Robert Forrest-Webb - Chieftains

‘It sounds like it, Max. If anything is going to happen today, then it will probably begin in the next few minutes. HQ have reported movement in our sector.’

‘I suppose we should thank God for ground radar and electronic sensors. At least we get some warning.’ The activity within the command Sultans had increased as the men prepared to move. Fairly lowered his voice and stepped closer to Studley. ‘You know, I never expected this to happen… a war.’ He made a wry, half-amused smile. ‘Playing soldiers for real, Jane would say.’ He was watching Studley’s face. ‘Don’t worry, James, I’m not going to hide under the bed with my hands over my ears! I just can’t believe what’s happening that’s all. We talk about civilization, and then somehow,allow this to develop.’

Max was thinking about his son, Studley realized. Jane’s expression, ‘playing soldiers for real’, was the one she had used on the first occasion the boy had returned home in uniform. Although she made a joke about it at the time, her face had been strangely pale as though she had glimpsed her son’s future. God, how could you defend Berlin? Leaving troops there in wartime was nothing more than human sacrifice on a political altar. They would make a good stand; the lads always did. But in the end it would be remembered as another Arnhem… a place of no retreat and no relief. He couldn’t think of any suitable reply to his friend’s words, so punched him lightly on the arm. ‘Time you left us, Max, old lad.’ The second in command should in fact have been at the rear of the battle group’s positions, with the third of the command Sultans and the Headquarters Squadron. And James Studley knew his friend’s request to be allowed to view the fire-points had been only an excuse for them to spend a couple of hours’ together. ‘Look after things back there.’

Max Fairly nodded, then smiled., ‘Trust an Emperor’s Chambermaid, James.’

Davis was apprehensive. Although it was claimed men could live for two weeks battened-down inside the hull of their Chieftain tank, breathing pure air through the NBC filter system, in practise he knew it wasn’t that simple. Regardless of what they said, none of the tanks were completely air-tight and there was always the danger of seepage; the main gun, when it had been fired and was being reloaded, was just a hollow tube with one end out in the open air and the other inside the tank’s fighting compartment. The crews had to expect to fight dressed in their NBC suits, hot, sticky, stinking and unpleasant. Like himself, most of the men would gamble comfort against their lives, and leave off their respirators until the last possible moment.

Thank God, he thought, at least they made damn sure you knew the drill. It was all about surivival in the event of germ or chemical warfare; even following nuclear attack when every dust particle in the area would become radioactive. Inside the tank you lived in the suits because the gas that could be outside was invisible, and there were no gas indicators amongst the tank’s instruments; the only warning you might receive would be over the HF, by which time it could already be too late. If possible, you stored the crew’s body waste in plastic bags and stuffed them out through the disposal hatch whenever you got the chance, but if the air was really contaminated then no one took off the NBC suits at all. For a time you might try to hang on, but in the end your body’s natural functions always beat you.

Tinned compo rations! Three four-men packs to a tank! You heated them in the boiler. If the electrics packed up and it was still safe to get outside, then you could cook over tablets of Hexamine; otherwise, you ate cold. Fortunately, the boiler was usually reliable and also provided hot water for drinks.

If you were wise, he mused, you hap a flask of spirits tucked away somewhere out of sight; it was a small enough luxury, even though it was against regulations.

Davis had stayed closed-down once, for a full three day period; Bravo Two’s fighting compartment had become a cramped and stinking prison, and clambering out of the Chieftain at the end of the exercise into the fresh air had felt like rebirth. Some of the men in the regiment hadn’t been able to take it, the claustrophobic atmosphere and their own filth had become too unbearable. Those who failed the test had been transferred, some to the support vehicles. A few, disappointed, had applied for the civilian re-training schemes and left the army. Sergeant Davis had been pleased by the performance of the men of Bravo Troop. They had moaned, complained, bitched, but they had stuck it out; even better, he knew they would have gone on enduring the discomfort for another ten days if necessary.

Sergeant Davis had Charlie Bravo Two closed-down at the moment. It wasn’t necessary, but it was cutting out the chill breeze that was now rippling the trees and shaking the moisture to the ground beneath. There was little warmth inside the tank and he was glad he was wearing a sweater beneath his coveralls and NBC suit. The interior lighting was off and Inkester the gunner was dozing just below Davis’s knees, somehow wedged between the hard backrest of his seat and his equipment. Davis had his legs up across the breech of the gun. Deejay, the driver, was in his forward compartment and in his reclined position was also undoubtedly taking the opportunity to grab a few minutes’ rest. Eric Shadwell, the loader, was to Davis’s left, propped between the ammunition, the bag-charge bins and the breech mechanism.

Shadwell was awake and restless, his small padded seat in the fighting compartment supported him less than those of his fellow crew members. He stretched himself and pressed his hands into the small of his back. One of his legs had gone to sleep and was now tingling and sensitive as his movement restored the circulation. ‘Bloody hell,’ he swore softly. To occupy his mind he began mentally counting the ammunition; sleek evil-looking shells. Sixty-four of them in all, most situated in racks beside him. A few lay forward, stored to the left of DeeJay the driver, but they were difficult to reach if the tank was in motion.

Shells. Shadwell knew a lot about them. Bravo Two was carrying only two types at present: High Explosive Squash Head, abbreviated to ‘Hesh’, and Armourod-Piercing Discarding Sabot, officially ‘APDS’, but usually called ‘Sabots’. He closed his eyes and pictured them striking the armour of an enemy tank. ‘Bam… splat…’ That was Hesh, exploding, flattening, sending a shock wave through metal that tore off a massive scab on the other side, splintering and ricochetting around inside the enemy’s hull. ‘Bam… zonk…’ The Sabot, a tungsten steel bolt carried by a softer metal shoe which it left on impact, and then drove on through the armour as though it were nothing more than thin balsa wood. ‘Bam, splat… bam, zonk…’ He made the sounds again, and mimed the reloading of the gun.

The separate explosive charges which propelled the shells helped to make his life easier; no used shellcases came back into his compartment, everything was discharged forward. He could also select the appropriate power of charge, which assisted the shell’s trajectory.

The Russians didn’t use loaders in their tanks, he remembered. Sod that! The Russians had automatic-loading guns so they only had three men in a tank crew, but their system had a weakness. If the automatic-loading system failed, then their tanks became useless. NATO designers believed hand loading to be more reliable; Shadwell agreed with them. Besides, what the hell would he be doing if Chieftains only had three men to a crew? Bugger king a driver, or a gunner… and there would be fat chance of him making commander for a long while!

What else was there for him to count? Machine gun ammo? Six thousand rounds for the 7.62mm mounted above the cupola! Nice gun, you could aim and fire it from inside the tank. There used to be another… the point-five was used for ranging the main gun… obsolete now the Barr and Stroud laser range-finder was fitted. The range-finder was quicker to use, and more accurate.