Chieftains

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?'

'Fuck all, sir!'

'What the hell was that? Inkester's questioning voice was tremulous. 'Christ I've got no vision…'

The smoke was hanging over the ground drifting only slowly in the light breeze, heavy, sinister. Miraculously the episcopes were undamaged, but condensation in the lenses made the smoke appear denser. He wiped the glass with his beret. The haze was thinning a little but it seemed an eternity before Davis was able to see more than a short distance. The flares, the bloody flares were making it worse; turning the mist opaque, like fog in car headlights.