Chieftains

No one answered him, so he said bleakly: 'Well, not exactly like Suffield; at least we haven't had all our bloody gear shot to hell by our own infantry.' He was remembering an incident that had happened on their last visit to the Canadian ranges. On the night before a combined armour and infantry exercise there had been a bar-fight between men of the regiment and a number of the infantrymen. The next day when the tanks had been advancing across the ranges, accompanied by the infantry using live rounds in their rifles, the tanks themselves had become targets. All the personal gear carried by the crews in the storage boxes on the outside of the hulls had been shot full of holes.

There was still no reply. Desperately he changed the subject. 'There was supposed to be an old Clint Eastwood shitkicker in the barrack's cinema tonight. I was going with the corporal's daughter.'

Shadwell was a few months short of his twenty-first birthday, lightly built and thin featured. His home was a small council house semi on a Manchester estate. The youngest of a large family living in crowded conditions, his first night in army quarters had been an almost agoraphobic experience. He was a man whose friendships gave him as much anxiety as pleasure. 'Are you asleep, Sarge?'

Morgan Davis said, 'Yes.' He could almost hear Shadwell sigh with relief at the sound of a human voice. 'What's on your mind, son?'

'For Christ's sake,' groaned Inkester, the gunner, from below Morgan Davis's legs, 'why don't you take an overdose, Eric!'

Shadwell ignored him. 'You think we're going to have to fight, Sarge.' It was a statement, not a question.

Morgan Davis decided to be honest. 'Yes, I think so.'

'What's it going to be like?'

'Magic,' interrupted Inkester. 'We take a few of them out, then retire to a new position before their artillery can range in on us, then we brew up a few more. When the odds are reduced, we push them right back to the Urals. It'll be magic.'

'Be quiet and go back to sleep, Inkester.' ordered Davis. He spoke towards Shadwell in the darkness. 'No one knows what it's going to be like. It's a new kind of war. All we have to do is to obey orders, and keep our heads down.'

'My dad was in the last war,' said Shadwell, in an attempt to prolong the conversation. 'RASC. He got one home leave from Egypt in three years. Three bloody years, Sarge.' It seemed like a lifetime to the young loader.

'This war won't last more than a few days.'

'Just so long as I get a crack at a T-80,' said Inkester. 'Just one T-80 in my sight, broadside on…I dream of them, Sarge. A whole long row of them silhouetted on a skyline, moving along like ducks in a shooting gallery. Pop…pop…pop…there they go. Magic!'

The radio crackled. Sergeant Davis adjusted his headset, pulling it down tighter over his beret. 'All stations Charlie Bravo, this is Charlie Bravo Nine.' The troop leader's voice was penetrating. 'Stand to, and prepare for action. Load Hesh, and keep to your own arcs. Out.'

Davis acknowledged, and then switched on the Chieftain's Tannoy. 'Okay, lads, stand to. Shadwell, load Hesh.' He didn't give them time to question him. 'It sounds like we've got a war…'

Inkester's voice was pitched high with surprise: 'Christ!'

'Now take it easy…all of you. Inkester, no itchy fingers, wait for your orders. If someone's going to start something, it's not going to be Bravo Two.'

'Loaded,' bellowed Shadwell, his voice cutting through the still air.

'You daft pillock,' complained Inkester, loudly. 'You bloody near deafened me! We all watched you load a minute ago.'

'Shut up,' said Davis. 'Keep your eyes open, and stay alert. Hewett, everything okay your end?'

DeeJay revved the engine slightly and checked his gauges. 'It all looks good, Sarge.'

'Keep it that way.' Davis dimmed out the compartment lights and leant his head back against the rest. He reached out and touched the steel of the turret with his fingertips. It was cold, damp with the condensation of the crew's breath. He could feel the throb of the engine. Bravo Two! She was a good tank, reliable, responsive to the treatment she received from her crew. He remembered being told how it had been when the cavalry regiments lost their horses before the start of World War Two – men had wept as their mounts had been led away to be replaced by armoured vehicles. If the situation were reversed, Davis thought, he would have identical feelings…you got to know a vehicle, trust it, understand its likes and dislikes. He had never owned a horse, but three-quarters of a million pounds worth of Chieflain took some beating. The womb-like darkness and security of Bravo Two's fighting compartment was comforting.

THREE