Bob Forrest-Webb
CHIEFTAINS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
British army signal communications are both complex and classified! To assist the reader, and maintain security, these have been modified throughout the book but still represent the methods and procedures used, with acceptable inaccuracy.
Technical data concerning weapons, vehicles and equipment is based on information at present available from military sources, and speculation on possible but as yet undeveloped weapons has been avoided.
I have honoured the requests of military informants, in Great Britain and West Germany, to gloss over certain tactical features and have deliberately blurred the precise areas of responsibility of various NATO forces. I have, however, made use of hitherto unpublished facts which I believe to be of importance in the scheme of NATO defence of Western Europe, and which would certainly influence the manner in which a future war might be fought in that theatre.
This book is dedicated to the steel of the spontoon within the red diamond. My sincere gratitude to the nameless, and to my close friends retired officers Bill Waterson and Geoff Pratt, who greatly assisted my research.
ONE
There were six empty bottles on the table in front of the three men. The Chieftain crew’s driver, DeeJay Hewett, was leaning forward supporting his head with one hand as though in deep thought, but the fingers of the other were drawing large circles in a pool of spilt beer. Inkester, the gunner, rescued his packet of cigarettes as the pool spread, and stared around the canteen. He could see other men of Bravo Troop, drinking and chatting; a few watched a video film on the television, but the tables nearest Hewett, Shadwell and himself were unoccupied, as though the three of them had some kind of contagious disease.
Eric Shadwell, the loader, said wearily: ‘Well, you’ve done it for yourself this time, DeeJay.’
DeeJay Hewett slapped his palm down into the pool of beer, splattering it messily around the table. ‘He bloody asked for it, the long-haired git.’
Shadwell grimaced. ‘You didn’t have to belt him so hard. Anyway, you could ‘ave waited until we met him one night up at Angie’s Bar… I’ve seen him drinking there with his mates.’
‘Wrap it up, Eric.’ Inkester held the damp cigarette packet towards DeeJay. ‘I’d ‘ave bloody hit him, too, only DeeJay got there first. Look at the fucking mess the bastard made of Bravo Two. Bloody amateurs! They ought to keep amateurs out of tanks… especially bloody Dutch amateurs; the Dutch ought to stick to growing tulips! You want another beer?’ Inkester didn’t need to wait for a reply, he twisted himself out of his chair and walked over to the bar. He could sense some of the other crews watching him; fine lot of mates they all were! Just because there was a bit of trouble, they didn’t want to know. Once it all blew over they’d be fine again, even congratulate DeeJay, buy him drinks; the Dutch weren’t popular with British tankies at Bergen-Hohne, but right now no one wanted to be associated with the incident, even remotely.
Inkester carried the bottles back to the table and handed one to each of the two men. They drank for a few minutes in silence and then Hewett sighed, shrugged his shoulders and said: ‘Well, I suppose that’s the end of my bloody leave.’
‘Aren’t you getting married next Saturday?’ Shadwell asked.
‘’Course he bloody was, you daft twit,’ said Inkester. ‘It’s fucked everything, hasn’t it?’
Neither Inkester nor Shadwell had witnessed the fight. It had all happened quickly. They had been returning from the gunnery ranges with the rest of the troop when the Dutch tank had driven straight out of one of the camp entrances and into the side of Bravo Two. The unexpected impact had startled them, jarred them as Bravo Two swerved suddenly and there was a heavy crash and the squeal of tearing metal. By the time they had climbed out of the Chieftain there was an unconscious Dutch conscript lying on the ground and Sergeant Morgan Davis, Bravo Two’s commander, was dragging an enraged DeeJay away from the man as a group of Dutch military police ran from the guardroom swinging their batons. The police wanted DeeJay in their cells, but Sergeant Davis knew what that would have meant for the British trooper. He almost threw DeeJay back inside Bravo Two and slammed down the driving hatch, then he argued with the police until Lieutenant Sidworth, the troop leader, arrived.
Davis had been angry with DeeJay, but he could understand his feelings. DeeJay Hewett, like himself, was a professional, and he had the same professional’s appreciation of the tools of his trade; Bravo Two was DeeJay’s tank, at, least, that was how Deejay viewed it. And most of the Dutchmen were conscripts! A tank wasn’t the same thing to them, they only worked with them for a short while, not long enough to really appreciate them; their casual attitude to soldiering showed in untidy uniforms and the length of their hair. But Davis knew it was important to remember they were allies, and good fighters; they had shown that in the past. An incident like this would breed bad feelings and the Bergen-Hohne camp wasn’t large enough to permit the incident to be ignored. Regrettably, Lieutenant Colonel Studley, the commanding officer of the regiment, would be forced to make an example of Hewett.
‘They’re still fighting,’ said Eric Shadwell.
‘Who’s fucking fighting now?’ Inkester scowled. Shadwell had a habit of picking subjects out of the air and it wasn’t always easy to follow his line of thought.
‘The Jugs. I heard it on the news.’
‘They’ve been fighting for the past three days… more,’ Hewett drained his bottle. ‘Yugoslavia’s not our problem. Been askin’ for it ain’t they, just like bloody Poland.’
‘Well, the Yanks are helping them,’ added Shadwell, defensively.
‘Go on, that’s bullshit!’ Hewett stared across the canteen towards the door, then frowned. ‘Oh, Christ!’
‘What?’ Inkester turned his head and saw Sergeant Davis looking around the room from beside the entrance. Davis’s eyes caught his. There was no expression on the sergeant’s face to give them an indication of his mood.
‘What’s he doing here?’ asked Shadwell in a stage whisper.
‘Fucking looking for us, isn’t he? groaned Hewett. ‘And he’s not come to give us any bloody gongs I’ll tell you that.’
‘He’s gone to the bar,’ hissed Shadwell:
‘Shut up, Eric. I don’t want to know what Davis’s doing.’ At the moment the fact that Sergeant Davis was Bravo Two’s commander meant very little to Hewett. Your commander was a mate so long as you were working together, but when he acted as a representative of authority he placed himself on the other side. Right now, so far as Hewett was concerned, Sergeaht Davis was Lieutenant Colonel Studley’s man.
‘He’s coming over,’ said Inkester. He straightened himself slightly and ran his fingers through the ginger stubble of his hair.
Sergeant Morgan Davis, a short, dark-haired and sallow-skinned man, stood a whisky bottle on the table and then swung one of the metal stacking chairs between Inkester and Hewett and sat down. He nodded towards the Black Label. ‘You’d better all have one.’ No one moved. ‘Help yourselves,’ insisted Davis.
Inkester cracked the seal and poured himself a double into his beer glass. He slid the bottle towards Hewett.
‘No thanks.’
‘Don’t bugger about, DeeJay! Christ knows when you’ll see another,’ warned Inkester.
