Chieftains

by Robert Forrest-Webb Bob

  Davis had watched them die. First the infantrymen beside the Chieftains at dawn, then their replacements, killed more horrifically by a mortar bomb, screaming, shrieking, with the combination of broken bodies and searing gas droplets in open wounds. It was macabre to Davis that men should end life as they entered it, bloody and reluctant.

  How many men had Davis killed this morning? Thirty. No, thirty was yesterday! Yesterday? Today? Not men today… brown-muzzled rats… giant rats… vermin. He would never count victims again.

  ‘Fuckin’ compo rations! Stodgy steak and kid… glue soup.’

  ‘If you can eat cold egg banjos, you can bloody eat anything.’

  ‘What about tea, Stink?’

  ‘Piss off, Inkester. I ain’t your batman. There’s no time for food.’

  ‘Don’t you piss off to me, Stink my lad. Get your grubby finger out and mash char.’

  ‘Bollocks!’

  Back six more kilometers; three villages defended until they were blown to ruins around them. Lost, Bravo Three and another five tanks of the squadron. Eight tanks gone… every crewman dead. There was no survival. When they baled out it was too late, the gas had got them through punctured hulls. A brief respite now, there were two villages between Bravo Troop and the Russian armour… and in the villages the other troops of the squadron waited, and with them the infantry with their missiles and mortars. Somewhere, always in the rear, was the battalion’s artillery; their guns red hot, the paint burnt from the barrels. The gunners trying to cool their weapons with buckets of gas-contaminated water, to prevent the charges exploding prematurely in the breeches as they were loaded.

  ‘’Scuse me, sir. I’ve got to have a shit.’ Inkester wriggled sideways in his seat below Davis’s knees.

  ‘It’s those bleeding egg banjos…’ DeeJay’s observation was unsympathetic.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, DeeJay. I’m not doin’ it so’s I can play with myself. It’s fucking urgent. There’s no sign of gas on the suit indicators.’

  ‘Get it over with,’ suggested Davis. ‘And make it quick. Anyone else want to relieve themselves? We may as well all get it done at the same time.’

  ‘Don’t miss the bloody bag, Inky. Your bare arse is just above my head. And don’t toss your gash into my driving compartment. Cor, bloody hell, stroll on!’ DeeJay made exaggerated gasping noises.

  ‘You may as well break out some rations, lad,’ Davis told Spink. He was thirsty, his mouth dry and tasting as though he had spent the whole of the previous night drinking. Night? He looked at his watch. It was 16.00. The second day had almost gone. Another four hours and it would be darkness again. It had been dawn when he had last had a drink. ‘Better make tea, lad.’ When had he eaten last? Sometime during the night! But he didn’t feel hungry. Had he slept at all? An hour at the reforming area.

  ‘I could do with a ciggy,’ Inkester had shrugged his overalls back on to his shoulders, stowed away his waste bag and settled himself into his seat again.

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘These seats give you piles, sir… well, a sore arse. What’s happening, sir?’

  Davis ignored him. ‘What ammunition have we got left, Spink?’

  ‘Eight rounds, sir.’

  ‘Eight!’

  ‘Yes, sir. Plus what we’ve got in the driving compartment.’

  ‘DeeJay, help Spink with the ammunition. Pass it back to him.’

  ‘There isn’t any down here, just a lot of old rag in the lockers.’

  ‘Jesus Christ! Inkester, you’re supposed to have checked the ammunition.’ Inkester didn’t answer. ‘You should use your mouth less, boyo, and your brains more.’ There was no point in making a bigger issue of the matter, as commander it was basically Davis’s responsibility. In future, he would check everything himself. How the hell could they defend the village properly with only eight shells? He called up the other two tanks of Charlie Bravo Troop. Fourteen shells in Bravo Two, eighteen in Bravo Four. He reported to the squadron leader.

  ‘We’re all in the same boat, Charlie Bravo One. I requested more from Group two hours ago. God know’s where they’ve got to.’

  Somewhere ahead of the squadron was the city of Braunschweig. Warrant Officer Morgan Davis guessed it must lie beneath the rose-tinted pall of smoke on the western horizon and having witnessed the destruction of the small towns and villages through which he had fought in the past twenty-four hours, he had no difficulty in imagining the devastation. Braunschweig was a sacrificial victim, a city whose death had been planned long before the outbreak of the war; a lynch-pin. Situated at a point where the Mittellandkanal and several tributaries met the winding river Schunter, it was a crucial pivot to swing the Soviet advance towards the north and into the river-latticed plain east of Hannover. Those parts of Braunschweig that had remained undamaged by the bombs, long-range shells and missiles of the Russians, would by now have been systematically demolished by the NATO engineers. For the second time in its recent history, its centre, the smart shops, offices, cinemas, theatres and restaurants would be only smoking rubble. Its suburbs of neat and orderly houses had become armour-snarling traps, blocked streets and mined parks; a lethal maze.

  To the north of Braunschweig, and on the right of the squadron’s tanks, was the low range of hills, some forested and now sown with many thousands of bar and anti-personnel mines. Almost impenetrable to heavy tracked vehicles, it was the kind of ground that could only fall to slow, tedious and costly infantry assault; every hill-top and ridge defended and contested. An invader’s nightmare.

  Davis had learnt you could defend every river, canal, pass, village and town, but no matter how well your men fought, sheer weight of numbers always beat you in the end and made the terrible loss of life mean nothing.

  Too many times, it seemed like a million in the past forty hours, he had wanted more military strength around him. Too few tanks attempting to defend so much ground. Never enough of them to give security in depth. Soft defence was sound thinking, but it seemed to Davis to be based on an original weakness — lack of equipment. Make the most of what you have. Eight tanks the squadron had lost today and they hadn’t stopped the invaders, only slowed them down. And now, they were out of ammunition and pulling back again… back, always backwards. Always more frustration. So bloody unnecessary; wasteful.

  How many kilometers abandoned today? Fifteen at least. And yesterday? And how many tomorrow? Fighting for what? Fighting for time. Time for reinforcements to arrive? For politicians to talk and negotiate? And negotiate what? The surrender of Germany to the Warsaw Pact countries? The promise to disarm and behave like good little boys?

  The ammunition should have been up where it was needed, but it wasn’t. The gas had made things difficult for everyone. Good God, it wasn’t as though it was a possibility that had been ignored. Gas attacks had been expected; practised.

  The wooded hills were already in shadows as the sun dropped behind their peaks. They looked peaceful enough, if you ignored the smoke over the horizon or didn’t look back towards the battlefront barely a kilometer away. Just a month previously the hills and woods had been filled with campers, hikers, and the evening bars of the towns and villages had been noisy and happy places. It was all another ‘world; history.

  He saw the decontamination unit sited beneath the trees and followed the squadron leader’s Chieftain across the open ground towards it. The operators in their NBC clothing fired turbine powered blasts of liquid decontaminant over the tanks as they drove by. Fifty meters on they were stopped, while a final cleansing took place with hand-held sprays.

  Less than a kilometer along a firebreak the squadron leader brought the squadron to a halt beside a line of fuel bowsers. Davis could see ammunition being unloaded from a trio of Heer Transportpanzers a little way ahead. Everything was taking too much time. The squadron had been lucky not to have been attacked while moving in the open, but they were even more vulnerable now.

  He jerked open the front of his NBC suit and pulle
d the front of his sweater away from his chest. The air felt cool, refreshing. His sweater and vest were soaked with perspiration and he could smell his own sweat, stale and sour, mingling with the rubberized scent of the protective clothing. He would have liked to climb outside and stretch his legs in the open, try to get his bowels working; at the moment his intestines were cramped and made him feel as though he had gorged himself. But the crews had been ordered to remain inside their tanks as they queued for fuel and ammunition. The decontamination of the vehicles had been hasty, and it only needed a few drops of nerve gas liquid on a man’s skin to incapacitate him, perhaps kill. All the tanks carried injection kits, but whether or not these would be of any real use in counteracting the effects of the unknown Soviet gas was debatable.

  Davis wondered what was being planned for the squadron. Knowing the captain would contact HQ, he tuned to the battle group net and felt guilty as he eavesdropped.

  ‘Valda?’ Davis recognized his squadron leader’s first name, but not the voice using it. ‘Where are you? The voice was languid, as though its owner had just climbed from his sleeping bag. Some bloody officers, thought Davis. They spoke so far back it was a miracle they didn’t swallow their tongues.

  ‘Postmark.’ It was the squadron leader.

  ‘Good fellow. Casualties?

  A stupid bloody question, Davis cursed the man mentally. ‘Eight… I’ve reported each as it happened,’ said the squadron leader, and Davis was pleased to note an edge to the captain’s voice that matched his own feelings.

  ‘Just started my stag, haven’t caught up. Any problems?’

  Christ! Any problems? What the hell was facing a Soviet army if it wasn’t a problem. Davis could feel his irritation swelling towards anger, but resisted an overwhelming urge to interrupt the conversation and give the officer a piece of his mind.

  ‘Of course we’ve got problems… God Almighty!’ Good for you, sir, thought Davis as Captain Willis allowed his irritation to show. ‘I called for ammunition two hours ago… where the hell was it? We’ve had to fall back to a depot. Falcon’s squadron moved in from the flank.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The officer’s voice was more subdued.

  ‘How much gas is there about?’ Willis asked curtly.

  ‘It’s being used along the entire front as far as we can tell. Wherever the Russians are being held they’re using chemicals. There have been chemical attacks on most of the airfields they can reach, and any supply concentrations.’

  ‘What about the civilians?’

  ‘What about them? Gas? We don’t know.’

  ‘Bastards!’

  ‘I’m a bit out of date.’ Like a hundred years, you berk, thought Davis. ‘I’d say, nasty. Not going too well in the north… that’s all I know.’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’

  ‘We want you at Capricorn, soonest.’

  ‘Thirty minutes.’

  ‘Roger, Valda. Good luck.’

  Capricorn. Davis switched back to the squadron net, then checked his code and maps. Capricorn, one kilometer north of Gardessen. Another step towards the Channel. It was always backwards, and it always felt as though it was Davis himself who was being forced into the corner.

  21.00 hours. Day Two

  The mortar bombs were coming over at precise intervals, a pair every ten seconds on to the squadron position, exploding simultaneously, but sometimes just sufficiently separated for the double concussion to be noticeable. Whatever types of mortars were being used they were damned big, sending a shockwave through the ground which moved the Chieftain on her suspension and made the hull vibrate. Davis didn’t know enough about Soviet equipment to be able to identify them, but thought they must be at least 160mm, perhaps even the giant 240s. The regularity of their arrival was nerve-wracking.

  The troop’s position was below the western ridge of a low hill, little more than a gentle rise in the ground. Three thousand meters to the front and right was a village, and to the troop’s left, another. It had been night for almost an hour, but the steady mortar bombardment had been taking place since dusk. The village ahead was burning, bright flames colouring the smoke, sparks swirling upwards into the sky. But although it was night there was no real darkness. Parachute flares, fired at intervals almost as precise as those of the mortars, were swinging down above the battleground bringing colourless daylight.

  In the ruins of the village ahead the infantry were fighting. Several times Davis had seen the trails of missiles hurtling from the rubble; and occasionally he heard the sounds of 120mm guns which he could recognize as those of one of the other reformed troops, Alpha. He didn’t know who was throwing up the flares. It was impossible to judge from this distance, they were drifting northwest along the length of the battlefront, and they seemed to offer little advantage to either side. Someone, somewhere, must have thought they were being helpful. It was like watching an old black and white film — All Quiet on the Western Front. Christ, there was nothing quiet about this battlefield!

  Inkester was humourlessly acknowledging the arrival of each pair of mortar bombs, his voice flat with fatigue. ‘Miss… miss… miss…’ A monotonous monosyllabic chant.

  ‘Charlie Bravo One this is Charlie Alpha… standby. We’re pulling back.’

  Davis acknowledged, and passed on the information to his remaining two tank commanders. He could not put names or faces to their voices yet, but their radio techniques were already familiar. He kept his eyes on the outline of the village. With the magnification of his light-intensifying lenses, he could see movement; the occasional dodging infantrymen scurrying between the piled rubble, silhouetted, stooped, bent almost double. A dark hull, recognizable as a Chieftain, passed in front of a blazing building, looking like an identification cut-out at a training lecture. He knew how its crew would be feeling; they had survived for a little while longer. If they could retire now behind Bravo Troop, then they would have another small respite… perhaps the opportunity to catch a few minutes’ deep… a hot drink. And like Bravo One, the interior of their vehicle would be stinking, fetid. You pissed or shat in bags, if it were possible. Sometimes it wasn’t, and you held on as long as you could. Eventually, in some unexpected moment of stress, you let it go. That kind of stress never presented itself in training, so if you lacked battle experience you were always unprepared. Davis’s NBC suit was still dry inside, but the fighting compartment of the Chieftain stank, and it probably wasn’t all the responsibility of the new loader, Spink.

  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.