of the men who had been supporting him was kneeling beside him winding an olive-green field dressing around the lower part of his left leg. I'm wounded...wounded and they're dressing it...that means I'm alive...and they aren't going to kill me...not yet anyway...maybe they'll kill me later...I'm a prisoner...God, I'm a prisoner.
There was no sign of any others of the crew. He stared at the wreckage...how had he escaped? The others were still inside...dead! His stomach heaved again, but he managed to hold it.
He turned his head and spat his mouth clean. There was the iron taste of blood at the back of his throat. One of the soldiers shook a cigarette from a packet, lit it, and pushed it gently between Studley's lips. He had seldom used tobacco, but rested his head back against the trunk of the tree and drew in the pungent oriental smoke.
What now, he wondered? Dear God, what now?
'Charlie Bravo Two, this is Nine...' The voice was persistent in Morgan Davis's ears – Lieutenant Sidworth acting as mother hen to his diminishing brood. 'Charlie Bravo Two, this is Nine, over.'
'Bravo Nine, this is Charlie Bravo Two, over.' Davis's voice was shaky. The screaming to his left was continuous, and the Chieftain's engine was revving so high the whole tank was vibrating.
'What the hell's happened Charlie Bravo Two? I've been trying to contact you for the past four minutes, over.'
'I think we've been hit'
'What's the damage?'
'I don't know yet, Nine...'
'Then damn well find out. We're pulling back to Firefly. Make it quick...understand? Out.'
Davis shouted down into the fighting compartment but the sound of his voice was lost in the noise. He switched to the Tannoy. 'Hewett...what's going on down there?'
'Fuckin' linkage is jammed.' DeeJay's voice warbled, competing against the roaring motor.
'Get it bloody well unjammed. Inkester!' The Chieftain was full of swirling dust. Davis reached down and found the gunner's shoulder. 'Inkester?' The shoulder moved. 'Are you okay?' Inkester nodded, his head just visible in the dim light. The roar of the engine dropped suddenly and its sound reduced to a steady throb.
'It's clear, Sarge...it might jam again, but it feels okay.' The engine sound increased again and died as DeeJay tried the pedal.
'Shadwell? What the hell's the matter?' The screaming had diminished as the sound of the engine had lessened; almost as though Shadwell, hunched on his loader's seat, had suddenly become aware of the shriek of his own voice. Morgan Davis leant over and shook him. 'Shadwell...' The man moved and Davis could see his face, blood-spattered. 'Oh, Christ!' He twisted himself out of his seat and wriggled into the fighting compartment. 'Where are you hurt, lad?'
Shadwell held up his left hand, he was gripping it tightly at the wrist. Davis reached out as Shadwell groaned again. Three of his fingers were missing. 'Breech, Sarge. Fucking breech got me.'
The dust was settling, slowly. Blood was dripping from Shadwell's hand. Davis wrenched open the medical box and grabbed a dressing. 'Inkester, get across here. Fix Shad while I try to get us out of here...'
'There's a live shell on the floor, Sarge...' Shadwell's voice was shaky. 'By my left foot.'
Davis groped downwards and felt the smooth cold shape of the projectile. He lifted it carefully, slightly off-balance as he reached behind the breech. He knew it was a miracle it hadn't exploded, and the thought dried the saliva in his mouth. He would have liked to dump it outside, but it was quicker to get it into the gun. He moved to slide it into place in the breech, then hesitated. Shadwell's fingers hung on the mechanism, one with a heavy silver ring still in place below a misshapen joint. Davis clenched his teeth, balanced the shell with one hand against the breech, and snatched at the fingers. They felt like knobbly sausages. He stuffed them into the pocket of his suit and
There was no sign of any others of the crew. He stared at the wreckage...how had he escaped? The others were still inside...dead! His stomach heaved again, but he managed to hold it.
He turned his head and spat his mouth clean. There was the iron taste of blood at the back of his throat. One of the soldiers shook a cigarette from a packet, lit it, and pushed it gently between Studley's lips. He had seldom used tobacco, but rested his head back against the trunk of the tree and drew in the pungent oriental smoke.
What now, he wondered? Dear God, what now?
'Charlie Bravo Two, this is Nine...' The voice was persistent in Morgan Davis's ears – Lieutenant Sidworth acting as mother hen to his diminishing brood. 'Charlie Bravo Two, this is Nine, over.'
'Bravo Nine, this is Charlie Bravo Two, over.' Davis's voice was shaky. The screaming to his left was continuous, and the Chieftain's engine was revving so high the whole tank was vibrating.
'What the hell's happened Charlie Bravo Two? I've been trying to contact you for the past four minutes, over.'
'I think we've been hit'
'What's the damage?'
'I don't know yet, Nine...'
'Then damn well find out. We're pulling back to Firefly. Make it quick...understand? Out.'
Davis shouted down into the fighting compartment but the sound of his voice was lost in the noise. He switched to the Tannoy. 'Hewett...what's going on down there?'
'Fuckin' linkage is jammed.' DeeJay's voice warbled, competing against the roaring motor.
'Get it bloody well unjammed. Inkester!' The Chieftain was full of swirling dust. Davis reached down and found the gunner's shoulder. 'Inkester?' The shoulder moved. 'Are you okay?' Inkester nodded, his head just visible in the dim light. The roar of the engine dropped suddenly and its sound reduced to a steady throb.
'It's clear, Sarge...it might jam again, but it feels okay.' The engine sound increased again and died as DeeJay tried the pedal.
'Shadwell? What the hell's the matter?' The screaming had diminished as the sound of the engine had lessened; almost as though Shadwell, hunched on his loader's seat, had suddenly become aware of the shriek of his own voice. Morgan Davis leant over and shook him. 'Shadwell...' The man moved and Davis could see his face, blood-spattered. 'Oh, Christ!' He twisted himself out of his seat and wriggled into the fighting compartment. 'Where are you hurt, lad?'
Shadwell held up his left hand, he was gripping it tightly at the wrist. Davis reached out as Shadwell groaned again. Three of his fingers were missing. 'Breech, Sarge. Fucking breech got me.'
The dust was settling, slowly. Blood was dripping from Shadwell's hand. Davis wrenched open the medical box and grabbed a dressing. 'Inkester, get across here. Fix Shad while I try to get us out of here...'
'There's a live shell on the floor, Sarge...' Shadwell's voice was shaky. 'By my left foot.'
Davis groped downwards and felt the smooth cold shape of the projectile. He lifted it carefully, slightly off-balance as he reached behind the breech. He knew it was a miracle it hadn't exploded, and the thought dried the saliva in his mouth. He would have liked to dump it outside, but it was quicker to get it into the gun. He moved to slide it into place in the breech, then hesitated. Shadwell's fingers hung on the mechanism, one with a heavy silver ring still in place below a misshapen joint. Davis clenched his teeth, balanced the shell with one hand against the breech, and snatched at the fingers. They felt like knobbly sausages. He stuffed them into the pocket of his suit and
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