Robert Forrest-Webb - Chieftains

‘Any idea what you’d like to do, lad? The sergeant leant across his desk, genuinely interested in him.

‘I’d like to be a gunner, Sar’nt.’

‘You’ll have to work hard for it… it’s pretty technical, and important. A lot of responsibility. Think you can handle it?’

‘Yes, Sar’nt.’

There was a moment’s hesitation that made Inkester doubt himself, and then the sergeant’s reply: ‘I’ll see what I can do for you.’

He had worked; it had been like being back in Woolworths in some ways… proving yourself for someone else’s benefit… not entirely; for your own as well. It hadn’t been easy. He had wasted a lot of his time at school, and had to make up for it now; but there was a good reason for learning.

There had been a great week last year, he remembered. A week’s package in Calella, Spain, with a couple of the other lads, Weeksie and Lovell. They had tried to persuade three of the WRAC girls to join them, but one had suddenly become engaged to a civvy, and the other two got chicken. Pity, because he had quite fancied one of them, though her Glasgow accent got on his nerves a bit; smashing figure, though. They hadn’t found one girl between them in Calella. Every bloody English girl wanted to go out with a Spaniard. And the local girls just giggled like fourteen year olds when you tried to chat them up. But, God, they had shifted some drink in the six nights and seven days. They tried to keep count of the bottles of wine, but in the end it became impossible, there was always a bottle floating in a kind of mist in front of them, stuck in the sand, or balanced on a table.

Irma. That was the last bird he had screwed. What a bloody carry-on! She had one leg over his shoulder, and the other under his arm, wedged against the rear window so tightly he thought the bloody glass would pop out. When was it? Two months ago? Shit, it was barely one week.

The sky was brightening with the dawn, turning the vision blocks of the episcope in the Chieftain’s turret into bars of soft green light. To the left of the Chieftain, fitly meters away, were the crew of a machine gun, lying beside the weapon sited in a break in the stone wall. Davis could see them clearly for the first time; twenty meters on were another group, but they were still difficult to distinguish from the low shrubs in which they were waiting.

He sat watching them. It was chilly enough inside the tank, it would be perishing cold out there. The infantrymen would be feeling stiff and uncomfortable, their clothing wet with the dew, their helmets dripping the condensation on to their shoulders. Jesus, who’d be a foot soldier!

‘Tea, sir.’

‘Thanks…’ It was hot, sweet. He heard Inkester mutter something and thought, well, they’ll get on together in the end. It was always difficult for a new crew ‘member for the first few days. First few days? Charlie Bravo One and its crew might not last that long. A few days. Another two and maybe, if they were still lucky enough to be alive, they might get pulled out of the line for R and R. That would be good. That’s something to aim for… aim to stay alive just two more days.

‘What you doin’ down there, DeeJay?’ Inkester was leaning forward below Davis’s knees, trying to peer into the driving compartment.

‘Shaving.’

‘You what?

‘Shaving!’

‘In yer tea?’

‘In maiden’s water… what the hell do you think?’

‘You’re bloody mad… you’ll be changing your shirt next.’

‘I’ve done that.’

‘I wish Stink would change his trousers…’

Davis had been watching the machine gun crew in the growing daylight. There was a kind of sadistic satisfaction in sitting inside the Chieftain with his mug of hot tea cupped in his hands, while the infantry shivered outside. One of the soldiers was standing, stretching, shaking his arms. He was taking a risk, a good sniper with a Dragunov and telescopic sight could pick him off from across the river. What the hell was he doing? He had stripped off the upper part of his NBC suit and was waving his helmet above his head. Another of the members of the GPMG crew was going to get him… no, was ignoring him… what in God’s name were they doing with the machine gun? A man was lifting it off its bipod… he dropped it… picked it up, then threw it at one of the soldiers on the ground. They were laughing. One stumbled to his knees, then lay on his back, kicking his legs in the air like a crippled insect.

‘Christ!’ Davis shouted in horrified realization — tossing his half-finished mug of tea out of the way under his seat. ‘Gas… gas… gas… All stations, this is Bravo One… gas… gas… gas… check all vehicles and close down.’ He switched quickly to the squadron net. ‘Hullo Shark, this is Bravo One… gas… gas… gas… Over.’ He rammed on his respirator and blew out hard.

‘Shark here… Roger Charlie Bravo One.’ Captain Willis’s voice was reassuringly steady. ‘Do you have casualties? Over.’

‘The infantry… I’ll check the troop.’ Davis’s voice was slightly muffled, but he knew it would transmit.

‘What kind of gas?’

‘Chemical… unidentified.’

‘How was it delivered?’

‘No idea… no shells over… haven’t seen aircraft. High altitude rockets, maybe.’

‘Roger Charlie Bravo One… out.’

‘DeeJay,’ shouted Davis, ‘you got your hatch clamped down and your respirator on?

‘Yes.’

‘Spink… check yours, lad.’ Davis peered out through his lenses. The infantrymen he could see were hunched on the ground, curled into grotesque foetal postures; one was convulsing rhythmically, but the others were now all still. God, it was nasty… bloody terrifying. An unseen, unheard form of death that drifted in without warning. He could have been out there… leaning out of the turret for a breath of air when it arrived. The bastards; those bastard Russians. What about the rest of his troop?

‘All stations Bravo, this is Nine… acknowledge. Over.’

‘Bravo Two. Over.’

‘Bravo Three. Over.’

Davis waited. Where the hell was Four? ‘Bravo Four, this is One… acknowledge. Over?’

‘Bravo Four. Over.’

Relief made Davis angry. ‘Bravo Four, this is Nine. When I say acknowledge, I mean acknowledge… and fast okay? All Bravo Troop standby… and for God’s sake stay closed-down. Any casualties near you? Over.’

Only one of the troop replied to his question. ‘Bravo Three… report Milan squad knocked out here.’

‘Roger Bravo Three. Out.’

PBI, they used to nickname them; poor bloody infantry. It was appropriate. ‘Inkester, keep your eyes peeled.’ DeeJay had already started the Chieftain’s engine. ‘Everything okay down there, DeeJay?’

‘Ace, sir.’

‘Spink? Spink, wake up, lad!’

‘Yes, sir. I’m all right.’

‘Fucking stay that way,’ warned Inkester. ‘Shit… look at that…’ Four stub-winged aircraft in a tight diamond formation were swinging up above the distant woods, rising into a steep climb. Below them the ground was already a seething mass of napalm flame. ‘What the hell are they, sir?’

They had come in so fast Davis had not seen their approach dive. ‘Tomcats maybe… Yanks… ours anyway.’ The aircraft were already only small dots; the formation broke, sunlight glinted on perspex and they were gone.

It’s begun again, thought Davis. As though in confirmation, the hull of the Chieftain began to quiver with the shock of exploding missiles. Overhead, the shrieking roar of heavy artillery shells rose above the throb of the tank’s engine. Two more days, please God… that’s all, just two days… keep us alive for two more days until we’re pulled out.

Floggers! He saw them in the distance against the dawn sky, chunky, menacing, only a hundred meters above the ground. They seemed to be aiming themselves directly at Charlie Bravo One. He lost them for a second and they were suddenly terrifyingly close… one disintegrated into a vast orange flame; a comet spewing flaming debris as it fell. The others… he saw missiles briefly… heard the explosions somewhere to the rear. Smoke! Shell bursts ahead of him. Ethereal dark serpents writhing from the earth, to envelop the fields and swell along the riverbanks. The ground leapt, trees and shrubs flattening beneath the sharp aerial detonations of canister, aimed against infantry already incapacitated by the gas; steel pellets hammered the Chieftain’s armoured body, shot-blasting the paintwork from polished metal.