CHAPTER 4
I sat in the warmth of that Summer’s sun and wept. We had finally been pulled out of contact, for you can’t replenish under fire, and in the sudden break from what I had been watching my strength had finally broken loose and fled, and I was crying like some stupid little girl. That airfield.

That fucking airfield. I had been living on my nerves for weeks, as it goes with reconnaissance. We had been the ones out at the front, the first to find the enemy, the first to get shot at. Harry kept joking that he wanted to switch the gearbox around as Bob had him reversing so often, but the joking had stopped that afternoon when we waited on the flank of a low hill and watched our mates die.

Bob had a real genius for spotting good ground, as I had quickly realised, He could see just where we could sit the Cromwell, and always, always, always had at least two fall-back positions ready for us. The most rounds I ever got off without moving remained those I had fired in killing that Tiger, and that afternoon I had seen why.

We had done our job, as always, and then pulled back to let one of Monty’s set-piece attacks go in. Heavy bombers, Typhoons, divisional artillery using everything from 25-pounders up, it had all gone in, and we could see the wheatfields waving in the Summer breeze as the assault units moved off the start line. Bob had been out for a shufty as usual, and when he came back he was shaking his head. He climbed up on the engine decking and called down to me.

“Exits from the start line are bloody tight, Ginge. Do me a favour and grab that other set of bins, and stick your head out. Nothing going on round here, but it’s about to start down there”

“What am I looking for, Bob?”

“Jerry likes his anti-tank screens, Ginge. Happened to us a lot: he comes out, we charge in like stupid bloody donkey-wallopers always do, and he retires sharpish. Screen of guns dug in, we rush forward, bang, bang, bloody bang. I want you to try and spot any AT fire so I can call in a stonk”

He must have caught something in my face.

“Aye, lad, I know they’ve just bombed all sorts of everything out of the Jerries, but trust me, they’ll still be there. Come on, up and looking!”

We were only able to talk because of the sudden fall in noise levels, as our aircraft cleared away and the barrage moved forward. I took a quick look over towards the waiting units, and they were off, their movement sending waves through the grain. Bob was right, of course, and from our vantage point I could see the congestion stretching into the distance. As the Shermans of the first units dispersed into the field, I saw the first round go past them.

You can actually see anti-tank shot when you are far enough away, for it glows red in flight. Far enough away, and to one side, it looks almost attractive, harmless even. That lasted till I saw the first one hit home.

One of the leading Shermans sent the most perfect smoke ring skywards from its turret roof and stopped dead. Hatches flew open, and lads scrambled clear. Within about thirty seconds, it was blazing like a blow torch, flames shooting up where the smoke ring had flown, and as the lads ran off through the wheat, the ammunition started to cook off. With an almighty bang, the turret flew ten or fifteen feet to the side, and another armour-piercing round struck the Sherman three to the dead tank’s left. Nobody got out of that one.

I could see shot after shot searing across the field, tank after tank stopping, burning, exploding. Black plumes were everywhere, and Bob suddenly slapped my head.

“Fucking wake up! Bins on that tree line, look for muzzle flash, WAKE UP AND DO YOUR FUCKING JOB!”

He turned away, already plugged in.

“Sunray, Sunray…”

I started calling them in, he converted my bearings to grid, and stonks started coming in.

“Harry, I need to get round this dip a bit more. Need a better angle on that copse. Can you see that hedge just ahead, the one with the metal gate in it?”

“I can that”

“Get us up just behind the hedge to the left of that gate. Driver advance. Ginge, get in. We might need the main”

I dropped in just as something fizzed past us, and Wilf opened up with the bow M.G. Bob swore even louder than before.

“Driver reverse! Wilf, panzerfaust in there, watch for another! Harry, keep going, left hand down, driver halt. Ginge, give them a few good bursts”

I could just make out some dark figures sprinting off on the other side of the low hedge as I raked it with the coaxial machine gun. Bob was muttering.

“Bloody hell, he was close. Harry, close up. Ernie, load H.E. I want two rounds just to the left of the gate. Ginge, it’ll be close to maximum depression: can you get a shot on? If you can, quick as you like”

Ernie slapped my shoulder and, yes, I could get the shot on and did. Another slap, another round, and that part of the hedge was gone. There were body parts. An arm, a boot.

“Sunray, Sunray, Bravo seven one. Can we have some infantry forward? Panzerfaust, one round fired. Suspect they’re looking to work a gun round for enfilade fire. I will direct, over”

“Bravo seven two, Bravo seven two, seven one”

He muttered again. “Fucking shit set…Ernie, give it a slap, you know where. Bravo seven two, seven one? Aye, Jim, got infantry forward. PIAT stuff at least. Can you see me? Aye? Lob a few into the field to my front, stir them up”

He was quiet for a while, then as calm as if the swearing had never happened.

“Lads, the Suffolks are coming through. Eyes open, let’s not lose any friends”

I thought back to the last sight I had had of that wheatfield, the plumes of smoke, the shattered tanks, and all I could think was ‘any more friends’.

“Ernie, get the phone”

I was switching from periscope to gunsight and back as rounds started landing from the rest of the troop, and in a stupidly warm moment of relief I remembered that we were not the only ones out there. So much of the time, as I lived on the slippery edge of panic, it felt like we were alone in front of the entire German army. It was as much of a comfort as I could find in a world of fire and blood.

Ernie was on the ball, as always.

“Bob, Got a Suffolk on the blower”

“Thanks, Ernie”

What happened after that was brisk and nasty, and when the Germans broke and ran across the field behind the hedge I shot as many as I could, and as I fired I saw black plumes of smoke rising from a field of golden grain in warm July sunshine. Bastards. The day went on and on, and we called in stonk after stonk, Typhoon after Typhoon, and I realised we were doing the same job that dead officer had been doing, what seemed like years ago. We got up close, whatever it took, we looked for them, and we called in high explosive to make them go away, and as we did so they, in their turn, did as much as they could manage to kill us all. I couldn’t really think past sightlines and deflections for the rest of that day, until we were finally sent to leaguer and replenish. That was the moment when the reality turned round and bit me in the arse.

Back then, you see, we rarely fought at night. Not in tanks, anyway. We pulled back to refuel and pick up more ammunition for all three weapons, and in a strange sort of way set up a camp. We camouflaged as best we could (shape, shadow, shine), dug a couple of slit’uns to dive into if we needed, as well as some for a bog, and we tried to sleep if we could. That wasn’t anywhere near possible for me that night. We had pulled back behind the start line, and for us that meant coming down from our miniature battlefield onto the broader one.

The smell. I cannot begin to describe the smell, it never, ever goes away. I never lost it, I never found a way to get it to leave my nostrils, but that wasn’t the worst. God alone knows what temperatures are reached in a burning tank, but I saw the results. Oh dear Lord, I saw the results. They all seemed to be trying to sit up, as the heat had made everything shrink and tighten up. Bone and charcoal and fucking teeth grinning at me, and mixed in with the dead were German prisoners, some trying to look cocky but most of them just lost and frightened.

That broke my resolution. The first of our mates’ corpses had set up an odd adolescent daydream, where I saw myself as a two-fisted hero, knocking down evil Jerry prisoners left and right. Then I saw them…

When I saw them, I realised that somewhere over the lines, somewhere I had been calling in bearings, their own mates were lying burnt and broken. I suddenly had a vision of those bits and pieces of humanity that I had harvested back by the hedge and it was too much. Bob found me leaning back against a road wheel, the tears running free.

“What the hell are we doing, Bob? What is the bloody point?”

He settled himself down beside me, and put an arm around my shoulder, pulling my head into his.

“Because there is nothing else we can do, son, nothing else. The world has gone to shit. All we can do is ride this out and see if we can’t make a better one next time round”