Robert Forrest-Webb - Chieftains

‘Fourteen!’ Davis felt the blood draining from his face. Fourteen survivors out ‘of forty-five main battle tanks… plus the colonel’s and the Number Twos…’ Fourteen, sir? Perhaps he had misheard.

Clarkson nodded. ‘Chieftains, yes. And we still have five Scimitars in the battle group.’ He knew the sergeant’s feelings exactly, his own had been identical as the figures had come through; disbelief and then horror at the loss of so many men… not all exactly friends, but at least regimental comrades, colleagues. ‘It’s been a very bad day, Sergeant.’ He added: ‘For all of us. Have you been informed about the colonel?’

‘No, sir.’ God, not old Studley, too! Colonels were supposed to be indestructible… they didn’t get themselves killed!

‘The colonel’s tank was knocked out. He’s gone.’ Clarkson made it sound as if Colonel Studley was off somewhere on a jaunt, but Davis understood. ‘And Major Fairly is reported missing believed killed.’

‘I’m sorry about that, sir.’

‘For the time being, the figures are confidential, Sergeant. I don’t want them bandied around. Wouldn’t help matters. And, of course, there may be quite a few survivors; some of the men will have been taken prisoner… perhaps even making their way back out of the line on foot, holed-up somewhere.’

‘Yes, sir.’ There might be a few, thought Davis, but he knew Clarkson’s optimism was purely for his benefit. The condescension annoyed him slightly.

‘Now, if I can have your report…’

Davis told him as much as he could recall. It was hard remembering, and he corrected himself frequently. One of the clerks was jotting down notes. Davis answered the captain’s questions, then said, ‘That’s about all, sir.’

‘Good, Sergeant. Very useful.’ Clarkson paused and mentally confirmed there was nothing he had overlooked in the interview, and then leant back in his chair. ‘Take your loader to the aid-post, and then get some food inside yourself and the crews. Stay close to your vehicles, we’ll want you back here later.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Davis saluted and climbed out of the vehicle. The sky towards the east was heavy with black smoke clouds; the war was seeking him out, relentlessly. There were too many vehicles moving in the laager for him to hear the guns, but he knew the sounds would be there.

The crew were sitting beneath the netting beside the Chieftain’s tracks. There was no need for him to suggest they should eat, they were doing so already. DeeJay was asleep, his open mouth still holding an unchewed bite of fried egg sandwich. Inkester cradled a pint mug of tea, and Shadwell a pair of cheese rolls balanced in the crook of his injured arm.

‘Come on Shadwell, let’s get you seen to.’ Davis stared down at him good-humouredly.

‘I think I’m fit, Sarge. Fit for duty.’

‘Don’t be daft, lad.’ He understood Shadwell’s reluctance to visit the hospital tent. Here, he was with his mates; there, everyone would be strangers. It was the same-feeling you got when you were posted.

‘It’s not bothering me, Sarge, honestly.’ Shadwell waved his bandaged hand. ‘I’m okay now.’

‘It’ll bother you later. The war hasn’t ended yet. We’ll be back in action in a couple of hours. You’ve got yourself a "Blighty".’

‘Lucky sod,’ enthused Inkester. ‘You’ll be drinking beer in an English pub tomorrow. Bloody ace, Eric. You’ll have smashing nurses to teach you to pick your nose with your other hand!’

‘Balls,’ muttered Shadwell. He followed Davis across to the field ambulance and glowered as Davis handed him over to the orderlies. ‘I’ve left some gear in the tank, Sarge’ A delaying tactic.

‘I’ll get Inkester to bring it over.’ Davis slapped Shadwell’s back, gently. ‘Thanks, lad. We’ll see you soon.’

‘Was I okay, Sarge? I mean, well, did I do all right?’ He sounded like an insecure teenager who’d just surrendered his virginity.

Davis knew it was unlikely he’d ever see Shadwell again. He would be moved back to the UK eventually, and probably discharged. He had been a crew member for two years, and Davis realized whatever he said to Shadwell now was going to be remembered for a very long time. His attempt to choose the right words made them clumsier. ‘You did marvellous, son… marvellous. You’re a first-class loader, Shadwell. Best I’ve ever had.’

He turned quickly, left the ambulance, and then paused outside. Shadwell had said he had left some of his gear in the Chieftain; Christ, he had some of Shadwell in his overall pocket… his fingers! Davis called to the nearest orderly, a young pink-faced man sterilizing instruments in a steamer outside the aid-post.

The fingers were of no use, they had been off Shadwell’s hand for far too long for them to be sewn back in place, but just throwing them away somewhere didn’t seem right to Davis. He sorted them out from the compo ration sweets which had gone sticky in his pocket.

‘Sergeant?’ The orderly looked at him quizzically.

‘Here. You’d better have these,’ said Davis.

The orderly held out his hand automatically, and Davis dropped Shadwell’s stumpy bloodstained fingers into his palm. It took the orderly a moment or two to realize what they were, then his face paled. ‘Bloody hell!’ He dropped them as though they were hot.

‘Pick them up,’ Davis shouted furiously. They were no longer fingers, they were all his friends who had died that day on the battlefield. ‘Pick them up, lad. See that Trooper Shadwell gets his ring back, and give his fingers a decent burial.’

Davis was facing a brigadier from Division HQ, glad he had managed to find himself a cup of hot water and shaved. He would have liked to strip off and shower because he knew he was stinking, but it had been impossible. However, he was relieved he had got some of the muck off his face and hands.

Charlie Squadron’s leader, Captain Valda Willis, was with the staff officer and had smiled as Davis entered the command post. ‘Glad you made it, Sergeant.’ The greeting had held genuine warmth.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Davis!’ The brigadier was glaring at him. ‘Captain Willis has just put in a report of your performance this afternoon.’

Christ, thought Davis. What now?

‘He tells me you personally stood-off a Russian tank battalion. Is that correct?’

Davis felt himself blush. ‘I don’t know about that, sir.’

‘At Redstart, Sergeant. Yourself and the corporal in charge of Charlie Bravo Four. He tells me that on your own initiative you got yourself hull-defilade beside a road, and picked them off as they came across the fields. You then retired four hundred meters and did the same thing again. It has been confirmed by an officer of the 17th/21st.’

‘It seemed the best thing to do, sir,’ said Davis. He hadn’t realized there had been an audience. It made him even more embarrassed.

‘You could have simply retired, Sergeant; the remainder of your squadron vehicles were all knocked out, it would have been reasonable for you to have done so.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Davis didn’t know what the brigadier was expecting him to say. He wasn’t sounding particularly friendly, perhaps Davis was about to get a rocket for putting the tanks and men at risk.

‘Good show, Sergeant. Damned good show. I see that your loader was wounded, and your tank hit!’

Davis thought he should emphasize the part Shadwell had played. If there was credit to be handed around, then Shadwell was due for some. ‘Trooper Shadwell lost his fingers early in the action, sir. He kept on loading even after he had been wounded. And just now, sir, he refused medical attention until I gave him an order. He wanted to remain with the crew.’