Chieftains

by Robert Forrest-Webb Bob

  God, Davis certainly came up fighting to defend Spink. Fancy him threatening me like that. Flaming charge. Bloody hell, for a moment he sounded just like my old man. Christ, Saturday nights in Scotland Road… beer and a punch up the throat, or a boot in the side of your bloody head. A bloody boot… God, it was a boot that got me here now.

  ‘This is the second time you have been brought before this court, Inkester.’ Bloody pompous old sod; just a butcher in a backstreet round the corner from Lime Street Station. Who the hell does he think he is? ‘There’s no reason why we should be expected to tolerate this disgraceful hooliganism. If you were a year older, I would have no hesitation in sentencing you to six months in jail. A few years ago, I would have ordered the birch. I am recommending a period in an approved school which I hope will bring you to your senses…’

  It was his fault, thought Inkester. The magistrate’s bloody fault he was out here now. Bloody old shit. No it wasn’t, he decided suddenly, it was his own. He’d been a bit of a tearaway and he had been caught It was fair enough.

  ‘Sorry Inkester, we can’t take you at the moment. The army’s not that easy. Prove yourself first. You hold a job down for two years, and re-apply. If you’ve got a good reference, then be can use you.’

  Two years. It had seemed a long time. ‘You’ll never hold a job down two years, you little bagger.’ His father sometimes worked in the markets, but was more often on the dole.

  Where the hell did you look for a job that would last two years? ‘Struth, it was on the way to a pension. Two years… and if he so much as batted an eyelid at the boss and got sacked, the two years would have to begin again. Bloody hell!

  ‘You may as well piss up a wall, kid!’ His brother was a year younger and still at school. ‘What the hell do you want to join the army for? Someone must have hit you on the ’ead!’

  ‘It’s good; you can learn a trade. There’s opportunity.’ He had seen a recruiting film and sent off for all the pamphlets, before visiting the recruiting office. Even the sergeant who had turned him down had made it sound worthwhile.

  ‘Opportunity! Look at our old man… a toolmaker until he gets called up for his National Service, then he’s a batman and half the time in the glasshouse… hasn’t bloody worked since. Army fucking ruined him. You’ve heard Mam go on about it.’

  ‘Yeah… it’s a load of cobblers. He doesn’t work ‘us he’s too bloody idle.’ Where the hell was he going to find steady employment; there weren’t a lot of jobs around Liverpool. He tried a dozen different places before Woolworths. What if he were absolutely honest about his reason for applying for work there? He tried it!

  The manager was sympathetic: ‘Two years, Inkester? Normally, we prefer to train staff who intend to stay with us longer… young men like to go on to managerial posts. We can afford to be selective; there is a lot of responsibility in a company like this. What sort of work would you be prepared to do?’

  ‘Anything, sir. Anything at all.’ The man hadn’t said no; it was the closest he had got yet to a job.

  ‘In the warehouse? It’s tiring and I doubt if I could promise any kind of promotion.’

  ‘Would it last two years, sir?’

  The man had smiled at his anxiety. ‘It’ll see you into the army young man, if you work hard…’

  Two years in Woolies. Afterwards, when he had been accepted, it had felt like extra time on a sentence, but it hadn’t really been like that. The two years had gone quickly. They had even held a small party for him the day he had left; turned out to be a good lot of blokes, and girls. It wasn’t bad. Dickenson the manager had seen him right… first man who ever did. Not bad for a Wallasey poofter!

  Catterick! Jesus Christ, the first weeks of training… the first two. He had cried at night, like a bloody baby.

  ‘What the hell do you lot think you are? You terrify me… all of you! How am I expected to make soldiers out of you? Trooper! What the hell are you grinning at?’ A face three inches from his own’ Pull your chin in, Wacker… square your shoulders, you ignorant bloody maggot.’

  ‘You with the big ears… weasel head… yes, you, Trooper. Swing your arms smartly down to your side, don’t let ’em drift in the bleeding wind like a fairy… and don’t bloody ‘sir’ me… I’m a corporal… what d’you call me, Trooper?’

  ‘Corporal…’

  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…’

  Davis had been watching the machine gun crew in the growing daylight. There was a kind of sadistic satisfaction in sitting inside the Chieftain with his mug of hot tea cupped in his hands, while the infantry shivered outside. One of the soldiers was standing, stretching, shaking his arms. He was taking a risk, a good sniper with a Dragunov and telescopic sight could pick him off from across the river. What the hell was he doing? He had stripped off the upper part of his NBC suit and was waving his helmet above his head. Another of the members of the GPMG crew was going to get him… no, was ignoring him… what in God’s name were they doing with the machine gun? A man was lifting it off its bipod… he dropped it… picked it up, then threw it at one of the soldiers on the ground. They were laughing. One stumbled to his knees, then lay on his back, kicking his legs in the air like a crippled insect.

  ‘Christ!’ Davis shouted in horrified realization — tossing his half-finished mug of tea out of the way under his seat. ‘Gas… gas… gas… All stations, this is Bravo One… gas… gas… gas… check all vehicles and close down.’ He switched quickly to the squadron net. ‘Hullo Shark, this is Bravo One… gas… gas… gas… Over.’ He rammed on his respirator and blew out hard.

  ‘Shark here… Roger Charlie Bravo One.’ Captain Willis’s voice was reassuringly steady. ‘Do you have casualties? Over.’

  ‘The infantry… I’ll check the troop.’ Davis’s voice was slightly muffled, but he knew it would transmit.

  ‘What kind of gas?’

  ‘Chemical… unidentified.’

  ‘How was it delivered?’

  ‘No idea… no shells over… haven’t seen aircraft. High altitude rockets, maybe.’

  ‘Roger Charlie Bravo One… out.’

  ‘DeeJay,’ shouted Davis, ‘you got your hatch clamped down and your respirator on?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Spink… check yours, lad.’ Davis peered out through his lenses. The infantrymen he could see were hunched on the ground, curled into grotesque foetal postures; one was convulsing rhythmically, but the others were now all still. God, it was nasty… bloody terrifying. An unseen, unheard form of death that drifted in without warning. He could have been out there… leaning out of the turret for a breath of air when it arrived. The bastards; those bastard Russians. What about the rest of his troop?

  ‘All stations Bravo, this is Nine… acknowledge. Over.’

  ‘Bravo Two. Over.’

  ‘Bravo Three. Over.’

  Davis waited. Where the hell was Four? ‘Bravo Four, this is One… acknowledge. Over?’

  ‘Bravo Four. Over.’

  Relief made Davis angry. ‘Bravo Four, this is Nine. When I say acknowledge, I mean acknowledge… and fast okay? All Bravo Troop standby… and for God’s sake stay closed-down. Any casualties near you? Over.’

  Only one of the troop replied to his question. ‘Bravo Three… report Milan squad knocked out here.’

  ‘Roger Bravo Three. Out.’

  PBI, they used to nickname them; poor bloody infantry. It was appropriate. ‘Inkester, keep your eyes peeled.’ DeeJay had already started the Chieftain’s engine. ‘Everything okay down there, DeeJay?’

  ‘Ace, sir.’

  ‘Spink? Spink, wake up, lad!’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m all right.’

  ‘Fucking stay that way,’ warned Inkester. ‘Shit… look at that…’ Four stub-winged aircraft in a tight diamond formation were swinging up above the distant woods, rising into a steep climb. Below them the ground was already a seething mass of napalm flame. ‘What the hell are they, sir?’

  They had come in so fast Davis had not seen their approach dive. ‘Tomcats maybe… Yanks… ours anyway.’ The aircraft were already only small dots; the formation broke, sunlight glinted on perspex and they were gone.

  It’s begun again, thought Davis. As though in confirmation, the hull of the Chieftain began to quiver with the shock of exploding missiles. Overhead, the shrieking roar of heavy artillery shells rose above the throb of the tank’s engine. Two more days, please God… that’s all, just two days… keep us alive for two more days until we’re pulled out.

  Floggers! He saw them in the distance against the dawn sky, chunky, menacing, only a hundred meters above the ground. They seemed to be aiming themselves directly at Charlie Bravo One. He lost them for a second and they were suddenly terrifyingly close… one disintegrated into a vast orange flame; a comet spewing flaming debris as it fell. The others… he saw missiles briefly… heard the explosions somewhere to the rear. Smoke! Shell bursts ahead of him. Ethereal dark serpents writhing from the earth, to envelop the fields and swell along the riverbanks. The ground leapt, trees and shrubs flattening beneath the sharp aerial detonations of canister, aimed against infantry already incapacitated by the gas; steel pellets hammered the Chieftain’s armoured body, shot-blasting the paintwork from polished metal.

  Davis wondered what it was like for the Russian tank crews. Perhaps in some ways better; at least they were moving forward. But into what? Minefields! The leading tanks armed with rollers and ploughs to clear the treacherous and deadly ground… wedged up against ditches and streams where they became stationary targets for the Milan crews or the gunships. And here against the well-prepared defences, unable to use the natural cover until it was cleared of mines by their engineers. No, it wasn’t better for them, and it was probably psychologically worse… they had everything to lose, and not much to gain… only someone else’s piece of ground to die on.

  Imagine being up there watching, he thought. Up there, not like God, but just up there. In a command helicopter well up out of harm’s way if there was such a place; looking down and seeing it all happen. Like the time he had flown into Berlin, and seen the East German minefields stretching as a dark ploughed road as far as he could see in both directions from the windows of the aircraft; only now the border would be a band of fire and smoke cutting Europe in half. How wide was the devastation and destruction? Would it go on expanding until the whole world was one huge smoking ruin?

  Inkester called, ‘Infantry… I think I can see Russian infantry!’

  Davis swept the ground through the smoke with the 7.62mm machine gun, pleased to give himself something to take his mind off the devastating artillery bombardment. He stopped firing, and watched through the episcope as a British Saracen disgorged its men sixty meters to his left; ten infantrymen, clumsily-suited and cradling their SLRs, alien in their respirators, comforting. Replacements; infantry to fight infantry. Davis wanted more of them to appear, supported by some fresh armour to charge forward and roll it all up, get it. over with. They wouldn’t come, it was a waste of time even thinking about it.

  ‘Charlie Bravo One… this is Shark. Soviet air-drop to the rear… about two Ks back, at Cyanide… some light armour. We’ll hold here until it gets too hot, then move to Potash… out.’

  ‘Roger, Shark,’ acknowledged Davis.

  Airdrop, bloody hell. And behind somewhere. That was bound to be the way they’d do it; they weren’t going to get themselves shot to hell in order to ford some pissy little river; they’d just put up a diversionary artillery barrage, and then air-drop their troops past the defences. Sod crossing minefields and bridging ditches. They would secure the bridgehead by an airborne assault first. Gas! That was bloody obvious,
too. Someone should have had those poor infantry bastards in their respirators since first shot yesterday… bloody disorganization… too many bosses up top… too bloody far away from the battlefront. No, that wasn’t true. The colonel had been right up there with them… Colonel Studley in his Chieftain, out there in the battle like his crews. Bloody good for him; he was… had been the sort of colonel you wanted to fight under… poor sod.

  ‘Armour! What the hell?’ Inkester’s voice, anxious. ‘Range six hundred…’ The Chieftain lurched on its suspension as Inkester fired. ‘What was it, sir? The wreckage of the vehicle was hidden in the smoke.

  ‘An MT-LB… worry about what’s coming, lad, not what’s gone.’

  EIGHTEEN

  12.00 hours. Day Two

  ‘They look like dead rats, Jesus, they look like rats!’ Inkester was staring ahead at a heap of Soviet paratroopers’ bodies beside the shattered walls of a derelict barn. The corpses, twisted, torn and bloody, were still dressed in their NBC protective clothing and long brown-muzzled respirators.

  Only minutes before the Russian paratroopers had been alive, manning a pair of RPU rocket launchers; the guns of Charlie Bravo Troop’s tanks had opened up on them and Davis had driven the Chieftain into the courtyard of the farm buildings with his machine gun blazing. You could demolish a wall, row by row of bricks, with a 7.62mm. It did terrible things to the human body.

  The squadron had pulled back from the river… retired five kilometers in a series of leapfrogs; tank protecting tank, troop protecting troop. Today, thank God, there had been fewer losses so far. Only two tanks gone from the squadron, and Bravo Troop still intact. It was the infantry who were having the hardest time, sweating blood as they fought in their clammy suits, dying from the bullets and shrapnel, or the gas when the, blast of a nearby explosion stripped the protective clothing from their bodies.