Chieftains

Shadwell was awake and restless, his small padded seat in the fighting compartment supported him less than those of his fellow crew members. He stretched himself and pressed his hands into the small of his back. One of his legs had gone to sleep and was now tingling and sensitive as his movement restored the circulation. 'Bloody hell,' he swore softly. To occupy his mind he began mentally counting the ammunition; sleek evil-looking shells. Sixty-four of them in all, most situated in racks beside him. A few lay forward, stored to the left of DeeJay the driver, but they were difficult to reach if the tank was in motion.

Shells. Shadwell knew a lot about them. Bravo Two was carrying only two types at present: High Explosive Squash Head, abbreviated to 'Hesh', and Armourod-Piercing Discarding Sabot, officially 'APDS', but usually called 'Sabots'. He closed his eyes and pictured them striking the armour of an enemy tank. 'Bam…splat…' That was Hesh, exploding, flattening, sending a shock wave through metal that tore off a massive scab on the other side, splintering and ricochetting around inside the enemy's hull. 'Bam…zonk…' The Sabot, a tungsten steel bolt carried by a softer metal shoe which it left on impact, and then drove on through the armour as though it were nothing more than thin balsa wood. 'Bam, splat…bam, zonk…' He made the sounds again, and mimed the reloading of the gun.

The separate explosive charges which propelled the shells helped to make his life easier; no used shellcases came back into his compartment, everything was discharged forward. He could also select the appropriate power of charge, which assisted the shell's trajectory.

The Russians didn't use loaders in their tanks, he remembered. Sod that! The Russians had automatic-loading guns so they only had three men in a tank crew, but their system had a weakness. If the automatic-loading system failed, then their tanks became useless. NATO designers believed hand loading to be more reliable; Shadwell agreed with them. Besides, what the hell would he be doing if Chieftains only had three men to a crew? Bugger king a driver, or a gunner…and there would be fat chance of him making commander for a long while!

What else was there for him to count? Machine gun ammo? Six thousand rounds for the 7.62mm mounted above the cupola! Nice gun, you could aim and fire it from inside the tank. There used to be another…the point-five was used for ranging the main gun…obsolete now the Barr and Stroud laser range-finder was fitted. The range-finder was quicker to use, and more accurate.

He sighed.

It was surprising how big the interior could seem at times, like a bloody cathedral; especially when it was all in darkness. He could just see the dim outline of one of the crew's Sterlings in its clips on the other side of the compartment. It seemed a hundred yards away…too far…the other end of a long tunnel. Even Sergeant Davis's boots looked too small to be real, as though Shadwell was viewing them through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars.

Maybe I'm asleep, thought Shadwell. It's all a bloody dream this caper, I'll wake up in the quarters. No such sodding luck…I'm awake! Maybe everybody's dead? DeeJay's dead…killed by a secret death-ray…dead in his driving seat…his head lolling and his tongue hanging out! Inky's bought it, too…lying there with his eyes bulging in their sockets and his stomach swelling with gases. And Sergeant Davis…sitting there…just sitting…his hands on the cupola control, locked in a death-grip…clutching. Shadwell's thoughts were making him nervous. It was like sitting up alone, late at night, watching a horror movie. Shadows normally unnoticed, suddenly became threatening.

He spoke loudly, his voice echoing slightly. 'It's the same as bloody Suffield.' The remark was less of a genuine observation than a plea for someone to answer him. The fear was growing and he was feeling isolated, and lonely. Suffield was the site of the NATO tank ranges in Canada, where the regiment had spent some weeks earlier in the year. Neither the landscape nor the present circumstanced justified the remark. The only link was the time the men had spent on night manoeuvres, firing at targets through the infra-red sights…and it was dark outside Bravo Two now! Dawn was just a thin pale band above the eastern horizon.

Shadwell, as loader, saw very little of the external action when the tank was in battle. He had a periscope of his own, but there was seldom time to use it; often he saw nothing except his racks of shells, the charges and the breech of the gun. If he attempted to use his periscope, everything had already happened by the time he got his eyes re-focused to the longer distance or adjusted to the change of light. It didn't worry him too much. Sometimes he managed to see where the shells he loaded struck their targets, but if not he still found satisfaction in imagining the scene through the voices of the men on the radio or the Tannoy.