Chieftains

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.

'Lay off,' muttered Hewett, but he took the bottle and tilted it over his glass.

'What's going to happen to DeeJay?' Shadwell asked the sergeant.

'With a bit of luck, he'll get away with a hefty fine,' said Morgan Davis. He filled a glass for himself. 'I'm afraid you've had it with your leave, lad.'

'I fucking knew it,' swore DeeJay.

'You shouldn't have lost your temper,' Inkester said, unsympathetically. 'You could have got us all in the shit.'

'You're a fine one to talk.'

'Take it easy…it's got nothing to do with this afternoon. All leave is stopped; everywhere. The patrols are out, bringing in everyone from the town. Personnel already on leave are being recalled.'

'What's going on now, Sarge?' asked Shadwell'

'You know almost as much as I do,' answered Davis. 'They began evacuating the families an hour ago.'

'Yeah, some of the blokes are right pissed off. It'll turn out to be another bloody exercise,' said DeeJay. 'Anyhow, I don't see why it should affect my leave; it's special.'

'We'll all be out of here before 20.00 hours, lad. And if I was you, I wouldn't press my luck,' Sergeant Davis warned him. 'The longer you're away from camp, the better. Thumping a Cloggie's bad enough, breaking his jaw was bloody stupid.' He drained his glass. 'Anyway, you three have got ten minutes' start over everyone else. It'll be coming over the PA shortly. Get yourselves sorted out.' He stood, screwed the cap back on to the whisky bottle and tucked it under his arm, like a distorted swagger cane.

'What about Bravo Two?' asked Deejay. The impact of the Dutch tank had dented the skirt so it dragged on the right track; to Hewett's ears, always tuned to the performance of his vehicle, it had sounded as though the Chieftain was tearing itself to pieces as he had driven back to the sheds.

'Good as ever, lads,' said Davis. 'The sergeant fitter's done us a favour.' He hardened his voice slightly. 'Drink up then, and make a move. I don't want a last minute panic just because Shadwell's forgotten his copy of Wanker's Weekly.'

DAY ONE