Chieftains

There were three bundles lying close to the Chieftain's right track; the crew, well-wrapped, their heads covered, but preferring the open air to the tank's clammy interior. They hadn't even bothered to erect bivouacs. Davis looked down at them. Hewett, Inkester and Shadwell…no, not Shadwell my longer, Spink. Good lads, all three. And somehow still alive, but God only knew how! Twice now…twice they bad survived when most of the others hadn't. Why? Luck! If any of the Russian gunners who aimed the launchers had made just an infinitesimal part of a millimetre difference to their adjustment the crew and himself might be dead…all of them. Earlier it could have been their tank and not Lieutenant Sidworth's that was brewed-up by the aircraft…it was luck, all luck, and there was no profit in attempting to rationalize the fact.

Davis found his sleeping bag and crawled inside. 'Return in two hours', they had told him in the command vehicle. An hour and a half, now. Just an hour's sleep, he ordered his mind; his subconscious would obey, it always did, the military years had seen to that. Somewhere inside his head was a built-in alarm clock which never failed. It was handy.

He wedged himself against the track a few feet from the nearest of the crew. Although he couldn't see the man's head, the snores sounded like those of Hewett. Davis closed his eyes but sleep wouldn't come, hovering seductively close but driven away by his thoughts. Count sheep? Count tanks! Soviet tanks…BMPs…it was too easy to see them driving forward out of the smoke.

He tried to find a more acceptable peaceful subject that might lead to rest. Hedda and the children? No, he didn't want to think about them…he did, but…they had been in his mind a lot during the past hours, Christ, of course he was worried about them…worried bloody stiff about them. In the background was the continuous sound of artillery to remind him of the future. It was like your heartbeat, always there but so familiar you didn't notice it until you remembered, and listened.

He dozed only briefly, fitfully, and by the time he was due to report felt even more exhausted.

Reform. Again. This time not just battle groups, but entire divisions. No one talked casualties in terms of numbers, but it was obvious they had been far greater than expected. Davis was uncertain how many fighting survivors there were left from his own regiment, but knew it wasn't more than a dozen tanks; it was horrifying, unbelievable. Men he had worked and trained with for years, drunk with in the messes and bars, his friends, Sergeant Harry Worksop who had been the best man at his wedding…Colonel Studley, Major Fairly, Lieutenant Sidworth, Captain Willis, Lieutenant Burrows…Sealey…too many to name. Yesterday the operations officer had said perhaps they weren't all dead; there might be some wounded, even prisoners. It made little difference, they were all gone. Apart from his own crew, he had spoken to only one man he already knew…there were others, but he had not met them, yet. It had been a lieutenant, a troop commander of Alpha Squadron.

'Sir…'

'Sergeant Davis…' The lieutenant seemed as relieved as Davis to see a familiar face, and grinned a welcome.

'Warrant officer, sir…promoted yesterday…' Was it yesterday or the day before? Davis couldn't remember.

'Good man…I'm pleased.' The lieutenant had two days' growth of dark beard. Davis had watched him bring his tank in, its hull as scarred and blistered as that of his own Chieftain. 'By the way, do you know where I can get POL?'

Petrol, oil, lubricants…and then ammunition; always the first thoughts in the mind of a good tank commander. 'They've told us to wait, sir. There are a lot of infantry around…sleeping everywhere. They don't want us moving our vehicles in the dark until they've got them all safely out of the way. There have been one or two accidents already. Have you reported yet, sir?'

'No. I want to clean up a bit.'

'There's a lazyman boiler in the trees; over there…you can just see the glow.'

'Thanks, Mister Davis.' The lieutenant exaggerated the 'mister' slightly; it wasn't meant as an insult, simply an acknowledgement of Davis's promotion. Davis watched him go, collecting his crew from beside their tank. It was good to see faces you recognized.

Davis walked slowly back to his tank and shook the sleeping gunner. 'Inkester…and you too, DeeJay…Spink. Up you get…come on, show a leg…come on lads, rouse yourselves.' It was like trying to waken the dead, thought Davis. Left alone, they'd sleep here in the open for a full twenty-four hours. 'On your feet!'

Spink groaned and then said, sleepily, 'Go and get us a cup of tea, Dad.'

'I'm not your bloody father, lad…up you get.'

'Oh, God…' DeeJay was stretching himself, a lean figure unfolding from his sleeping bag, rubbing his face with his fists like a child.