Chieftains (15 page)

'I am not a criminal, I am a prisoner of war. I have committed no atrocities.'

'The killing of Soviet citizens is an atrocity, regardless of circumstances. A claim you were only obeying orders has been proved to be no defence in war trials; Nuremburg established that fact of law. Many of those found guilty were hanged. You will therefore co-operate.' Studley was silent, but he shook his head. 'Very well. I regret that in these circumstances, we do not have time for sophisticated interrogation.' He spoke to the guard. Studley turned, expecting to be led away, but the man rammed the butt of his rifle into Studley's side. He felt ribs crack as all the wind was driven from his lungs by the force of the blow, and a spear of pain drove itself across his chest. As Studley doubled forward, the guard swung the weapon again, this time at his face. The slab of the metal breech smashed against his lips and teeth, a blue-white light exploded behind his eyes.

He was on his knees, his throat full of blood, his torn lips and gums feeling as though they were burning. He put his hand to his mouth; his teeth were broken stumps and there were sharp splinters in the wounds. His nose was bleeding.

'As I warned you, there is no time for finesse. Now. Do you wish to help us? If you do so, there will be immediate medical assistance for you. You have simply to identify the code words.'

Studley coughed the blood from his throat. The GRU officer's voice sounded distant, and the floor beneath him felt like the swaying deck of a small boat. He attempted to concentrate his mind on a single thought...Jane. He tried to block the pain with memories.

The guard stamped down on to the wound in Studley's leg.

TWELVE

There were a group of military police on the road ahead of Sergeant Davis, their tempers frayed as they attempted to funnel the civilian refugees to one side to allow the passage of convoys of military vehicles towards the battle area. The number of refugees astonished Davis. He had expected some, but it seemed all the people from the town of Schöningen and villages near the border were trying to get away from the advancing Russian armies. There were queues of every kind of civilian vehicles, barely moving at walking pace along the entire length of the road. He had seen newsreel pictures of the Second World War when refugees had similarly blocked the movement of troops, but hadn't expected it to be like that now. Cars and lorries had broken down, run out of fuel, and been abandoned at the roadside still piled high with family possessions. Trucks and farm wagons, tractors and their sugar-beet trailers, people on foot or on bicycles, moved in a slow but determined procession towards the west. Davis followed the route of the road, but kept to the fields except where boundary ditches or irrigation dikes forced him back. Angrily, the refugees paused to let him by, and he knew from their contemptuous stares they suspected the two tanks, like themselves, were fleeing from the enemy.

The flood crept past the military police, obeying their desperate signals for only meters before swelling back to occupy the full width of the road. A convoy of Stalwarts was making only a few kilometers an hour eastwards, despite their drivers' attempts to make use of the verges at the roadside.

A harrassed young corporal, red-eyed with fatigue, clambered on to Davis's Chieftain. 'Who the 'ell are you?'

Davis told him.

The corporal checked a list. 'Okay, Sergeant. Your re-grouping area is three kilometers on...you'll see crossroads after Kissleberfeld and then your divisional number on a black sign – that is if some bastard hasn't moved it. Turn right there; it's unsurfaced. And keep off this road as much as possible.' He stared at the scarred hull of the tank, seeking an excuse for further conversation to keep him a few moments longer from his near-impossible task. 'Was it bad, mate?' Davis nodded. It was too early yet to find adequate words to describe the previous few hours of battle. 'Bastards,' the corporal swore. 'I'd hang every fuckin' Russian we catch. Watch out for their bloody Floggers; they've been brassin' the roads every hour or so...civvies, everything. Murdering swine. A bit north of here the convoys are driving through swamps of pulped bodies, it's the only fuckin' way they can get the supplies up.' He pointed towards drifting smoke three hundred meters across the fields. 'See them...AFVs they caught in the open. And this soddin' lot...' He jerked his head towards the slow-moving river of people. 'Get 'em out of the way, and a minute later they're all over the road again...they're fuckin' deaf...daft. It's all fuckin' murder. We heard it's even worse towards Hannover.' His conscience nagged him as he heard shouting from his colleagues. 'Take care, mate. And when you're in there again, give 'em one up the arse for the Redcaps. So long.'

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!'

'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.'