain's right track; the crew, well-wrapped, their heads covered, but preferring the open air to the tank's clammy interior. They hadn't even bothered to erect bivouacs. Davis looked down at them. Hewett, Inkester and Shadwell...no, not Shadwell my longer, Spink. Good lads, all three. And somehow still alive, but God only knew how! Twice now...twice they bad survived when most of the others hadn't. Why? Luck! If any of the Russian gunners who aimed the launchers had made just an infinitesimal part of a millimetre difference to their adjustment the crew and himself might be dead...all of them. Earlier it could have been their tank and not Lieutenant Sidworth's that was brewed-up by the aircraft...it was luck, all luck, and there was no profit in attempting to rationalize the fact.
Davis found his sleeping bag and crawled inside. 'Return in two hours', they had told him in the command vehicle. An hour and a half, now. Just an hour's sleep, he ordered his mind; his subconscious would obey, it always did, the military years had seen to that. Somewhere inside his head was a built-in alarm clock which never failed. It was handy.
He wedged himself against the track a few feet from the nearest of the crew. Although he couldn't see the man's head, the snores sounded like those of Hewett. Davis closed his eyes but sleep wouldn't come, hovering seductively close but driven away by his thoughts. Count sheep? Count tanks! Soviet tanks...BMPs...it was too easy to see them driving forward out of the smoke.
He tried to find a more acceptable peaceful subject that might lead to rest. Hedda and the children? No, he didn't want to think about them...he did, but...they had been in his mind a lot during the past hours, Christ, of course he was worried about them...worried bloody stiff about them. In the background was the continuous sound of artillery to remind him of the future. It was like your heartbeat, always there but so familiar you didn't notice it until you remembered, and listened.
He dozed only briefly, fitfully, and by the time he was due to report felt even more exhausted.
Reform. Again. This time not just battle groups, but entire divisions. No one talked casualties in terms of numbers, but it was obvious they had been far greater than expected. Davis was uncertain how many fighting survivors there were left from his own regiment, but knew it wasn't more than a dozen tanks; it was horrifying, unbelievable. Men he had worked and trained with for years, drunk with in the messes and bars, his friends, Sergeant Harry Worksop who had been the best man at his wedding...Colonel Studley, Major Fairly, Lieutenant Sidworth, Captain Willis, Lieutenant Burrows...Sealey...too many to name. Yesterday the operations officer had said perhaps they weren't
all
dead; there might be some wounded, even prisoners. It made little difference, they were all gone. Apart from his own crew, he had spoken to only one man he already knew...there were others, but he had not met them, yet. It had been a lieutenant, a troop commander of Alpha Squadron.
'Sir...'
'Sergeant Davis...' The lieutenant seemed as relieved as Davis to see a familiar face, and grinned a welcome.
'Warrant officer, sir...promoted yesterday...' Was it yesterday or the day before? Davis couldn't remember.
'Good man...I'm pleased.' The lieutenant had two days' growth of dark beard. Davis had watched him bring his tank in, its hull as scarred and blistered as that of his own Chieftain. 'By the way, do you know where I can get POL?'
Petrol, oil, lubricants...and then ammunition; always the first thoughts in the mind of a good tank commander. 'They've told us to wait, sir. There are a lot of infantry around...sleeping everywhere. They don't want us moving our vehicles in the dark until they've got them all safely out of the way. There have been one or two accidents already. Have you reported yet, sir?'
'No. I want to clean up a bit.'
'There's a lazyman boiler in the trees; over there...you can just see the glow.'
'Thanks, Mister Davis.' The lieutenant exaggerated the 'mister' slightly; it wasn't meant as an insult, simply an acknowledgement of Davis's promotion. Davis watched him go, collecting his crew from beside their tank. It was good to see faces you recognized.
Davis walked slowly back to his tank and shook the sleeping gunner. 'Inkester...and you too, DeeJay...Spink. Up you get...come on, show a leg...come on lads, rouse yourselves.' It was like trying to waken the dead, thought Davis. Left alone, they'd sleep here in the open for a full twenty-four hours. 'On your feet!'
Spink groaned and then said, sleepily, 'Go and get us a cup of tea, Dad.'
'I'm not your bloody father, lad...up you get.'
'Oh, God...' DeeJay was stretching himself, a lean figure unfolding from his sleeping bag, rubbing his face with his fists like a child.
Am I their bloody father, wondered Davis? Sometimes it seemed he was. 'Come on, lads.' He spoke more gently. 'You've got ten minutes to get yourselves washed up, then I want the tank cleaned.'
'Christ!'
'Properly cleaned, Inkester...bright, sparkling and Bristol-fashion, understand? Positively glowing. I'm not having any of us doing our fighting in a mobile shit-house, am I Spink?'
'No, sir.'
'Jump to it then, lad.'
'I thought they were resting us, sir.' Inkester was awake now, his voice resentful.
'Sorry lad, they're running thin on charity.'
DeeJay was already climbing on to the hull, a dark shadow silhouetted against the heavy sky. He steadied himself against the barrel of the gun. 'Y'know something, sir? If we 'ad a bloody trade union, they'd 'ave us all out on strike by now.'
'What did you think about Eric copping it?' Inkester was trying to remove burnt explosive from the breech of the gun where it had become plated on to the metal by heat.
'He didn't really cop it,' answered DeeJay. 'Not like a real wound, anyway. He wasn't shot or nothing. He just hurt himself.'
'It'll count as a wound, you bloody see. If we dished out Purple Hearts he'd get one for that. He'll be allowed to wear a wound stripe. He got it in battle, in wartime.' Fatigue had drained Inkester's face and he was white in the lights of the fighting compartment. 'Wonder what they'll be like?'
'What what'll be like?'
'Our medals!'
'What fuckin' medals? You aren't half a git, Inky!'
'War service medals. We'll all get them. 1985 to whatever...victory medals...defence medals...just like the last war. They'll look good alongside the GSM I've got.'
'Bloody gongs...you're pathetic. I'll tell you what, I'd trade every one I'm ever likely to get for Eric's Blighty. He's a lucky sod!'
Spink was wiping oil from the faces of the Clansman's instrument dials; it was surprising how dirty the inside of a tank could become, he had even found a potato crisp packet...must have been the delivery crew's.
Inkester asked: 'Were you scared, DeeJay?'
'That's a fucking daft question!'
'Well, were you?'
'Course I was bleedin' scared. You'd be an idiot if you wasn't.'
'Stink was scared, weren't you Stink?' The loader didn't answer. 'Well, so was I,' admitted Inkester. 'You two thought how many of us there are left?'
'Shut up, Inky...I don't want to know.'
'Well, 'ave you seen
anyone
?'
'It's bleedin' dark out there...what d'you think I am, a bloody owl? They'll be around.' DeeJay didn't want to think, didn't want to start weighing up the odds of his future survival. He hadn't lied when he had admitted being scared; there had been times when he had wanted to throw open the hatch, hurl himself out into the open, and run like hell as far away from the battlefields as he could get. The only thing that had stopped him was the realization his survival was less likely outside the hull of the Chieftain. And when there were lulls in the fighting it wasn't too bad again, just so long as he didn't think about it.
''Ere! Aren't you getting married today?'
'Oh, Christ, Inkester. Why don't you belt up?' The realization it was Saturday wrapped itself around DeeJay's brain like a damp suffocating blanket. Saturday. He should have been in England...probably suffering from a Tetley's hangover...no, he would be sleeping it off now, in his Mum's house, his own bed; the bed he had slept in as a kid. Saturday. What was Cathy doing? She'd be asleep, too; her wedding dress hung in the stripped-pine wardrobe they had bought on his last leave. What the hell did she want with a stripped-pine wardrobe? They would be getting army furniture...quarters. Well, they'd have got them pretty soon, anyway. She'd been collecting things for ages, though; sets of pans from sales, bedding, a place setting of a knife, fork and spoon each week from her wages. Every time he went home on leave she would take him up to her mom and show him the things she'd added to her collection. As he thought of it, he realized he could actually smell her room, feminine, talcum powder. She used the perfume he had bought her in the Münster NAAFI, expensive, French, and it scented the bedroom, clinging to her sheets and pillows. They used the bed when her family were out. Old Daphne, her Mum, wasn't a bad old stick, she damn well knew they slept together...she even sort of helped them, though she wouldn't have liked it to be too obvious. 'Come on Steve, leave 'em alone a bit, they haven't seen each other for three months...you'll be wanting to have a little chat with each other, won't you? Your Dad and I will go down the pub. We'll meet you there, about ten o'clock in the lounge...come on then, Steve...see you two both later then."
