Robert Forrest-Webb - Chieftains

There were no refugees this time, at least he saw none who were alive. Further back, towards the battlefront, there had been many dead at the roadside. Their bodies lay tumbled amongst their possessions, scattered and crushed by the wheels of heavy vehicles, victims of the drifting gas clouds, machine gun bullets of Russian fighter planes strafing the roads to add to the confusion and make the movement of NATO troops and supplies even more difficult.

Bravo One at last reached the bridge, and yet another roadblock. Military police again, and supporting them a platoon of infantrymen in their protective clothing behind a sand-bagged machine gun post. Davis watched the MP sergeant examine the hull of Bravo One with his flashlight; there were no identity marks. The man walked to the rear of the tank and used the infantry telephone. Davis was astonished it still operated.

‘Where the hell do you think you’re going all on your own? Give your identification!’

His temper’s as worn as mine, thought Davis. Sod’s probably been on the go for two days. ‘Charlie Bravo One. Battle Group Quebec. Warrant Officer Davis… you want my fucking number, too?’

‘You’ve no insignia or markings on your hull.’

‘Replacement tank. We’ve worn one bugger out already.’ Davis made his tone of voice friendlier. There was no point in aggravating the man, it would only cause more delay.

‘Where are you from?’

‘If you want the name of the village, I’ve no idea. We’ve been ordered to Orchid, from somewhere west. If you want to know who gave me the order, I can’t help you; I was too busy at the time. Check back to Quebec.’

‘You contaminated?’ It seemed as though the thought had just occurred to the sergeant.

‘Of course we’re bloody contaminated. The whole battlefront is contaminated. We’ve been washed down once, but we had to go back in.’ Forty hours of fatigue and stress had sharpened Davis’s temper. The effort to remain polite was too much.

‘Okay, take it easy, I’m only trying to do my job. We’ve had deserters attempting to get by in vehicles, as well as on foot. Bastards! I wouldn’t waste time with a court-martial!’

Deserters? They hadn’t occurred to Davis before. Now the thought didn’t upset him too much. Perhaps they were the only sane ones. ‘Can we go ahead?’

‘If you wait, we’ll check you out. Sorry, we have to do it.’

It took several minutes while the MP radioed Group HQ.

‘You’re okay, Charlie Bravo One. Your blokes are building up west of the Mittellandkanal and the Ise. Heard about the north, sir?’

Davis shook his head wearily. The north? Christ, there was enough going on around here. The north was a million miles away.

‘The Belgians and Germans are holding the Lübeck suburbs, and the south bank of the Elbe as far as the River Luhe. The Dutch are doing pretty well across the Lüneburger. We don’t know much else though.’

‘Thanks,’ said Davis. ‘We’ll push on then.’

The man’s voice held him. ‘For God’s sake take it easy on the bridge. The structure’s not too good… bombs… had raids most of the day, they keep getting planes through… the rockets are the worst… long-range… you hear them coming after they’ve exploded. There’s a decontamination unit beyond the city, on the 214 just before you reach Watenbüttel. You won’t miss it, nor the route through Braunschweig — it’s the only cleared road. Just follow it. On your way, sir.’

Davis could smell the decontaminant, antiseptic, drying on Bravo One’s hull as he pushed open the hatch. The fresh air was sharp, chill, inviting, clearing the fumes and the stench of body filth from his nostrils. He stood and directed DeeJay to the camouflage netting bay that was already in position. When DeeJay cut the engine, Bravo One settled as though it were as fatigued as the crew.

He reported to the Command HQ, but no one seemed interested in him, and a lieutenant ordered him to return in two hours’ time. Exhaustion was making him feel old, indecisive. He checked his watch; it showed half an hour past midnight. It took him a little time to work out it was now the third day of the war. It was Saturday morning, and he was still alive. He didn’t want to return to the Chieftain, at least, not yet. The tank was too closely linked to death and the horror of the past hours.

It was a clear night above him, and for the first time since dusk he was able to see the stars. They were things that never changed, could be related to memories of better times. Everything else might be different, altered, except for the fine pattern of the night sky. Looking at the stars now was like watching old friends. They were always there; even when there was cloud you knew,they were resting somewhere above it all. Towards the south-east some were hidden now… the rising smoke of the battlefront? No, cumulus. Davis looked more carefully. It was cloud, dense clouds, thunderheads building to the south; rain clouds! He sucked his finger and tested the breeze; it seemed southerly. ‘Let it rain… please God let it rain.’ He was speaking his thoughts aloud.

‘I’ve been making the same prayer for the last hour.’

Davis hadn’t noticed the man standing nearby in the darkness, and the unexpected voice made him jump.

‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’ It was an officer’s accent. The man moved closer and Davis could see a white collar beneath the combat jacket’, a padre. ‘I think our prayers might be answered. I’ve modified mine now; I’m praying it rains quickly, and heavily.’

‘It’s what we need, sir. Something to bog them down… prevent them bringing up reinforcements and supplies… hold their armour.’

‘Yes. Is that your Chieftain?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I went over there a few minutes ago; thought perhaps the men might like a chat. I think they were all asleep.’

It didn’t take them long, thought Davis. Rest was more urgent than food for them at the moment. "They’ve only had a couple of hours kip since it all started, sir.’ He could make out the padre’s face now, he wasn’t as old as Davis, perhaps in his late twenties. Apart from his collar and badge, he could have been any officer.

‘You’ve been at the front the whole time?’

‘Most of it, sir.’

‘I was there briefly this afternoon, with an infantry company. They tolerated me for an hour, then sent me back here again. I suspect I was in the way.’ He sounded amused, but then his voice was more serious again. ‘It’s all madness… total madness. I was with a Roman Catholic priest, both of us in NBC suits; he gave the last rites to a Russian soldier who couldn’t even see what he was… perhaps didn’t even care… wouldn’t be able to hear him behind his own respirator and hood. We both prayed… it’s all madness!’

Davis was uncertain what he should say. Army padres usually attempted to raise men’s spirits, but this one… ‘You’re probably right, sir.’ He stared longingly in the direction of the Chieftain. Waves of fatigue were flowing through his mind.

‘Would you care to join me in prayer?’

‘I’m sorry, sir. I have to sort out a few things, if you don’t mind.’

‘Perhaps tomorrow morning?’

‘Goodnight, sir. Davis walked away. He felt uncomfortable; he had a feeling the padre had needed him, wanted his help. Perhaps it had all been too great a shock, for the man, at least an active soldier’s training provided some form of cushion against the reality of war.

There were three bundles lying close to the Chieftain’s right track; the crew, well-wrapped, their heads covered, but preferring the open air to the tank’s clammy interior. They hadn’t even bothered to erect bivouacs. Davis looked down at them. Hewett, Inkester and Shadwell… no, not Shadwell my longer, Spink. Good lads, all three. And somehow still alive, but God only knew how! Twice now… twice they bad survived when most of the others hadn’t. Why? Luck! If any of the Russian gunners who aimed the launchers had made just an infinitesimal part of a millimetre difference to their adjustment the crew and himself might be dead… all of them. Earlier it could have been their tank and not Lieutenant Sidworth’s that was brewed-up by the aircraft… it was luck, all luck, and there was no profit in attempting to rationalize the fact.