Chieftains (23 page)

'This is your ammunition: TP; TP-T; MINE HEI-T; SAPHEI, APIC-T.'

'A Helmgard helmet, Mister Sache-Worrel. And what is it fitted with? Accoustic valves to protect your delicate eardrums! And what else? Right! Your communications facilities. And these are part of...? Yes, Clansman...your communications system. Eight hundred and forty channels available, gentlemen; HF and VHF; frequency coverage from one point five to seventy-five point nine seven five MHz, and two hundred and twenty-five to three hundred and ninety-nine point zero MHz.'

'This gentlemen, is the ZB 298 battlefield surveillance radar, which can be fitted to reconnaissance vehicles...the thermal imaging sight...lasar range-finder...the night vision gunner's sight...you need to know about mines, gentlemen; this is a film of the Ranger mine discharger system; the discharger holds one thousand two hundred and ninety-six mines in one load, and can fire out eighteen mines a second...bar mines are laid by ploughs; seven hundred an hour...note the angles of your smoke grenade dischargers; a full hundred and eighty degree smoke screen...gentlemen, this is not a cage for the display of baboons, though I sometimes wonder, this is the Morfax gunnery simulator...'

So much information, but still confusion...

Would his father have been confused, too, wondered Sache-Worrel? His own war had lasted less than twenty-four hours and he had no idea what was happening. His father's war had lasted five years. Could doubt and uncertainty last that long, or was it eventually overcome? And fear? War had not really begun for him yet...it was early days...hours...and yet he had already been terrified. He had seen death at a distance but not yet touched it. He realized how condescending he must have sounded to his father...wars were all the same. You might fight them with different weapons, in different places, but they were the same.

'Robin...'

'Yes, Ben.'

'I think we should try and make ourselves useful. Hinton's moving out now. We'll head back towards the west and have a go at the Ruskie engineering units; create a bit of mayhem with their soft-skinned transports. Strike, cut and run, keep on the move. Are you game?'

Sache-Worrel nodded. 'Yes, I'm game.' What was it Mister Hatton his schoolmaster used to say? Don't think you've lost, just because you're fifteen points down at half time; you can still win.

SEVENTEEN

It was different now, thought Morgan Davis; working better. The battle groups were holding the Russians! The minefields on the eastern bank of the River Schunter had been carefully laid with plenty of depth. The NATO gunners, covering it from well to the rear of the armour, had wiped out the first of the Soviet recce squadrons with a spectacular copy-book strike.

A large number of sensors, still operative deep in the ground through which the Soviet division was attempting to move, were feeding information back to the artillery observers and continuously giving them new targets. Unfortunately, in many cases, blanketing the area where an electronic sensor detected and reported transport movement also meant the destruction of the device. But nevertheless they were proving effective. The Soviet division had for the moment lost its momentum; the head of the attack had weakened.

Warrant Officer Davis still knew little of the progress of the war outside the Elm Sector. He had heard rumours that the Russian forces had captured Lübeck and Hamburg in the north, and the Americans in CENTAG, supported by the French and German corps, had pushed the invaders back into East Germany as far as the town of Nordhausen. He realized however, the stories were unlikely to be fact, as he felt certain the NATO forces would not be permitted to advance into Warsaw Pact territory. Everyone was guessing, and those with the most fertile imaginations guessed the wildest. Stones grew in wartime, and everyone liked to think they knew something special or had experienced something unique; like the Angel of Mons. Angel of bloody Mons. Christ, we could do with one here, he mused. But the Angel of Mons had been only imagination, too...no' one had even mentioned one until years after the First World War when some London journalist wrote a fictional short story about the battle and the intervention of a host of Heavenly warriors; then everyone remembered – or thought they did The Russians in Hamburg? They might well get there eventually, but by God they would have had to shift to be in the city by now. Hedda and the kids? They'd be okay. Hedda would see to that. Bloody good bird, Hedda. Bird? Lady. Warrant officers' wives weren't birds. And the kids, too. They were nearly officer's kids now. And he wouldn't be spading the rest of his army career as a warrant officer, there would certainly be more promotion ahead...a commission to lieutenant...captain...major? Christ, it was impossible. Hedda the wife of a British major, hell, she would lap it up. It would be great for them all.

There had been a lull for the past half hour, following a rocket barrage that passed beyond Charlie Squadron's present positions, and landed harmlessly in open farmland There was still artillery fire from both sides, but it all seemed to be aimed behind the front lines. There was nothing to be seen moving in the vision-intensifying lenses...the Russians were somewhere in the darkness...they were there...but they weren't coming right now.

There was a ripple of movement in the ground and the sky far across the Schunter glowed briefly.

'There's another, Sarge...sir,' said Inkester. He was still having problems remembering Davis's new rank. 'What you reckon they are?

'Lance missiles.' Damn, thought Davis, I've joined the guessing game!

'Hell of a warhead, sir! Did you see them SPs go in a while back? Glad I wasn't on the receiving end. Bloody hell, it's like fucking bonfire night a million times over. Wish I knew what was going on though.' He raised his voice. 'Here, DeeJay, you bleedin' awake?

'Yeah...' DeeJay's voice was muffled, hollow.

'You want an egg banjo?'

'Don't be daft.'

'I've got one...got two. Put 'em in me pocket, back at the reform.'

'Christ, a bloody cold egg banjo!'

'They ain't cold. You want one?'

'Stick it!'

'What about you, sir?'

'No thanks,' answered Davis. He could imagine it, slimy in his mouth, the fried egg sandwich covered in oily thumbprints. He sighed, it would be dawn soon. Another dawn; it had to be better than the last one. Just twenty-four hours, and everything had changed. What would happen next? What were the bloody government doing? Talking! The government always talked, and usually ended by cutting back on defence funding. Well, they'd soon know if they'd cut their bloody budgets too hard; they probably knew now. A couple of thousand more battle tanks along the frontier would certainly have helped matters. How many had been lost? God, it must be hundreds already. 'Spink?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Knock us out some char.'

'Yeah, earn your bloody living,' called Inkester.

'Give the lad a chance. How're you feeling now, Spink?'

'A bit better, sir.'

'You don't smell better,' said Inkester. 'You're like a big tart, pissing yourself when a gun goes off. They ought to lave issued you with a nappy...'

'Inkester, shut up! One more remark like that and you're on a fizzer. I mean it, lad.'

'Yes, sir.' Inkester decided to think of something else; something pleasant. What was the name of that bird he had met in Bergen, in Angie's Bar? Irma The same as the one in the film...the musical...bloody bore that was...Had her didn't I, the night we were celebrating Weeksie's promotion; she wanted a Length Irma did, and she got it in the back of Weeksie's Volks! Wonder what happened to that? It wasn't a bad jam-jar. Nicked by now, or bloody full of shrapnel holes. Gone the same fucking way as my stereo, and all the tapes...and my civvy gear. Wonder if they'll pay us compensation; bloody should, we didn't start the fucking war.

God, Davis certainly came up fighting to defend Spink. Fancy him threatening me like that. Flaming charge. Bloody hell, for a moment he sounded just like my old man. Christ, Saturday nights in Scotland Road...beer and a punch up the throat, or a boot in the side of your bloody head. A bloody boot...God, it was a boot that got me here now.

'This is the second time you have been brought before this court, Inkester.' Bloody pompous old sod; just a butcher in a backstreet round the corner from Lime Street Station. Who the hell does he think he is? 'There's no reason why we should be expected to tolerate this disgraceful hooliganism. If you were a year older, I would have no hesitation in sentencing you to six months in jail. A few years ago, I would have ordered the birch. I am recommending a period in an approved school which I hope will bring you to your senses...'

It was
his
fault, thought Inkester. The magistrate's bloody fault he was out here now. Bloody old shit. No it wasn't, he decided suddenly, it was his own. He'd been a bit of a tearaway and he had been caught It was fair enough.

'Sorry Inkester, we can't take you at the moment. The army's not that easy. Prove yourself first. You hold a job down for two years, and re-apply. If you've got a good reference, then be can use you.'

Two years. It had seemed a long time. 'You'll never hold a job down two years, you little bagger.' His father sometimes worked in the markets, but was more often on the dole.

Where the hell did you look for a job that would last two years? 'Struth, it was on the way to a pension. Two years...and if he so much as batted an eyelid at the boss and got sacked, the two years would have to begin again. Bloody hell!

'You may as well piss up a wall, kid!' His brother was a year younger and still at school. 'What the hell do you want to join the army for? Someone must have hit you on the 'ead!'

'It's good; you can learn a trade. There's opportunity.' He had seen a recruiting film and sent off for all the pamphlets, before visiting the recruiting office. Even the sergeant who had turned him down had made it sound worthwhile.

'Opportunity! Look at our old man...a toolmaker until he gets called up for his National Service, then he's a batman and half the time in the glasshouse...hasn't bloody worked since. Army fucking ruined him. You've heard Mam go on about it.'

'Yeah...it's a load of cobblers. He doesn't work 'us he's too bloody idle.' Where the hell was he going to find steady employment; there weren't a lot of jobs around Liverpool. He tried a dozen different places before Woolworths. What if he were absolutely honest about his reason for applying for work there? He tried it!

The manager was sympathetic: 'Two years, Inkester? Normally, we prefer to train staff who intend to stay with us longer...young men like to go on to managerial posts. We can afford to be selective; there is a lot of responsibility in a company like this. What sort of work would you be prepared to do?'

'Anything, sir. Anything at all.' The man hadn't said no; it was the closest he had got yet to a job.

'In the warehouse? It's tiring and I doubt if I could promise any kind of promotion.'

'Would it last two years, sir?'

The man had smiled at his anxiety. 'It'll see you into the army young man, if you work hard...'

Two years in Woolies. Afterwards, when he had been accepted, it had felt like extra time on a sentence, but it hadn't really been like that. The two years had gone quickly. They had even held a small party for him the day he had left; turned out to be a good lot of blokes, and girls. It wasn't bad. Dickenson the manager had seen him right...first man who ever did. Not bad for a Wallasey poofter!

Catterick! Jesus Christ, the first weeks of training...the first two. He had cried at night, like a bloody baby.

'What the hell do you lot think you are? You terrify me...all of you! How am I expected to make soldiers out of you? Trooper! What the hell are you grinning at?' A face three inches from his own' Pull your chin in, Wacker...square your shoulders, you ignorant bloody maggot.'

'You with the big ears...weasel head...yes, you, Trooper. Swing your arms smartly down to your side, don't let 'em drift in the bleeding wind like a fairy...and don't bloody 'sir' me...I'm a corporal...what d'you call me, Trooper?'

'Corporal...'

The face, leering again, the breath on his cheeks still smelling of the beer that had been drunk the previous evening. 'No you don't, Wacker...I know what you bloody call me. You call me a Manchester bastard! Now right dress...
as you bloody were...Squaaad. Right dress.'

It had begun to get better; he had cottoned on to what was happening. The corporals and sergeants didn't hate them...it was all an act. And the act worked. It turned raw individuals into soldiers, into a unit, a team...made them think and work together, get annoyed with themselves and each other if something dragged them back. Christ, it began to look clever. The NCOs treated them like humans when the day was over; accepted them, talked to them, gave them private advice. He made more friends in the first four weeks than in all his previous life. And what was even better, he trusted them; they were proper mates.

'Any idea what you'd like to do, lad? The sergeant leant across his desk, genuinely interested in him.

'I'd like to be a gunner, Sar'nt.'

'You'll have to work hard for it...it's pretty technical, and important. A lot of responsibility. Think you can handle it?'

'Yes, Sar'nt.'

There was a moment's hesitation that made Inkester doubt himself, and then the sergeant's reply: 'I'll see what I can do for you.'

He
had
worked; it had been like being back in Woolworths in some ways...proving yourself for someone else's benefit...not entirely; for your own as well. It hadn't been easy. He had wasted a lot of his time at school, and had to make up for it now; but there was a good reason for learning.

There had been a great week last year, he remembered. A week's package in Calella, Spain, with a couple of the other lads, Weeksie and Lovell. They had tried to persuade three of the WRAC girls to join them, but one had suddenly become engaged to a civvy, and the other two got chicken. Pity, because he had quite fancied one of them, though her Glasgow accent got on his nerves a bit; smashing figure, though. They hadn't found one girl between them in Calella. Every bloody English girl wanted to go out with a Spaniard. And the local girls just giggled like fourteen year olds when you tried to chat them up. But, God, they had shifted some drink in the six nights and seven days. They tried to keep count of the bottles of wine, but in the end it became impossible, there was always a bottle floating in a kind of mist in front of them, stuck in the sand, or balanced on a table.

Irma. That was the last bird he had screwed. What a bloody carry-on! She had one leg over his shoulder, and the other under his arm, wedged against the rear window so tightly he thought the bloody glass would pop out. When was it? Two months ago? Shit, it was barely one week.