‘Balls,’ muttered Shadwell. He followed Davis across to the field ambulance and glowered as Davis handed him over to the orderlies. ‘I’ve left some gear in the tank, Sarge’ A delaying tactic.
‘I’ll get Inkester to bring it over.’ Davis slapped Shadwell’s back, gently. ‘Thanks, lad. We’ll see you soon.’
‘Was I okay, Sarge? I mean, well, did I do all right?’ He sounded like an insecure teenager who’d just surrendered his virginity.
Davis knew it was unlikely he’d ever see Shadwell again. He would be moved back to the UK eventually, and probably discharged. He had been a crew member for two years, and Davis realized whatever he said to Shadwell now was going to be remembered for a very long time. His attempt to choose the right words made them clumsier. ‘You did marvellous, son… marvellous. You’re a first-class loader, Shadwell. Best I’ve ever had.’
He turned quickly, left the ambulance, and then paused outside. Shadwell had said he had left some of his gear in the Chieftain; Christ, he had some of Shadwell in his overall pocket… his fingers! Davis called to the nearest orderly, a young pink-faced man sterilizing instruments in a steamer outside the aid-post.
The fingers were of no use, they had been off Shadwell’s hand for far too long for them to be sewn back in place, but just throwing them away somewhere didn’t seem right to Davis. He sorted them out from the compo ration sweets which had gone sticky in his pocket.
‘Sergeant?’ The orderly looked at him quizzically.
‘Here. You’d better have these,’ said Davis.
The orderly held out his hand automatically, and Davis dropped Shadwell’s stumpy bloodstained fingers into his palm. It took the orderly a moment or two to realize what they were, then his face paled. ‘Bloody hell!’ He dropped them as though they were hot.
‘Pick them up,’ Davis shouted furiously. They were no longer fingers, they were all his friends who had died that day on the battlefield. ‘Pick them up, lad. See that Trooper Shadwell gets his ring back, and give his fingers a decent burial.’
Davis was facing a brigadier from Division HQ, glad he had managed to find himself a cup of hot water and shaved. He would have liked to strip off and shower because he knew he was stinking, but it had been impossible. However, he was relieved he had got some of the muck off his face and hands.
Charlie Squadron’s leader, Captain Valda Willis, was with the staff officer and had smiled as Davis entered the command post. ‘Glad you made it, Sergeant.’ The greeting had held genuine warmth.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Davis!’ The brigadier was glaring at him. ‘Captain Willis has just put in a report of your performance this afternoon.’
Christ, thought Davis. What now?
‘He tells me you personally stood-off a Russian tank battalion. Is that correct?’
Davis felt himself blush. ‘I don’t know about that, sir.’
‘At Redstart, Sergeant. Yourself and the corporal in charge of Charlie Bravo Four. He tells me that on your own initiative you got yourself hull-defilade beside a road, and picked them off as they came across the fields. You then retired four hundred meters and did the same thing again. It has been confirmed by an officer of the 17th/21st.’
‘It seemed the best thing to do, sir,’ said Davis. He hadn’t realized there had been an audience. It made him even more embarrassed.
‘You could have simply retired, Sergeant; the remainder of your squadron vehicles were all knocked out, it would have been reasonable for you to have done so.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Davis didn’t know what the brigadier was expecting him to say. He wasn’t sounding particularly friendly, perhaps Davis was about to get a rocket for putting the tanks and men at risk.
‘Good show, Sergeant. Damned good show. I see that your loader was wounded, and your tank hit!’
Davis thought he should emphasize the part Shadwell had played. If there was credit to be handed around, then Shadwell was due for some. ‘Trooper Shadwell lost his fingers early in the action, sir. He kept on loading even after he had been wounded. And just now, sir, he refused medical attention until I gave him an order. He wanted to remain with the crew.’
‘Excellent spirit, Sergeant. His behaviour won’t be overlooked.’ Davis was surprised to see Captain Willis wink at him from behind the brigadier’s shoulder. The brigadier continued. ‘Your Chieftain’s a little worse for wear. I want you to take over a troop, Davis. We’re rebuilding your squadron. On your squadron leader’s recommendation, I’m promoting you to warrant officer first class. The promotion takes effect immediately. Do you understand, Mr Davis?’
‘Yes, sir.’ He understood the brigadier’s words, but he couldn’t believe him. Not yet, anyway. A warrant officer. Mister Davis. My God, WO1. He had jumped ranks. Hedda would be over the moon.
Outside, Captain Willis shook his hand warmly. ‘You deserve it Mister Davis. You’ve also been recommended for a decoration.’
‘Good God, sir!’ He wondered if he was dreaming.
Willis laughed. ‘You’ll get used to the idea, Mister Davis. The next step is a pip on your shoulder, remember that. By the way, there’s a tank delivery squab in the woods. Here are the papers from Captain Clarkson. They’re expecting you over there. You’re getting a fresh vehicle. They’ll introduce you to your new crew. Run through the usual POL, and checks, just to be on the safe side. When you’ve got yourself sorted out, come and see me. I can’t exactly promise you a celebration, but I’ve got enough brandy for a small drink to your promotion.’
‘Thank you, sir. But the crew, sir. I’d like to keep my own… just need a new loader, sir.’
‘It’s not always wise with a promotion, Mister Davis.’
‘I understand, sir. But I know these men; they’re good.’
Willis smiled again. ‘Very well. Use them’
Dusk came early as the sun dropped below the thick pall of smoke that seemed to form the horizon in every direction. Shortly afterwards the squadron moved north-west to its fresh positions behind the River Schunter. The war was more obvious again, much closer, with the undersides of some of the clouds lit by explosions on the ground beneath them. Warrant Officer Davis knew what it was like here, knew what he had to expect again within the next short hours; the turmoil and confusion, the sounds, the heaving ground, and death. It hadn’t been too bad the first time, not knowing; and then it had all happened so quickly there had been little time to think. Now, it was different. He had survived once, while a lot of men had died; many of his friends were there, behind the enemy lines, still in the wreckage of their tanks. Could he make it a second time? He would damn well try! What the hell was the use of a promotion if you couldn’t enjoy it? He wanted to be with Hedda and the kids; wanted them to share the pleasure of a new uniform, his new rank and the privileges it would bring. There’d be more money, too… a better car, maybe.
The new Chieftain’s engine was throbbing softly. The position was on level ground six hundred meters behind the narrow river, on the outskirts of the village of Süpplingen. Davis’s tank was in a small garden, with a rising bank between it and the river giving some protection against artillery. The radio nets were silent.
The replacement loader, a nineteen year old, Henry Spink, was fussing about in the fighting compartment. He seemed to be polishing the gun. Davis let him get on with it; the lad was nervous. It wasn’t surprising.
DeeJay was whistling softly down in his driving seat, feeling a little happier with a full stomach and a couple of hours sleep behind him. He hadn’t enjoyed leaving Bravo Two standing forlorn and battered under her netting beneath the trees. He had felt he was deserting her. It took a conscious effort to turn his back and walk away. The new tank hadn’t even smelt right; he had run up the engine, gunned it hard for several minutes, listening to it and trying to spot weaknesses or faults before allowing himself to rest. He knew Inkester had experienced similar doubts about the gunnery equipment. A tank is only a tank, DeeJay kept telling himself; one bit of army equipment is the same as the next. His own arguments didn’t convince him. He tried thinking of other things. ‘Inky?’ He shouted over his shoulder, his voice distorted by the engine vibration and the metalwork of the new Chieftain’s hull.