Chieftains

The face, leering again, the breath on his cheeks still smelling of the beer that had been drunk the previous evening. 'No you don't, Wacker…I know what you bloody call me. You call me a Manchester bastard! Now right dress…as you bloody were…Squaaad. Right dress.'

It had begun to get better; he had cottoned on to what was happening. The corporals and sergeants didn't hate them…it was all an act. And the act worked. It turned raw individuals into soldiers, into a unit, a team…made them think and work together, get annoyed with themselves and each other if something dragged them back. Christ, it began to look clever. The NCOs treated them like humans when the day was over; accepted them, talked to them, gave them private advice. He made more friends in the first four weeks than in all his previous life. And what was even better, he trusted them; they were proper mates.

'Any idea what you'd like to do, lad? The sergeant leant across his desk, genuinely interested in him.

'I'd like to be a gunner, Sar'nt.'

'You'll have to work hard for it…it's pretty technical, and important. A lot of responsibility. Think you can handle it?'

'Yes, Sar'nt.'

There was a moment's hesitation that made Inkester doubt himself, and then the sergeant's reply: 'I'll see what I can do for you.'

He had worked; it had been like being back in Woolworths in some ways…proving yourself for someone else's benefit…not entirely; for your own as well. It hadn't been easy. He had wasted a lot of his time at school, and had to make up for it now; but there was a good reason for learning.

There had been a great week last year, he remembered. A week's package in Calella, Spain, with a couple of the other lads, Weeksie and Lovell. They had tried to persuade three of the WRAC girls to join them, but one had suddenly become engaged to a civvy, and the other two got chicken. Pity, because he had quite fancied one of them, though her Glasgow accent got on his nerves a bit; smashing figure, though. They hadn't found one girl between them in Calella. Every bloody English girl wanted to go out with a Spaniard. And the local girls just giggled like fourteen year olds when you tried to chat them up. But, God, they had shifted some drink in the six nights and seven days. They tried to keep count of the bottles of wine, but in the end it became impossible, there was always a bottle floating in a kind of mist in front of them, stuck in the sand, or balanced on a table.

Irma. That was the last bird he had screwed. What a bloody carry-on! She had one leg over his shoulder, and the other under his arm, wedged against the rear window so tightly he thought the bloody glass would pop out. When was it? Two months ago? Shit, it was barely one week.

The sky was brightening with the dawn, turning the vision blocks of the episcope in the Chieftain's turret into bars of soft green light. To the left of the Chieftain, fitly meters away, were the crew of a machine gun, lying beside the weapon sited in a break in the stone wall. Davis could see them clearly for the first time; twenty meters on were another group, but they were still difficult to distinguish from the low shrubs in which they were waiting.

He sat watching them. It was chilly enough inside the tank, it would be perishing cold out there. The infantrymen would be feeling stiff and uncomfortable, their clothing wet with the dew, their helmets dripping the condensation on to their shoulders. Jesus, who'd be a foot soldier!

'Tea, sir.'

'Thanks…' It was hot, sweet. He heard Inkester mutter something and thought, well, they'll get on together in the end. It was always difficult for a new crew 'member for the first few days. First few days? Charlie Bravo One and its crew might not last that long. A few days. Another two and maybe, if they were still lucky enough to be alive, they might get pulled out of the line for R and R. That would be good. That's something to aim for…aim to stay alive just two more days.

'What you doin' down there, DeeJay?' Inkester was leaning forward below Davis's knees, trying to peer into the driving compartment.

'Shaving.'

'You what?

'Shaving!'

'In yer tea?'

'In maiden's water…what the hell do you think?'

'You're bloody mad…you'll be changing your shirt next.'

'I've done that.'

'I wish Stink would change his trousers…'