eerie silence. Davis could hear the rasping of his own breath. Something warm trickled down his chin. He wiped at it with his hand. It was saliva.
DeeJay called through the intercom: 'Are we hit?'
Davis tried to see through the lenses of the episcope, but some of the glass blocks were crazed, restricting his arc of visibility. He swore to himself. The lenses were a weakness which had been known for a number of years; somewhere a bloody desk-bound civil servant who was never going to have to rely on them for his life had probably jammed the funds needed to have the unit redesigned and replaced.
'What's going on, Sarge?' Inkester was peering up at him, his eyes wide in the dim light.
'Nothing. Keep your eyes front, lad,' Davis answered bluntly. He refused to acknowledge the fear he had experienced at the thought of fighting partially blinded.
The explosions were now distant; the roar of shells and the howls of missiles had ceased. Davis unhitched his headphones and pulled on his respirator before cautiously opening his hatch. It was possible there was gas outside. He moved quickly, pushing himself from the cupola. The air was thick with smoke. He thought he could smell cordite and burning diesel, but knew it was only imagination; the mask filtered out all scent. He jumped hurriedly to the ground and found himself sliding down the side of a deep crater beneath the left track. He shouted with pain as something stabbed through his gloves into the palm of his hand. The shell crater was lined with red-hot pieces of sharp metal, and the ground was steaming around him. He scrambled out. A large calibre shell had exploded less than two meters from the side of the Chieftain, and the vehicle's weight had caused the excavated ground to collapse. A little closer and they would have been irretrievably bogged- down...closer still, dead! Sergeant Davis's mouth felt dry. In the lower section of woods he heard the unmistakable sound of Swingfire anti-tank missiles. Whatever their targets, they had to be within the Swingfire's 4000 meter range...close. He could imagine the chunky missiles, shedding their casing as they left the launchers, wire-guided by their operators through separation sights towards enemy tanks or vehicles. It would be tanks...assault tanks first, then the armoured personnel carriers, the Soviet infantry combat vehicles.
He clambered back into the Chieftain. The smoke was already thinning above the scrub and visibility was now beyond a hundred meters and increasing rapidly. He hooked the earphones over his cowl. 'DeeJay, back out slowly...carefully.'
'Hullo Charlie Bravo Two, this is Nine. Hold your position, over.' Lieutenant Sidworth was keeping a close ear to the conversations of his troop.
'Charlie Bravo Nine, this is Bravo Two. Sorry the ground beneath us is unsafe. We have to move, out.'
'Charlie Bravo Two, roger, out.'
Davis felt the Chieftain shudder as it settled more, drifting gently sideways as DeeJay gunned the engine. He called 'Steady...' through the HF, then switched on the Tannoy again. 'DeeJay, you've a bloody great hole right under your left track. Take her back dead straight.' The Chieftain shuddered as DeeJay rammed her into reverse, and then eased his boot down on the accelerator. It wasn't easy to move a Chieftain smoothly, but DeeJay had always claimed he could make Bravo Two feel like a Mercedes 250 SL if he wanted. He eased the tank delicately backwards. The stern slipped again, rocked and dipped. DeeJay pushed his foot down hard and the engine surged responsively. The left track skidded, then gripped. With a heave Bravo Two straightened then leapt back three meters, levelling as it did so.
'Steady,' shouted Davis. DeeJay let the revs drop and reversed the Chieftain another five meters before manoeuvring it parallel to its former position. 'Bring the bow up a fraction...more...okay, kill it. You satisfied, Inkester?' he asked the gunner.
'Yes,
DeeJay called through the intercom: 'Are we hit?'
Davis tried to see through the lenses of the episcope, but some of the glass blocks were crazed, restricting his arc of visibility. He swore to himself. The lenses were a weakness which had been known for a number of years; somewhere a bloody desk-bound civil servant who was never going to have to rely on them for his life had probably jammed the funds needed to have the unit redesigned and replaced.
'What's going on, Sarge?' Inkester was peering up at him, his eyes wide in the dim light.
'Nothing. Keep your eyes front, lad,' Davis answered bluntly. He refused to acknowledge the fear he had experienced at the thought of fighting partially blinded.
The explosions were now distant; the roar of shells and the howls of missiles had ceased. Davis unhitched his headphones and pulled on his respirator before cautiously opening his hatch. It was possible there was gas outside. He moved quickly, pushing himself from the cupola. The air was thick with smoke. He thought he could smell cordite and burning diesel, but knew it was only imagination; the mask filtered out all scent. He jumped hurriedly to the ground and found himself sliding down the side of a deep crater beneath the left track. He shouted with pain as something stabbed through his gloves into the palm of his hand. The shell crater was lined with red-hot pieces of sharp metal, and the ground was steaming around him. He scrambled out. A large calibre shell had exploded less than two meters from the side of the Chieftain, and the vehicle's weight had caused the excavated ground to collapse. A little closer and they would have been irretrievably bogged- down...closer still, dead! Sergeant Davis's mouth felt dry. In the lower section of woods he heard the unmistakable sound of Swingfire anti-tank missiles. Whatever their targets, they had to be within the Swingfire's 4000 meter range...close. He could imagine the chunky missiles, shedding their casing as they left the launchers, wire-guided by their operators through separation sights towards enemy tanks or vehicles. It would be tanks...assault tanks first, then the armoured personnel carriers, the Soviet infantry combat vehicles.
He clambered back into the Chieftain. The smoke was already thinning above the scrub and visibility was now beyond a hundred meters and increasing rapidly. He hooked the earphones over his cowl. 'DeeJay, back out slowly...carefully.'
'Hullo Charlie Bravo Two, this is Nine. Hold your position, over.' Lieutenant Sidworth was keeping a close ear to the conversations of his troop.
'Charlie Bravo Nine, this is Bravo Two. Sorry the ground beneath us is unsafe. We have to move, out.'
'Charlie Bravo Two, roger, out.'
Davis felt the Chieftain shudder as it settled more, drifting gently sideways as DeeJay gunned the engine. He called 'Steady...' through the HF, then switched on the Tannoy again. 'DeeJay, you've a bloody great hole right under your left track. Take her back dead straight.' The Chieftain shuddered as DeeJay rammed her into reverse, and then eased his boot down on the accelerator. It wasn't easy to move a Chieftain smoothly, but DeeJay had always claimed he could make Bravo Two feel like a Mercedes 250 SL if he wanted. He eased the tank delicately backwards. The stern slipped again, rocked and dipped. DeeJay pushed his foot down hard and the engine surged responsively. The left track skidded, then gripped. With a heave Bravo Two straightened then leapt back three meters, levelling as it did so.
'Steady,' shouted Davis. DeeJay let the revs drop and reversed the Chieftain another five meters before manoeuvring it parallel to its former position. 'Bring the bow up a fraction...more...okay, kill it. You satisfied, Inkester?' he asked the gunner.
'Yes,
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