“Morning, Corporal Patterson.” The lieutenant returned the salute.
“The Sovs on their way then, sir?”
“If they waited for you, Corporal Patterson, they’d die of boredom. We’re still waiting for Trooper Mackie, but Corporal Ellis is prepping so go and give him a hand.”
“Sir. Sir, is it a command post exercise or are we going out into the field?”
“You’ll be living it rough for forty-eight hours so make sure you’ve got all your kit.”
“Sir.” Patsy set off down the length of the tank sheds, one each side, most of the tanks still inside their dimly lit tank bays waiting to be warmed up and driven out. He headed for the furthest bay on the left, the one containing the tank belonging to Bravo-troop, Two-squadron, 14/20th Kings Hussars.
“Morning, Patsy, made it in, then?”
He looked up seeing his junior, and friend, looking down from the turret of the Chieftain tank that towered above him.
“Hi, Mark. They could’ve picked a better day for this shit.”
“Or we could have drunk less last night, you mean.” His friend laughed looking down.
Patsy climbed up onto the splashboard of the Chieftain Mark 5 tank and joined Mark Ellis on top of the turret.
“Is the BV on?”
“Of course. I need a brew before I can do anything. Need some pills too. Bloody head’s pounding. Have you got any?”
Patsy went through his combat jacket’s four pockets until he found what he was looking for. Extracting a packet of aspirin, he threw them over to his oppo. “Here, try these.”
“Thanks, mate, I owe you.”
The Chieftain Mark 5/3C, the ‘C’ denoting they were equipped with the new Clansmen radio system, had a crew of four. The tank commander, Lieutenant Wesley-Jones, a closet Welshman, or so the crew thought as he didn’t have the usual plum accent and there was the occasional Cardiff twang, was also the troop commander, in charge of the troop’s three Chieftains; the gunner, Patsy, the loader, Lance Corporal Mark Ellis; and the driver, Trooper ‘Mackey’, Mackinson.
Mark crunched on two of the tablets, pulling a face at their bitter taste.
“You’re meant to swallow them with water, you prat.”
“Now you tell me.” He pulled out his water bottle and took a swig. “Shall I make a brew then?”
“Might as well. It’ll be at least a half-hour before we pull out.”
They were soon joined by the fourth member of their crew: Mackey the driver. At five foot seven, he was just the right size for the cramped space allocated to the driver. They were also joined by their troop commander. “Glad you could join us, Trooper Mackinson.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Well, let’s get her wound up then. We’re deploying, and our troop has the pleasure of leading the way.”
“Yes, sir,” responded Patsy, second-in-command of the tank. “There’s a brew on, sir, if you want one before we move off?”
“Sounds just the job, Corporal.” The lieutenant opened the top of his water bottle holder and took the three-quarter moon-shaped, black mug off the top, handing it to Patsy who in turn handed it to Mackey.
“So, that’s two NATOs, Mackey.”
“Yes, Corp,” and he climbed onto then into the tank where the BV, Boiling Vessel, was positioned to carry out his order to make three teas, with milk and two sugars, picking up Ellis’s mug on the way.
After a five-minute brew and a last-minute check of the tank, they were given the order to move out.
Mackey slid into his seat, situated centrally in the front of the hull, batteries and ammunition charge bins either side of him. He started the genny, the generating unit engine, needed to start the tank’s main L60 engine, the two switchboards in front of him. He adjusted his seat position until he was comfortable, although he was reclined so much he was practically lying down. He started the engine, the hacking cough turning into a throaty roar, plumes of white exhaust engulfing the rear of the tank, the noise of the multi-fuel, two-stroke engine, slowly accompanied by the rest of the thirteen tanks of the squadron, as they followed suit. Mackey pulled his headset on over the top of his beret and, above him, the tank commander pulled on his bone dome. They were now able to communicate. Mackey repositioned his seat so he was sitting up, the driver’s hatch not yet closed down. He toed the gear shift of the armoured giant, ready now to drive out of the tank bay.
The tinny sound of Lieutenant Wesley-Jones sounded in his earpiece. “Forward, slow.”
Mackey increased the revs, the engine roaring as it pulled the fifty-five-ton giant forward, clouds of white smoke spewing out behind it. There was enough light to enable him to see Patsy guiding him at the front, his view restricted at the best of times and, in the early hours of the morning and the tight space he had to manoeuvre out of, an additional pair of eyes was a necessity.
“Forward, forward,” ordered his commander sitting in the turret above, the lieutenant’s view improving with every foot of movement of the now squealing tank tracks. The tank slowly inched its way forward, easing its way out of the tank shed; the first one.
“Right stick.”
In a low-ratio gear, Mackey pulled on the stick to his right, increased the pressure of his foot on the accelerator at the same time, and the heavy tank slewed around to the right until it pointed in the direction that would take them out of the barracks.
“Stop.”
The tank commander looked about him. The way forward was clear, and the other two tanks in his troop were also manoeuvring ready to follow.
“Forward, slow.”
Mackey depressed the accelerator again, grabbed the left and right stick, and the Chieftain lurched forwards, the rattling, squealing tracks propelling it between the tank bays either side, a hive of activity as the rest of the regiment prepared to move out. There was an ever increasing cacophony of sound as more and more of the British battle tanks started up.
Mackey kept the Chieftain at a steady walking pace, making slight adjustments to keep the tank on target, the clatter of the tracks settling down to a steady rhythm as they headed for the main road.
The tank commander acknowledged Patsy as he climbed back up onto the tank, his task of guiding it out of the bay now finished, dropping into his position in the turret. If the commander looked down, he would see Patsy settling into the gunner’s seat. Behind Patsy were charge bins and, beneath him in the floor, HESH (High Explosive Squash Head) rounds were stored. All the explosive ordnance, for greater survivability, was stowed below the turret ring. Looking down and forward, the commander would see Mackey his driver who also had charge bins either side of him. Below sat Patsy and, to the right, Mark Ellis settled into position as the loader for the 120mm rifled tank gun. Wesley-Jones sat down on his two-piece seat, using the handle to his left to adjust its position, and twisted his bone dome until comfortable while he waited for the rest of the troop to catch up. A Land Rover, with a blue flashing light on a stalk at the side, pulled out in front of them, their escort to the exercise area. Wesley-Jones heaved himself up off his seat until his shoulders were above the turret and, looking back, he could see the other two tanks of his troop lined up behind him. He ordered the tank forward and Mackey steered the tank onto the road.
“Zero-Bravo, Two-One-Bravo, on road over.”
“Roger.”
“All Two-Bravo call signs, we’re heading for the range, but no deployment. Acknowledge, over.”
“Two-Two-Bravo, roger.”
“Two-Three-Bravo, roger.”
“All bravo call signs, Two-One-Bravo, out.”