Bob Forrest-Webb - Chieftains

He attempted to force open the turret, the hatch lever was jammed, but gave way slowly. Everything was confused, unreal. He was unable to focus his eyes, and when he tried to shout to the crew his lungs contained no air; his chest muscles and diaphragm were cramping in painful spasms. He grabbed at the edge of the turret and fell forward, sliding down the hull and landing on his stomach beside the track. He was immediately sick. He knew the Chieftain's ammunition might explode and tried to drag himself further away, flopping like a seal across the ground as his arms gave way beneath his weight. It was all night-marish…swimming in fine dry sand…the sour taste of bile in his mouth…throbbing pain…

He lay still.

He was thrown on to his back with a jerk that almost dislocated his neck. The brightness of the sky was blinding. There was a man's face above him; mist slightly clearing. He felt his NBC clothing pulled apart, roughly…hands searching his coverall pockets. The helmet? American? Russian! Cut high above the man's ears, grotesquely sinister. He was dragged on his back, his head jolting against the earth before he was hauled into a sitting position against a tree. He recognized an AKM rifle aimed at his chest, then vomited again. More hands searched him. He tried to say: 'Let me die in peace, in my own time,' but the only sounds he could make were deep rasping groans between his retchings. He collapsed on to his side.

They let him lie for a few more minutes, until the surging waves of nausea had passed, then pulled him back against the tree. He faced the smoking wreckage of the Chieftain, fifty meters away. Beyond it, a mass of twisted metal was all that remained of the Soviet T-72.

His breathing was easier now, and the throbbing in his head had lessened. He felt mentally numb, each individual thought leaden. One of the men who had been supporting him was kneeling beside him winding an olive-green field dressing around the lower part of his left leg. I'm wounded…wounded and they're dressing it…that means I'm alive…and they aren't going to kill me…not yet anyway…maybe they'll kill me later…I'm a prisoner…God, I'm a prisoner.

There was no sign of any others of the crew. He stared at the wreckage…how had he escaped? The others were still inside…dead! His stomach heaved again, but he managed to hold it.

He turned his head and spat his mouth clean. There was the iron taste of blood at the back of his throat. One of the soldiers shook a cigarette from a packet, lit it, and pushed it gently between Studley's lips. He had seldom used tobacco, but rested his head back against the trunk of the tree and drew in the pungent oriental smoke.

What now, he wondered? Dear God, what now?

'Charlie Bravo Two, this is Nine…' The voice was persistent in Morgan Davis's ears – Lieutenant Sidworth acting as mother hen to his diminishing brood. 'Charlie Bravo Two, this is Nine, over.'

'Bravo Nine, this is Charlie Bravo Two, over.' Davis's voice was shaky. The screaming to his left was continuous, and the Chieftain's engine was revving so high the whole tank was vibrating.

'What the hell's happened Charlie Bravo Two? I've been trying to contact you for the past four minutes, over.'

'I think we've been hit'

'What's the damage?'

'I don't know yet, Nine…'

'Then damn well find out. We're pulling back to Firefly. Make it quick…understand? Out.'

Davis shouted down into the fighting compartment but the sound of his voice was lost in the noise. He switched to the Tannoy. 'Hewett…what's going on down there?'

'Fuckin' linkage is jammed.' DeeJay's voice warbled, competing against the roaring motor.

'Get it bloody well unjammed. Inkester!' The Chieftain was full of swirling dust. Davis reached down and found the gunner's shoulder. 'Inkester?' The shoulder moved. 'Are you okay?' Inkester nodded, his head just visible in the dim light. The roar of the engine dropped suddenly and its sound reduced to a steady throb.

'It's clear, Sarge…it might jam again, but it feels okay.' The engine sound increased again and died as DeeJay tried the pedal.

'Shadwell? What the hell's the matter?' The screaming had diminished as the sound of the engine had lessened; almost as though Shadwell, hunched on his loader's seat, had suddenly become aware of the shriek of his own voice. Morgan Davis leant over and shook him. 'Shadwell…' The man moved and Davis could see his face, blood-spattered. 'Oh, Christ!' He twisted himself out of his seat and wriggled into the fighting compartment. 'Where are you hurt, lad?'

Shadwell held up his left hand, he was gripping it tightly at the wrist. Davis reached out as Shadwell groaned again. Three of his fingers were missing. 'Breech, Sarge. Fucking breech got me.'

The dust was settling, slowly. Blood was dripping from Shadwell's hand. Davis wrenched open the medical box and grabbed a dressing. 'Inkester, get across here. Fix Shad while I try to get us out of here…'

'There's a live shell on the floor, Sarge…' Shadwell's voice was shaky. 'By my left foot.'

Davis groped downwards and felt the smooth cold shape of the projectile. He lifted it carefully, slightly off-balance as he reached behind the breech. He knew it was a miracle it hadn't exploded, and the thought dried the saliva in his mouth. He would have liked to dump it outside, but it was quicker to get it into the gun. He moved to slide it into place in the breech, then hesitated. Shadwell's fingers hung on the mechanism, one with a heavy silver ring still in place below a misshapen joint. Davis clenched his teeth, balanced the shell with one hand against the breech, and snatched at the fingers. They felt like knobbly sausages. He stuffed them into the pocket of his suit and then slid the shell into place. 'Where's the charge?'

'Still in the bin.'

Davis completed the loading of the gun, prayed that the barrel was still clear, and worked his way back to his seat. Inkester squirmed past him. The only undamaged vision blocks of the episcope were obscured by something resting against them on the outside of the turret, and Davis found it impossible to open the hatch. It seemed as if the Chieftain might be buried. 'Hewett, try to get us out.' The Chieftain's engine surged and the vehicle swayed. Davis could hear the links of the track squealing. 'Try rocking us…and gently, lad, there's something lying on us…trees maybe.' He tuned to the troop network. 'Charlie Bravo Nine this is Charlie Bravo Two, over.'

'Charlie Bravo Two, this is Nine. Over.'

'Loader's wounded. We're bogged down…can't see what's holding us…I don't know the full extent of damage. Over.'

'We're coming to you Charlie Bravo Two…well be with you in about three minutes. Keep trying to free yourself, but don't make matters worse.'

'Thank you, Nine. Out' God Almighty, thought Davis, what a mess! The enemy was only a couple of hundred meters away, the loader was out of action and the Chieftain stuck. It wasn't how he had visualized war. It was chaotic, disorganized and dirty…bloody dangerous.

'Eric's okay.' It was Inkester nudging at his legs.

'Yes, I'm okay, Sarge.' Shadwell's voice was apologetic. 'I fucking messed things up, didn't I? He paused. 'I'm sorry I yelled.'

'Ididn't hear you,' lied Davis. Bravo Two was heaving as DeeJay tried to reverse, her engine throbbing, the hull picking up the resonance of the exhaust, making it sound as though she was moaning in frustration.

'Charlie Bravo Two, Nine here…we see you…you're wedged against a heap of rock and half-buried under a big oak. It looks as though the rock slid from the hill behind you. You'll have to go forward over the ridge. I think we can nudge the tree clear of your hull. Bravo Four will give cover as you move. Make it quick. There are seven T-80s moving this way across the lower fields.'