Denis: Thomas’ Bloody Death

(…to the soundtrack of Vaughan Williams’ Phantasy Quintet and Yes’ “The Gates of Delerium”?)

Whenever we went to recover vehicles that had been disabled in combat, we couldn’t resist trying to reconstruct the circumstances of the fighting that had taken place. When our convoy of recovery trucks, cranes and trailers slithered to a halt at the edge of the snowy field that morning after a slippery drive along the slush-smeared, pot-holed roads, the woods flanking the field were still burning, a pall of sweet smoke drifting across the road on the edge of the breeze, grey and wispy against the washed-out blue winter sky. There were remnants of orange flame amongst the blown grey ash and the blackened trees, and when the truck engines were cut we could hear the sound of burning wood spitting and crackling.

The two Leopards were in good recovery positions, a hundred yards apart and facing the enemy lines, turrets turned to the baling out position. One of the tanks was a little nose down, with the front half tipped up into a [hollow], but it didn’t look as if we’d have too much difficulty attaching the tow cables and winching them up onto the trailers.

Thomas and I walked carefully across the field towards the tanks, our boots crunching through the top layer of snow and into the melted layer of slush underneath; underneath that was the melt-softened earth and the stiff fibres of the crop stubble left behind after the harvest. Although we knew that the enemy had been driven back from their positions in the trees at the high end of the field, it was hard not to keep looking up there to check that there were no silhouettes of soldiers or tanks or artillery pieces. There were a number of parallel gouges in the snow that lead up to the tree line, torn-up earth and snow and crop remnants from where the remaining tanks in the troop had continued their advance on the enemy positions. There were small patches of disturbed earth where anti-tank or mortar shells had hit the ground.

It was more raw out in the middle of the field, where the breeze travelled unhindered, and I could feel the inside of my mouth getting colder as I breathed in the chilly air. Thomas stopped to light a cigarette, turning his back to the draft and hunching his body around the lighter flame until his cigarette took, and I saw the smoke sweep around the shoulder of his black overalls, which looked inkily dark and monotone against the dazzling white of the snow. After being in barracks for a few days while the snow and fog had curtailed the fighting, I’d half-forgotten that strange snow effect, whereby the snow’s brightness and lack of contrast makes the light flicker in your eyes, and you feel disoriented and anxious because it seems, just for a moment, as if you can’t focus on anything or see any edges or shapes, and you have to look up at the sky or the horizon to restore your sense of perspective and balance.

As we reach the nearest Leopard, we can see that the right-hand track has been thrown, spooling out twenty feet in front of the tank. There’s a smoky smear above the main driving wheel, presumably where the anti-tank shell hit. Around at the front, it looks as if another shell hit the driver’s vision port: the horizontal slit of glass is shattered, and there’s ash and melted rubber and leather spilled out around the driver’s hatch on the decking above. Up close, the chemical-rich smell of these burned materials is obvious in the winter air. There are blackish bloodstains on the decking too. This happened late yesterday afternoon.

“The anti-tankers must have been over in the woods,” says Thomas, nodding in the direction of the smoking trees. “Bloody lucky shot to hit the vision port dead on.”

“And bloody bad luck for the driver,” I say.

“Poor bastard.” He pulls hard on the cigarette while I do a circuit of the tank, checking that all of the tow-hooks are [unencumbered] and that there’s nothing else to complicate the recovery. As I walk around behind the rear of the tank, planting my footsteps carefully in the churned-up earth, I can see the rest of the recovery crew standing on the trailer at the edge of the field. I wave and give them the thumbs up, and the drivers restart the truck engines so that they can manoeuvre the winches and trailers into position.

Thomas is crouched down by the right driving wheel, poking around with the big screwdriver that he always carries around with him. I stand a little way off, and when I hear him grunt as he straightens up, I say:
“Our fighter-bombers must have fire-bombed the woods, I’d say.”

“Mm,” says Thomas. “The [Ivans] must have got the hell kicked out of them after that. Look at all the crows flitting about in that treeline – they’re not going to be hungry for the next few days.”

I smile and nod. Metal and wood scrape together heavily as the crew deploy the [towing ramps] across the verge and the ditch at the field’s edge.