It took Davis half an hour to travel the last three kilometers. He managed to shorten the distance a little by taking a more direct route across country. Where possible he used the cover close to the fringes of woods, and well away from the roadway. He kept his eyes open for aircraft, but it wasn’t easy; there were plenty in the skies but he couldn’t always identify them. A few screamed over at little more than tree-top height heading eastwards; they were NATO planes, but even had they been Russian he couldn’t have reacted quickly enough to take evasive action. It wasn’t the low-flying aircraft he feared, for they came and went in seconds with their pilots concentrating on targets many kilometers ahead of them; the greatest danger was from those who stooged at a high altitude, risking the anti-aircraft missiles or attacks from NATO planes, as they searched for vehicle concentrations.
There were more military police near the regrouping area, a roadblock overlooked by a machine gun post. Again Davis was stopped, and this time his identification was carefully scrutinized by an officer before he was allowed to continue. Enemy sleeper groups had been reported to be making use of captured NATO vehicles to infiltrate depots; an incident a few minutes earlier, at one of the airfields, had brought renewed warnings. The police and guards were nervous of any vehicle which showed signs of combat. The MP officer pointed with his swagger-cane. ‘Over there to the right, Sergeant. Follow your number. When you get to the harbour area, get your vehicle out of sight fast. Cam’ it, and report to the command vehicle at once… PDQ… on your way.’
The roll of camouflage netting which had been lashed to the Chieftain’s hull was missing, as was all of the external equipment, jerry cans, tools, cable reel. The left-hand smoke grenade launchers had been torn from the turret, and the infra-red searchlight was smashed and buckled out of shape. Once the tank had been parked, the crew climbed out of the hull for the first time that day.
Shadwell was hugging his arm, his roughly bandaged hand under his armpit. His dark NBC suit concealed most of the bloodstains, but there were brown streaks down his face and neck. ‘Five minutes, lad, and we’ll get you to the aid-post. Can you hang on?’
Shadwell grimaced, then smiled. ‘It don’t hurt now, Sarge. Not as bad as toothache. I’ve got blisters on my arse though, from that seat’
‘’ere, have you seen this?’ Inkester was running his fingertips along a deep scar in the metal of the turret. ‘And Christ… look at these!’
‘Okay lads, that’s enough sightseeing. Inkester, there’s spare camouflage netting over there… double across and get it. DeeJay, give him a hand. If you need more, scrounge around while I go and report.’ Davis noticed Corporal Sealey lounging on the turret of the neighbouring Chieftain. ‘Don’t sit around, Corporal. Get your crew out and cam up. I want these two vehicles so well hidden I won’t be able to find them when I get back, understand? Jump to it, all of you.’ Shadwell moved with Hewett and Inkester. ‘Not you lad. You take it easy. If you can’t sit down, then see if you can find out where we can get some decent grub.’
Sergeant Davis recognized Captain Clarkson the operations officer in the Sultan. The officer’s clothing was still barracks-clean, and Davis was suddenly conscious of his own filthy appearance, but Clarkson made no comment.
‘We’ve been expecting you, Sergeant Davis. We’ve made contact with Captain Willis; he’s due here shortly, too. I’m afraid we’ve had a lot of casualties, Sergeant. Very unfortunate.’
Davis was unable to resist the question. ‘How many tanks have we got left, sir?
Captain Clarkson hesitated. Strictly speaking he shouldn’t divulge figures, but he knew Davis had as many years with the regiment as himself. ‘Discounting the headquarters squadron, fourteen.’
‘Fourteen!’ Davis felt the blood draining from his face. Fourteen survivors out ‘of forty-five main battle tanks… plus the colonel’s and the Number Twos…’ Fourteen, sir? Perhaps he had misheard.
Clarkson nodded. ‘Chieftains, yes. And we still have five Scimitars in the battle group.’ He knew the sergeant’s feelings exactly, his own had been identical as the figures had come through; disbelief and then horror at the loss of so many men… not all exactly friends, but at least regimental comrades, colleagues. ‘It’s been a very bad day, Sergeant.’ He added: ‘For all of us. Have you been informed about the colonel?’
‘No, sir.’ God, not old Studley, too! Colonels were supposed to be indestructible… they didn’t get themselves killed!
‘The colonel’s tank was knocked out. He’s gone.’ Clarkson made it sound as if Colonel Studley was off somewhere on a jaunt, but Davis understood. ‘And Major Fairly is reported missing believed killed.’
‘I’m sorry about that, sir.’
‘For the time being, the figures are confidential, Sergeant. I don’t want them bandied around. Wouldn’t help matters. And, of course, there may be quite a few survivors; some of the men will have been taken prisoner… perhaps even making their way back out of the line on foot, holed-up somewhere.’
‘Yes, sir.’ There might be a few, thought Davis, but he knew Clarkson’s optimism was purely for his benefit. The condescension annoyed him slightly.
‘Now, if I can have your report…’
Davis told him as much as he could recall. It was hard remembering, and he corrected himself frequently. One of the clerks was jotting down notes. Davis answered the captain’s questions, then said, ‘That’s about all, sir.’
‘Good, Sergeant. Very useful.’ Clarkson paused and mentally confirmed there was nothing he had overlooked in the interview, and then leant back in his chair. ‘Take your loader to the aid-post, and then get some food inside yourself and the crews. Stay close to your vehicles, we’ll want you back here later.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Davis saluted and climbed out of the vehicle. The sky towards the east was heavy with black smoke clouds; the war was seeking him out, relentlessly. There were too many vehicles moving in the laager for him to hear the guns, but he knew the sounds would be there.
The crew were sitting beneath the netting beside the Chieftain’s tracks. There was no need for him to suggest they should eat, they were doing so already. DeeJay was asleep, his open mouth still holding an unchewed bite of fried egg sandwich. Inkester cradled a pint mug of tea, and Shadwell a pair of cheese rolls balanced in the crook of his injured arm.
‘Come on Shadwell, let’s get you seen to.’ Davis stared down at him good-humouredly.
‘I think I’m fit, Sarge. Fit for duty.’
‘Don’t be daft, lad.’ He understood Shadwell’s reluctance to visit the hospital tent. Here, he was with his mates; there, everyone would be strangers. It was the same-feeling you got when you were posted.
‘It’s not bothering me, Sarge, honestly.’ Shadwell waved his bandaged hand. ‘I’m okay now.’
‘It’ll bother you later. The war hasn’t ended yet. We’ll be back in action in a couple of hours. You’ve got yourself a "Blighty".’
‘Lucky sod,’ enthused Inkester. ‘You’ll be drinking beer in an English pub tomorrow. Bloody ace, Eric. You’ll have smashing nurses to teach you to pick your nose with your other hand!’