Robert Forrest-Webb - Chieftains

‘Okay, thanks.’

‘We want you at Capricorn, soonest.’

‘Thirty minutes.’

‘Roger, Valda. Good luck.’

Capricorn. Davis switched back to the squadron net, then checked his code and maps. Capricorn, one kilometer north of Gardessen. Another step towards the Channel. It was always backwards, and it always felt as though it was Davis himself who was being forced into the corner.

The mortar bombs were coming over at precise intervals, a pair every ten seconds on to the squadron position, exploding simultaneously, but sometimes just sufficiently separated for the double concussion to be noticeable. Whatever types of mortars were being used they were damned big, sending a shockwave through the ground which moved the Chieftain on her suspension and made the hull vibrate. Davis didn’t know enough about Soviet equipment to be able to identify them, but thought they must be at least 160mm, perhaps even the giant 240s. The regularity of their arrival was nerve-wracking.

The troop’s position was below the western ridge of a low hill, little more than a gentle rise in the ground. Three thousand meters to the front and right was a village, and to the troop’s left, another. It had been night for almost an hour, but the steady mortar bombardment had been taking place since dusk. The village ahead was burning, bright flames colouring the smoke, sparks swirling upwards into the sky. But although it was night there was no real darkness. Parachute flares, fired at intervals almost as precise as those of the mortars, were swinging down above the battleground bringing colourless daylight.

In the ruins of the village ahead the infantry were fighting. Several times Davis had seen the trails of missiles hurtling from the rubble; and occasionally he heard the sounds of 120mm guns which he could recognize as those of one of the other reformed troops, Alpha. He didn’t know who was throwing up the flares. It was impossible to judge from this distance, they were drifting northwest along the length of the battlefront, and they seemed to offer little advantage to either side. Someone, somewhere, must have thought they were being helpful. It was like watching an old black and white film — All Quiet on the Western Front. Christ, there was nothing quiet about this battlefield!

Inkester was humourlessly acknowledging the arrival of each pair of mortar bombs, his voice flat with fatigue. ‘Miss… miss… miss…’ A monotonous monosyllabic chant.

‘Charlie Bravo One this is Charlie Alpha… standby. We’re pulling back.’

Davis acknowledged, and passed on the information to his remaining two tank commanders. He could not put names or faces to their voices yet, but their radio techniques were already familiar. He kept his eyes on the outline of the village. With the magnification of his light-intensifying lenses, he could see movement; the occasional dodging infantrymen scurrying between the piled rubble, silhouetted, stooped, bent almost double. A dark hull, recognizable as a Chieftain, passed in front of a blazing building, looking like an identification cut-out at a training lecture. He knew how its crew would be feeling; they had survived for a little while longer. If they could retire now behind Bravo Troop, then they would have another small respite… perhaps the opportunity to catch a few minutes’ deep… a hot drink. And like Bravo One, the interior of their vehicle would be stinking, fetid. You pissed or shat in bags, if it were possible. Sometimes it wasn’t, and you held on as long as you could. Eventually, in some unexpected moment of stress, you let it go. That kind of stress never presented itself in training, so if you lacked battle experience you were always unprepared. Davis’s NBC suit was still dry inside, but the fighting compartment of the Chieftain stank, and it probably wasn’t all the responsibility of the new loader, Spink.

Three thousand meters from here to the village, and the Russian armour is probably skirting the place now. That means we should see something of them pretty soon. Christ, not again! Davis’s head was throbbing; it was the continuous noise, a never-ending reminder of death. He saw some of the infantrymen double across the edge of a field sixty meters to his left, heading for the cover of the nearest buildings; an APC lurched its way past him on the right, followed by two of Alpha Troop’s Chiefiains, one belching heavy smoke from its exhausts. Its driver would be sweating keeping it running, praying he would be allowed to drive it back out of the line, to one of the rear servicing units.

Davis was staring so hard in the direction of the enemy that when he momentarily closed his eyes he could still see the same scene imprinted on his retina like the negative of a photograph. Nothing but the flames of the village, and the drifting flares overhead, moved now.

‘The sods aren’t coming…’ Inkester’s voice made the comment sound like a wish. The lad was tired, exhausted, Davis knew. Christ, how much did they expect you to give? Almost two days of continuous fighting… two days of willing your mind to concentrate, ignoring the discomfort, the stinking heat of the fighting compartment, the cramp that wrenched at your muscles. ‘Come on… come on…’ It wasn’t bravado, Inkester was as nervous as all of them, but he wanted to get it over with… defend this village and then leapfrog back to the brief rest somewhere to the rear; the next village, river or wood.

Davis had sometimes prayed, but he had never been convinced by religion; he was even ashamed that during the past hours he had resorted to praying to a God in whom he did not believe. But consoled himself with the excuse that you tried everything at times like these. It was no worse than being an atheist all your life, and then demanding absolution a few minutes before you died, just to be on the safe side. It was human nature. And what if I was wrong, though, thought Davis. Christ, it would make you feel bloody stupid if you were killed, and suddenly opened your eyes to find yourself in a far better place… all peaceful, bids singing, warm sunlight, flowers… someone standing there with a cool pint of bitter in their hands. You’d think, Jesus, I’ve been shit scared for days, for no reason. It’s great here, wherever I am. Maybe there’d be a long warm beach, shallow water where the kids could play safely, where you could strip off and just lie in the edge of the sea with the waves lapping along your body, a bit of soft music somewhere in the background, a cool-drinks bar a few meters up the sand behind you, sort of Pacific island scenery.

They said you never heard the shot that killed you; Davis heard the rocket salvo for a fraction of a second before the massive explosion… the roar of their propellants drowning out every other sound, destroying thought and reason. A salvo from thirteen Soviet BM-21 multi-rocket launchers; five hundred and twenty rockets fired together and landing on Charlie Squadron’s positions, betrayed by infra-red location equipment in a Soviet robot observation helicopter hovering four kilometers behind the Russian side of the front-line.

The immense blast totally surrounded Davis’s Chieftain, and though it was fully closed-down the hull transmitted the shockwave like a hammer Mow through the air of the fighting compartment, dazing and numbing the crew. There was a shrill whistling in Davis’s ears… sharp pains shooting through his head. Debris and rubble clattered against the tank’s hull. Davis could hear his men shouting, distantly, their voices thin, feeble, confused.

‘Shut up… all of you shut up…’ It hurt him to speak, his chest felt as if it had been crushed, every rib fractured, his lungs raw. ‘Everybody okay… DeeJay? Inkester? Spink?’ It could happen again, at any moment. What was it? A full missile salvo of some sort. God knows how many have landed. ‘DeeJay, is the engine okay?’ He couldn’t hear it running. ‘Can you see down there?’