Day Three
Davis could smell the decontaminant, antiseptic, drying on Bravo One's hull as he pushed open the hatch. The fresh air was sharp, chill, inviting, clearing the fumes and the stench of body filth from his nostrils. He stood and directed DeeJay to the camouflage netting bay that was already in position. When DeeJay cut the engine, Bravo One settled as though it were as fatigued as the crew.
He reported to the Command HQ, but no one seemed interested in him, and a lieutenant ordered him to return in two hours' time. Exhaustion was making him feel old, indecisive. He checked his watch; it showed half an hour past midnight. It took him a little time to work out it was now the third day of the war. It was Saturday morning, and he was still alive. He didn't want to return to the Chieftain, at least, not yet. The tank was too closely linked to death and the horror of the past hours.
It was a clear night above him, and for the first time since dusk he was able to see the stars. They were things that never changed, could be related to memories of better times. Everything else might be different, altered, except for the fine pattern of the night sky. Looking at the stars now was like watching old friends. They were always there; even when there was cloud you knew,they were resting somewhere above it all. Towards the south-east some were hidden now…the rising smoke of the battlefront? No, cumulus. Davis looked more carefully. It was cloud, dense clouds, thunderheads building to the south; rain clouds! He sucked his finger and tested the breeze; it seemed southerly. 'Let it rain…please God let it rain.' He was speaking his thoughts aloud.
'I've been making the same prayer for the last hour.'
Davis hadn't noticed the man standing nearby in the darkness, and the unexpected voice made him jump.
'I didn't mean to startle you.' It was an officer's accent. The man moved closer and Davis could see a white collar beneath the combat jacket', a padre. 'I think our prayers might be answered. I've modified mine now; I'm praying it rains quickly, and heavily.'
'It's what we need, sir. Something to bog them down…prevent them bringing up reinforcements and supplies…hold their armour.'
'Yes. Is that your Chieftain?'
'Yes, sir.'
'I went over there a few minutes ago; thought perhaps the men might like a chat. I think they were all asleep.'
It didn't take them long, thought Davis. Rest was more urgent than food for them at the moment. "They've only had a couple of hours kip since it all started, sir.' He could make out the padre's face now, he wasn't as old as Davis, perhaps in his late twenties. Apart from his collar and badge, he could have been any officer.
'You've been at the front the whole time?'
'Most of it, sir.'
'I was there briefly this afternoon, with an infantry company. They tolerated me for an hour, then sent me back here again. I suspect I was in the way.' He sounded amused, but then his voice was more serious again. 'It's all madness…total madness. I was with a Roman Catholic priest, both of us in NBC suits; he gave the last rites to a Russian soldier who couldn't even see what he was…perhaps didn't even care…wouldn't be able to hear him behind his own respirator and hood. We both prayed…it's all madness!'
Davis was uncertain what he should say. Army padres usually attempted to raise men's spirits, but this one…'You're probably right, sir.' He stared longingly in the direction of the Chieftain. Waves of fatigue were flowing through his mind.
'Would you care to join me in prayer?'
'I'm sorry, sir. I have to sort out a few things, if you don't mind.'
'Perhaps tomorrow morning?'
'Goodnight, sir. Davis walked away. He felt uncomfortable; he had a feeling the padre had needed him, wanted his help. Perhaps it had all been too great a shock, for the man, at least an active soldier's training provided some form of cushion against the reality of war.
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.
Am I their bloody father, wondered Davis? Sometimes it seemed he was. 'Come on, lads.' He spoke more gently. 'You've got ten minutes to get yourselves washed up, then I want the tank cleaned.'
'Christ!'
'Properly cleaned, Inkester…bright, sparkling and Bristol-fashion, understand? Positively glowing. I'm not having any of us doing our fighting in a mobile shit-house, am I Spink?'
'No, sir.'
'Jump to it then, lad.'
'I thought they were resting us, sir.' Inkester was awake now, his voice resentful.
'Sorry lad, they're running thin on charity.'
DeeJay was already climbing on to the hull, a dark shadow silhouetted against the heavy sky. He steadied himself against the barrel of the gun. 'Y'know something, sir? If we 'ad a bloody trade union, they'd 'ave us all out on strike by now.'
'What did you think about Eric copping it?' Inkester was trying to remove burnt explosive from the breech of the gun where it had become plated on to the metal by heat.
'He didn't really cop it,' answered DeeJay. 'Not like a real wound, anyway. He wasn't shot or nothing. He just hurt himself.'
'It'll count as a wound, you bloody see. If we dished out Purple Hearts he'd get one for that. He'll be allowed to wear a wound stripe. He got it in battle, in wartime.' Fatigue had drained Inkester's face and he was white in the lights of the fighting compartment. 'Wonder what they'll be like?'
'What what'll be like?'
'Our medals!'
'What fuckin' medals? You aren't half a git, Inky!'
'War service medals. We'll all get them. 1985 to whatever…victory medals…defence medals…just like the last war. They'll look good alongside the GSM I've got.'
'Bloody gongs…you're pathetic. I'll tell you what, I'd trade every one I'm ever likely to get for Eric's Blighty. He's a lucky sod!'
Spink was wiping oil from the faces of the Clansman's instrument dials; it was surprising how dirty the inside of a tank could become, he had even found a potato crisp packet…must have been the delivery crew's.
Inkester asked: 'Were you scared, DeeJay?'
'That's a fucking daft question!'
'Well, were you?'
'Course I was bleedin' scared. You'd be an idiot if you wasn't.'
'Stink was scared, weren't you Stink?' The loader didn't answer. 'Well, so was I,' admitted Inkester. 'You two thought how many of us there are left?'
'Shut up, Inky…I don't want to know.'
'Well, 'ave you seen anyone?'
'It's bleedin' dark out there…what d'you think I am, a bloody owl? They'll be around.' DeeJay didn't want to think, didn't want to start weighing up the odds of his future survival. He hadn't lied when he had admitted being scared; there had been times when he had wanted to throw open the hatch, hurl himself out into the open, and run like hell as far away from the battlefields as he could get. The only thing that had stopped him was the realization his survival was less likely outside the hull of the Chieftain. And when there were lulls in the fighting it wasn't too bad again, just so long as he didn't think about it.
''Ere! Aren't you getting married today?'
'Oh, Christ, Inkester. Why don't you belt up?' The realization it was Saturday wrapped itself around DeeJay's brain like a damp suffocating blanket. Saturday. He should have been in England…probably suffering from a Tetley's hangover…no, he would be sleeping it off now, in his Mum's house, his own bed; the bed he had slept in as a kid. Saturday. What was Cathy doing? She'd be asleep, too; her wedding dress hung in the stripped-pine wardrobe they had bought on his last leave. What the hell did she want with a stripped-pine wardrobe? They would be getting army furniture…quarters. Well, they'd have got them pretty soon, anyway. She'd been collecting things for ages, though; sets of pans from sales, bedding, a place setting of a knife, fork and spoon each week from her wages. Every time he went home on leave she would take him up to her mom and show him the things she'd added to her collection. As he thought of it, he realized he could actually smell her room, feminine, talcum powder. She used the perfume he had bought her in the Münster NAAFI, expensive, French, and it scented the bedroom, clinging to her sheets and pillows. They used the bed when her family were out. Old Daphne, her Mum, wasn't a bad old stick, she damn well knew they slept together…she even sort of helped them, though she wouldn't have liked it to be too obvious. 'Come on Steve, leave 'em alone a bit, they haven't seen each other for three months…you'll be wanting to have a little chat with each other, won't you? Your Dad and I will go down the pub. We'll meet you there, about ten o'clock in the lounge…come on then, Steve…see you two both later then."
'Do you love me, Dave?' The top of her head barely reached his mid-chest height, and she would be staring up at him with her wide blue eyes, trying to read the answer in his face. She would hold him extraordinarily tightly, pulling him against her until he could feel her breasts flattening against his body.
''Course I do. That's why we're gettin' married.'
'Tell me then…you never tell me in your letters. And you didn't even write for the last three weeks…only the telegram.'
'We had manoeuvres…I was out in the field. There's no time for writing letters, then. Being in the army's just like work you know, but it isn't nine-until-five every day.'
'You still haven't told me.'
'I'll tell you tomorrow.'
'Don't be daft.' Her eyes were soft, filling slightly with hurt.
'All right, I love you.'
'You could say it a bit nicer; kiss me, then tell me.'
Her first kisses were always gentle, testing. He could taste her lipstick. 'I love you, Cathy.'
'Mmmm. That's better…ooh, don't bite. Don't they feed you in Germany?'
'Let's go upstairs.'
'That's all you think of.'
'I can't kiss you properly standing up.' He had his hands under the back of her sweater, his fingertips beneath the taut strap of her bra. Her skin was warm and smooth. He could feel an erection beneath his trousers, pressing hard against her stomach.
'What are you thinking about, DeeJay?' Inkester's voice echoing inside the Chieftain.
'Fuck all!' Why the hell did Inkester have to drag him back? Christ, they were the best thoughts he'd had in days…he was home…he had been home for just a while…not long enough.
'I was thinking about Davis. Y'know, if we weren't Davis's crew we'd be bloody dead, DeeJay. I reckon we owe him. Straight up.'
'Cobblers!'
'It's not cobblers. I've been thinking about it; noticed yesterday and today. He's bloody careful is our WO.'
'Like how?' Play Inkester's game; if he wants to chat for a while, why not? Maybe Inkester never daydreams.
'Well, like when we went down the hill to the road after Lieutenant Sidworth bought his; remember, us an' Sealey. Davis put us in exactly the right place…best protection, good position. It bloody looked dangerous but we were safer there than up on the hill in the open. And later, in fact every time we moved position he was careful, every time bloody careful; not just drive up and think we'd got hull-down, but exact…just right…and good cam…natural cam…cover…everything. I tell you, it wasn't all luck DeeJay, it was sort of genius. Maybe he's got an instinct. You know. I've read about things like this, tankies who got themselves right through the last big war, and Korea and places, without a bleedin' scratch…there's always got to be someone who gets all the way through. Well, this time, it's going to be us.'
You stupid bastard!' This time DeeJay was angry. If he could have reached Inkester through the narrow gap between the back of his driving seat and the gun, he would have grabbed him and smashed his stupid face.
'What's wrong with you?' Inkester knew the driver's anger was genuine, and was startled.
'You'll fucking jinx it, you daft bugger! I don't want you, nor any other nig-nog talking about luck, skill or anything to do with why we're dive and the others aren't. I don't give a fart about surviving yesterday, or today…even tomorrow. I'm alive now, and that's all that matters.'
Spink interrupted in an attempt to distract the two men; there was nowhere to go inside a tank if someone started throwing punches. 'I think our WO is a bloody lunatic.'
Spink's remark was a mistake. Inkester grabbed him by the collars of his coveralls and dragged him forward until their faces were only a few inches apart. 'You think what, Stink?'
'I don't mean he's mad or anything, honest…just I thought that he was going to murder me.' To his relief Inkester pushed him away.
'I'd have bloody murdered you, too,' DeeJay said fiercely.
'Davis is a fuckin' good commander, Stink.' Inkester reached down beside his seat and brought out a bar of chocolate. He broke it into three equal parts and to Spink's surprise gave a piece to each of them. 'We're all mates in this tank, we fight together. But remember, Davis is ace, Stink, genuine essence!'