The driver inside accommodated him, and the deep low rumble of the big engine filled the air, thrumming with an expression of sheer power. O’Connor closed his eyes, listening to it, an almost frightening sound with overtones of doom in the lower registers. If Troyak had been there, he would have known it at once, a sound not unlike that deep, bone penetrating vibration they had heard in Siberia, only clearly audible this time. It had the same effect, and spoke of one word that it would put into the soul of any enemy it faced-fear.
O’Connor turned to the other men, and smiled. “It’s the bloody Hammer of God,” he said, and that was not too far from the mark. “This is… well its quite extraordinary! I had no idea a tank like this was even in development.”
Now he realized why this unit might be here, far from spying eyes, a new secret weapon, perhaps sent here to a remote proving ground for training. But Lord, he could only imagine these tanks in action now, thundering in at 40 kilometers per hour and firing as they went. There was no way they would ever hit anything, he thought, until they showed him how the tank could rotate its main body while the turret maintained a rigid and stable position aimed at a potential distant target.
“That’s what a stabilized gun system can do,” said Kinlan. “We can hit like lightning, move like a wildcat, and we’ve very sharp teeth. General,” he put his hand on O’Connor’s shoulder now. “This tank is all but invulnerable to anti-tank weaponry of this day. You could roll up one of your Matildas, park it right there and fire, and you might do nothing more than disturb the paint job on that armor. I have sixty of them sitting here, and woe betide anyone who gets in my way when I turn them loose. Now… What were you saying earlier about us having trouble holding off that Italian Infantry heading for Siwa?”
“Gentlemen,” said O’Connor. “I’m not much of a drinking man, but I’ll have a nip of anything you’ve got, just so I can stay on my feet.” He turned to them now, his astonishment becoming a broad smile. “Bloody marvelous!”
It was marvelous, and yet incomprehensible. O’Connor just kept staring at the tank, not one, but sixty of them! Behind the dazzle, a strange feeling came over him. The tank was extraordinary, its size and design astounding but, more than anything, he was flabbergasted at the things he had seen in the interior compartment. The whole space was immaculate, and looked like the dash board of an aircraft in places. Yet there were no typical needle gauges and dials. In their place the interior of the tank glowed softly with a strange light. Colored panels were lit up with numbers and symbols, and in one place he saw what looked to be a map glowing softly on a glass pane! The driver merely touched it with a finger and the whole image expanded and changed! He was so taken with it that he was almost mesmerized. He was seeing things here that boggled the mind. Look at that armor! The Lieutenant had said something about it that stuck in his mind.
“What did you call this armor, Lieutenant?”
“Third generation Dorchester Chobham, sir.”
“Dorchester?”
O’Connor knew the place. It was a small market town on the southern coast, just above Weymouth, with a population of about 10,000 people who chiefly traded local produce three or four days a week. The ladies there had taken to organizing for the coming war early on, setting up the local “Women’s Voluntary Service” or WVS, which was soon called the Widows, Virgins and Spinsters. The town, like many others after Dunkirk, had also set up the LDV troops, or “Local Defense Volunteers,” many armed with little more than broomsticks. After the people took to calling them the “Look, Duck and Vanish” squads, they changed the name to the “Home Guard” last July. He had a relative there, and she had written some time ago to say they were all busy making concrete anti-invasion blocks to drag off to the beaches, “Dragon’s Teeth” as they were called. Yet here this man was telling him they had also been hard at work on Dragon’s scales for this monstrous tank!
“Dorchester Chobham…” O’Connor repeated the words, an unaccountable feeling rising in him now. We could barely equip the troops that struggled home after Dunkirk. There weren’t even enough simple rifles in the country to re-arm the men! How in the world did we go from broomstick militias and concrete blocks to this?
“Third generation?”
“Yes sir, the process is hush, hush, but I understand that they’re using more exotic materials now in the composites-carbon nanotubes and all.”
