Chieftains

Sergeant Morgan Davis in Bravo Two heard his troop leader's voice on the radio for only a few seconds before the first of the countless explosions that followed. Lieutenant Sidworth had sounded breathless, excited: 'Hullo Bravo, this is Nine, deploy to battle positions…' Christ, thought Davis, we're already deployed, what…Sidworth corrected his orders. 'Hullo Bravo, this is Nine, deploy to battle situation, cancel…'The remainder of his words were lost in an eruption of sound that made Sergeant Davis flinch involuntarily, then duck lower in the fighting compartment. He swung his legs from the breech of the gun down the floor, feeling his boot catch Gunner Inkester on the side of his head. Inkester swore, loudly. The Chieftain bucked as the ground beneath it moved. The sounds Davis had encountered on the exercise ranges were nothing to those that now surrounded the Chieftain. He heard someone cursing in the HF, shouted conversation, then silence in the earphones. The Chieftain was pitched forward on its suspension by an explosion somewhere close to the rear of the tank. Another on the right made the hull ring and Davis's ears throb with the shock.

He pushed himself upright in the turret and gazed through the episcope. The sky was bright with fire and the searing trails of rockets, the ground pocked by explosions that briefly illuminated drifting clouds of smoke. There were flames leaping above the trees somewhere two hundred meters to the right, along the troop's position. It looked like a diesel-fuel fire, perhaps one of the Chieftains brewing-up. Davis hoped the crew had had time to bale out.

He didn't want to use the HF so switched back to the tank's Tannoy system. 'Inkester!' The metallic voice was loud in the compartment. He felt movement against his legs. 'Keep your eyes to the sights, lad. DeeJay, you okay down there?'

He heard DeeJay Hewett's voice, distantly. 'Fucking stroll-on!'

'Check your equipment.' The HF interrupted him, and, outside the barrage had diminished briefly. He heard Lieutenant Sidworth the Bravo troop leader checking the tanks.

'Hullo Charlie Bravo all stations, this is Nine, come in, over.'

Davis answered. 'Charlie Bravo Two roger, out.'

Sidworth called again. 'Hullo Charlie Bravo Three, this is Nine, come in, over.'

There was no reply for a few seconds and then Corporal Sealey of Charlie Bravo Four interrupted on the wavelength. 'Nine, this is Charlie Bravo Four. Three is brewed, sir. We saw it. Direct hit. Over.'

God, there were troop casualties already! A few moments of war, and men, friends, began to die! It was unreal, terrifying, but Davis admired the cool way Sealey had made his report; the man had only recently been promoted, and David had helped with a recommendation.

'Hullo Charlie Bravo Four, this is Nine. Any survivors?'

'No survivors, Nine. Instant flare-out.'

'Nine, roger. Out.'

No survivors. Instant flare-out. Four names to go on the first day's casualty list. Four dead, but how many affected? There would be wives, parents, children! One bloody armour-piercing shell in the first half hour of a war! Although Davis had been trained for many years to expect death in battle, it was hard to accept it when it happened. It suddenly made him aware of the illusion of protection the tank's puny armour gave to its crew. Men measured the strength of steel against their own flesh, it was a cruel deception!

The barrage returned suddenly, and for a moment Davis wondered if Soviet sensors had reacted to the troop's HF transmissions. The dawn sky had lightened and he could view the open landscape below him. With horror he saw shell explosions, like an advancing tidal wave on a beach sweeping up the lower slopes of the hill, tearing aside trees and shrubs, building a terrifying wall of flame, smoke and hurtling debris. Before he could even react the explosions were upon them, around them. He ducked his head between his arms as the Chieftain was smashed sideways, tilted fifteen degrees to the left. The metal of the hull felt alive, shuddering, vibrating…and then there was an eerie silence. Davis could hear the rasping of his own breath. Something warm trickled down his chin. He wiped at it with his hand. It was saliva.

DeeJay called through the intercom: 'Are we hit?'

Davis tried to see through the lenses of the episcope, but some of the glass blocks were crazed, restricting his arc of visibility. He swore to himself. The lenses were a weakness which had been known for a number of years; somewhere a bloody desk-bound civil servant who was never going to have to rely on them for his life had probably jammed the funds needed to have the unit redesigned and replaced.

'What's going on, Sarge?' Inkester was peering up at him, his eyes wide in the dim light.

'Nothing. Keep your eyes front, lad,' Davis answered bluntly. He refused to acknowledge the fear he had experienced at the thought of fighting partially blinded.