![]() ![]() In other words, if you move the wheel to the left, it reduces power to the left tracks and increases power to the opposing set. Unlike a traditional steering column linked to a set of front wheels, which change their angle to correspond with your inputs, a tank steers via the transmission. The steering wheel has knobbly grips and the nodules press against my skin. This one’s fitted with rubber tracks, so instead of sounding like a clanking monster it actually moves along quite smoothly – the chuggy engine makes more noise than the tracks. Slide the gearlever into D, and the revs rise slightly before we creep away – as easy as that. Prod the throttle, and the revs shoot up remarkably quickly for a giant turbodiesel, but with a 2,500rpm red line, it’s hardly frantic. Hold a button down, and the engine churns over (for the purposes of this road test, I should point out there’s a touch of clatter, but we’ve experienced worse). Sure, you press the pedals and turn the wheel and set 30 tonnes of heavy metal in motion, but the commander calls the shots. Thankfully, I won’t be alone, because the first thing you must know about driving a tank, is that you’re not really driving a tank. It’s a snug fit, not unlike the cockpit of a fighter jet, though today they’ve left the hatch open to help me see where I’m going. The rest of the instruments are a mixture of aviation-style dials and more familiar buttons with icons for the heaters and aircon. "I was expecting a primitive series of pulleys and levers" ![]()
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