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I flew to the Czech Republic and, accompanied by a Czech speaker and his assistant, drove to a city in the west, Karlovy Vary, once known as Karlsbad, famous for its spas. The spot specified by the dealer turned out to be a vast, empty wasteland with a few industrial buildings around the edge. There was no tank to be seen and nobody to meet us, but just as it began to feel like a spy movie – the scene in which the heroes are ambushed by gangsters – a car appeared. It crossed the concrete, drew close, then a big man inside it said: ‘Follow me!’ So we did. Out of the city, along a highway, then on to a side road and from there on to a dirt track. We passed a gate with a sign saying it was a military area: ‘No entry.’ We followed the car deep into a forest.
Finally we reached a clearing and some rundown outbuildings. Other tough–looking men were already there. They opened a garage door and there, at last, was the tank. I walked towards it, trying to exude the air of a man who knows a good tank when he sees one. I climbed up, got inside and quickly discovered that the first thing you want to do when you get into a tank is to get out of it. It was claustrophobic, with metal bits and pieces getting in your way and an uncomfortable seat.
There were actually three seats in there: one for the commander, one for the driver and the last for the gunner. Naturally I wanted see if the tank worked, but this proved tricky. There were a few clattering noises from the engine, then it fell silent. And then again and yet again. Finally, after about half an hour, it came fully to life, belching black smoke. The driver installed himself and the tank erupted backwards out of its parking space. We zoomed around the tracks through the forest and I loved it. I had to stop myself grinning like a boy with a new train set.
A couple of weeks ago, the tank was driven up on to a trailer and we paid up. I worried that both the tank and the cash would disappear, but all seems well. As I write, the tank is on the docks at the vast, bleak-looking port in Bremerhaven. It is due to be loaded onto a seriously big ship – 176 metres long – and make its way to Portbury, near Bristol. It will then go to a registered workshop to have its cannon deactivated.
The most effective museums, like the House of Terror in Budapest, create an appropriate atmosphere. The first object you see when you visit that museum is a tank looming at the bottom of an atrium. It is raised at an angle on a dark surface and surrounded by high walls covered in black-and-white photographs of people who were killed in the two terror campaigns – first by the Nazis, then the Soviets.
We aim to create the same atmosphere of harsh, uncompromising menace. We need to raise a great deal of money to build our museum, and the tank explains why it’s needed better than I ever could.
Because you read about military
Also by James Bartholomew
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