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.’