A Company of Tanks
"The words of an eye-witness, flowing naturally from first impressions,
are frequently more expressive, and convey ideas more just than studied
descriptions; though the language may often be such as it would
scarcely be allowable in other persons to write."
CAPTAIN JAMES BURNEY, 1806.
A Company of Tanks
BY
MAJOR W. H. L. WATSON
D.S.O., D.C.M.
AUTHOR OF 'ADVENTURES OF A DESPATCH-RIDER'
_WITH SKETCH MAPS_
William Blackwood and Sons
Edinburgh and London
1920
_ALL RIGHTS RESERVED_
_TO
PATRICK AND DAVID._
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. ON THE XIth CORPS FRONT 1
(_October to December 1916._)
II. FRED KARNO'S ARMY 14
(_January to April 1917._)
III. BEFORE THE FIRST BATTLE 26
(_March and April 1917._)
IV. THE FIRST BATTLE OF BULLECOURT 50
(_April 11, 1917._)
V. THE SECOND BATTLE OF BULLECOURT 73
(_May 3, 1917._)
VI. REST AND TRAINING 89
(_May and June 1917._)
VII. THE THIRD BATTLE OF YPRES--PREPARATIONS 111
(_July 1917._)
VIII. THE THIRD BATTLE OF YPRES--ST JULIEN 131
(_August 1917._)
IX. THE THIRD BATTLE OF YPRES--THE POELCAPELLE ROAD 148
(_September and October 1917._)
X. THE BATTLE OF CAMBRAI--FLESQUIERES 162
(_November 4th to 20th, 1917._)
XI. THE BATTLE OF CAMBRAI--BOURLON WOOD 182
(_November 21st to 23rd, 1917._)
XII. THE BATTLE OF CAMBRAI--GOUZEAUCOURT 194
(_November 24th to December 1st, 1917._)
XIII. HAVRINCOURT TO HARROW 210
(_December 1st, 1917, to January 31st, 1918._)
XIV. THE CARRIER TANKS 224
(_January 31st to August 1st, 1918._)
XV. THE BATTLE OF AMIENS 237
(_August 1st to August 27th, 1918._)
XVI. THE HINDENBURG LINE 257
(_August 27th to October 8th, 1918._)
XVII. THE SECOND BATTLE OF LE CATEAU 275
(_October 9th to October 30th, 1918._)
XVIII. THE END OF THE WAR 290
(_October 31st, 1918, to January 12th, 1919._)
A Company of Tanks.
CHAPTER I.
ON THE XIth CORPS FRONT.
(_October to December 1916._)
The village of Locon lies five miles out from Bethune, on the
Estaires road. Now it is broken by the war: in October 1916 it was as
comfortable and quiet a village as any four miles behind the line.
If you had entered it at dusk, when the flashes of the guns begin
to show, and passed by the square and the church and that trap for
despatch-riders where the _chemin-de-fer vicinal_ crosses to the left
of the road from the right, you would have come to a scrap of orchard
on your left where the British cavalrymen are buried who fell in 1914.
Perhaps you would not have noticed the graves, because they were
overgrown and the wood of the crosses was coloured green with lichen.
Beyond the orchard was a farm with a garden in front, full of common
flowers, and a flagged path to the door.
Inside there is a cheerful little low room. A photograph of the Prince
of Wales, a sacred picture, and an out-of-date calendar, presented by
the 'Petit Parisien,' decorate the walls. Maman, a dear gnarled old
woman--old from the fields--stands with folded arms by the glittering
stove which projects into the centre of the room. She never would sit
down except to eat and sew, but would always stand by her stove. Papa
sits comfortably, with legs straight out, smoking a pipe of _caporal_
and reading the 'Telegramme.' Julienne, pretty like a sparrow, with
quick brown eyes, jerky movements, and fuzzy hair, the flapper from
the big grocer's at La Gorgue, for once is quiet and mends Hamond's
socks. In a moment she will flirt like a kitten or quarrel with Louie,
a spoilt and altogether unpleasant boy, who at last is going to school.
The stalwart girl of seventeen, Adrienne, is sewing laundry marks on
Louie's linen. It is warm and cosy.
The coffee is ready. The little bowls are set out on the table. The
moment has come. From behind a curtain Hamond produces, with the
solemnity of ritual, a battered water-bottle. He looks at Papa, who
gravely nods, and a few drops from the water-bottle are poured into
each steaming bowl of coffee. The fragrance is ineffable, for it is
genuine old Jamaica....
We talk of the son, a cuirassier, and when he will come on leave;
of the Iron Corps who are down on the Somme; of how the men of the
Nord cannot be matched by those of the Midi, who, it is rumoured,
nearly lost the day at Verdun; of Mme. X. at Gonnehem, who pretends
to be truly a _Parisienne_, but is only a carpenter's daughter out
of Richebourg St Vaast; of the oddities and benevolence of M. le
Maire. Adrienne discusses learnedly the merits of the Divisions who
have been billeted in the village. She knows their names and numbers
from the time the Lahore Division came in 1914.[1] We wonder what are
these heavy armoured motor-cars of a new type that have been a little
successful on the Somme. And we have our family jokes. "Peronne est
prise," we inform Maman, and make an April fool of her--while, if the
line is disturbed and there is an outbreak of machine-gun fire or the
guns are noisy, we mutter, "Les Boches attaquent!" and look for refuge
under the table.
In April of last year, when the Boche attacked in very truth, Maman
may have remembered our joke. Then they piled their mattresses, their
saucepans, their linen, and some furniture on the big waggon, and set
out for Hinges--Bethune was shelled and full of gas. I wonder if they
took with them the photograph of the Prince of Wales? There was bitter
fighting in Locon, and we must afterwards have shelled it, because it
came to be in the German lines....
Hamond knew the Front from the marshes of Fleurbaix to the craters of
Givenchy better than any man in France. He had been in one sector of
it or another since the first November of the war. So, when one of the
companies of the XIth Corps Cyclist Battalion, which I commanded, was
ordered to reinforce a battalion of the 5th Division in the line at
Givenchy and another of my companies to repair the old British line by
Festubert, and to work on the "islands,"[2] I determined to move from
my dismal headquarters in a damp farm near Gonnehem and billet myself
at Locon. It was the more convenient, as Hamond, who commanded the
Motor Machine-Gun Battery of the Corps, was carrying out indirect fire
from positions near Givenchy.
We lived in comfort, thanks to Maman and Starman, Hamond's servant. I
would come in at night, saying I was _fatigué de vivre_. Old Maman,
understanding that I was too tired to live, would drag out with great
trouble grandfather's arm-chair, place a pillow in it, and set it by
the stove. And Julienne, a little subdued at my imminent decease, would
forget to flirt.
We would start, after an early breakfast, in Hamond's motor-cycle and
side-car, and drive through the straggling cottages of Hamel, where the
Cuirassiers, in October 1914, protected the left flank of the advancing
5th Division, through Gorre, with its enormous ramshackle chateau, and
along the low and sordid banks of the La Bassée Canal. We would leave
the motor-cycle just short of the houses near Pont Fixe, that battered
but indomitable bridge, draped defiantly with screens of tattered
sackcloth.
I would strike along the Festubert road, with the low ridge of Givenchy
on my left, until I came to the cross-roads at Windy Corner.
A few yards away were the ruins of a house which Brigadier-General
Count Gleichen,[3] then commanding the 15th Infantry Brigade, had made
his headquarters when first we came to Givenchy, and were certain to
take La Bassée. That was in October 1914, and the line ran from the
houses near Pont Fixe through the farm-buildings of Canteleux to the
cottages of Violaines, whence you looked across open fields to the
sugar factory, which so greatly troubled us, and the clustered red
walls of La Bassée. The Cheshires held Violaines. They were driven out
by a sudden attack in November. The line broke badly, and Divisional
Headquarters at Beuvry Brewery packed up, but a Cyclist officer with
a few men helped to rally the Cheshires until a battalion from the
3rd Division on the left arrived to fill the gap. We did not again
hold Violaines and Canteleux until the Germans retired of their own
free-will.
Now once again, exactly two years later, the 5th Division was in the
line.
I would take to the trench at Windy Corner, and tramp along to call
on the cheery young colonel of the battalion to which my men were
attached. There is a little story about his headquarters. A smell
developed, and they dug hard, thinking it came from a corpse. The
sergeant-major discovered the cause. A fond relative had sent the
mess-waiter a medicated belt to catch the little aliens in the course
of their traditional daily migration....
We would go round the line, which then was quiet, exploring the
intricacies of Red Dragon Crater. Afterwards I would walk through the
complicated defences of Givenchy to join Hamond at "Dirty Dick's,"[4]
by the shrine, for the ride back....
The 5th Division was afraid of an attack on Givenchy at this time. It
was a key position. If Givenchy went, the line south of the canal must
crumble and the left flank of the Loos salient would be in the air. But
the attack did not come until April 1918, and the story of how Givenchy
held then, when the line to the north was flowing westwards, is history.
On the left of Givenchy the line ran in front of Festubert through
stagnant fields, where the water in the summer is just below the
surface. It is dreary country, full of ghosts and the memories of
fighting at night. It is all a sodden cemetery.
There my men were rebuilding the breastworks of the old British line,
for in these marshes it was impossible to dig trenches, and working on
the "islands."
Breastworks continued to the north. Our lines were overlooked from the
Aubers Ridge. In winter they were flooded and men were drowned. Behind
were dead level meadows, often covered with water, and dismal ruined
villages. The country was filthy, monotonous, and stunted. In the
summer it stank. In the winter it was mud. Luckily, for many months the
line was quiet.
In November of this year the Corps, to vary the picture, took over
the Cuinchy sector on the right of Givenchy and immediately south of
the La Bassée Canal. It was a unique and damnable sector, in which
a company of my men were set to dig tunnels from the reserve to the
support and front trenches.
It was unique by reason of the brick-stacks, and damnable by reason
of the Minenwerfer and the Railway Triangle. Our line ran in and out
of a dozen or so brick-stacks, enormous maroon cubes of solid brick
that withstood both shell and mine. Some we held and some the enemy
held. Inside them tiny staircases were made, and camouflaged snipers,
impossible to detect, made life miserable. Occasionally we tried to
take each other's brick-stacks, but these attempts were unsuccessful,
and we settled down, each as uncomfortable as he well could be. And in
this sector the enemy employed minenwerfer with the utmost enterprise.
Our trenches were literally blown to pieces. In the daytime we ran
about like disturbed ants, ever listening for the little thud of the
"minnie's" discharge and then looking upwards for the black speck
by day or the glow of it by night. For "minnies" can be avoided by
the alert and skilful. Finally, a triangle of railway embankments,
fortified until they had become an impregnable field-work, held for the
German the southern bank of the canal.
To the occasional tall visitor the main communication trench added
irritation and certain injury to fear. Some ingenious fellow had
laid an overhead rail some six feet above the trench boards. On this
rail material was slung and conveyed forwards. It was an excellent
substitute for a light railway, but it compelled a tall man to walk
along the trench with his head on one side. This strained attitude
did not conduce to stability on slippery trench boards. Again, the
height of the rail above the floor of the trench varied. A moment's
absent-mindedness and the damage was done.
My officers and men worked well. We were lucky, and our casualties were
few, but it was a trying time. An occasional day in Bethune just made
life bearable.
The one redeeming feature of the XIth Corps front was the excellent
town of Bethune.
Of all the towns immediately behind the line, none could rival Bethune
in the providing of such comforts, relaxations, and amenities as the
heart of the soldier desired. The billets were notoriously comfortable.
The restaurants were varied and good. The _pâtisserie_ was famous
before the war. The oyster-bar approached that of Lillers. I know of
but one _coiffeur_ better than "Eugene's." The shops provided for every
reasonable want. The theatre was palatial. The canteen was surpassed
only by Meaulte, of ill-fated memory. The inhabitants were civil,
friendly, and, in comparison with their neighbours, not extortionate.
On the morning in October 1914, when the 5th Division--the first
British troops Bethune had seen--passed through the town to take up
the line Vermelles-Violaines, I breakfasted at the "Lion d'Or," round
the corner from the square. I was received with grateful hospitality
by madame. An extremely pretty girl of fourteen, with dark admiring
eyes, waited on me. She was charmingly hindered by Annette, a child of
three or four, who with due gravity managed to push some bread on to my
table and thus break a plate. When I returned in the summer of 1916,
I expected that I would at least be recognised. I found the tavern
crowded. Agnes, who had just recovered from an illness, served the mob
of officers with unsmiling disdain. She was not even flurried by the
entreaties of multitudinous padres who were doubtless celebrating some
feast-day. And Annette, decorated with appalling ribbons, was actually
carrying plates.
The alternative was the "Hôtel de France"--a solemn and pretentious
hostelry, at which the staff and French officials congregated. When the
enemy began to shell Bethune, the "Hôtel de France" was closed.
The "Lion d'Or" carried on until the house opposite was hit, and
afterwards reopened spasmodically; but in 1916 and 1917 it was wiser to
try the "Paon d'Or" in the outskirts of the town, near the canal. At
that stuffy restaurant it was possible to lunch peacefully while shells
dropped at intervals in the square and centre of the town.
"Eugene: Coiffeur," was an institution. Eugene must have been dead
or "serving," for madame presided. She was a thin and friendly lady,
with tiny feet, and a belief that all her customers required verbal
entertainment. It was touching to see madame seat herself briskly
beside a morose colonel who knew no respectable word of French, and
endeavour, by the loud reiteration of simple phrases, to assure him
that he was welcome and the weather appalling.
I would linger over Bethune, because no town has been a greater friend
to the soldier for a brief period out of the line. Now it is shattered,
and the inhabitants are fled.
My headquarters at this time were in a farm near Gonnehem, six miles
or so from Bethune. The farm was good of its kind, and in summer the
casual visitor might even have called it smart, after Wiggans, my
adjutant, had cleared away the midden-heap, drained the courtyard,
and had whitewashed everything that would take the colour--all in the
face of violent and reiterated protests from madame. The centre of the
courtyard, encircled by a whitewashed rope, was particularly effective.
In winter no polite epithet could describe the place. The hamlet
consisted of a few farms, each surrounded by innumerable little
ditches, hidden by rank undergrowth and sheltered by large trees. At
the best of times the ditches were full of soaking flax, which gave out
a most pungent odour. After rain the ditches overflowed and flooded the
roads and paths. The hedges and bushes sagged with water. The trees
dripped monotonously. Some of us caught influenza colds: some endured
forgotten rheumatism and lumbago.
We had but one pastime. Certain of our transport horses were not in
use. These we were continually exchanging for riding horses more up
to our weight with a friendly "Remounts" who lived in solitude near
by. In due course Wiggans became the proud owner of a dashing little
black pony and I of a staff officer's discarded charger. In spite of
the dreariness of our surroundings, we felt almost alive at the end
of an afternoon's splash over water-logged fields. Nobody could damp
Wiggans' cheerfulness when he returned with a yet more fiery steed from
his weekly deal, and the teaching of the elements of horsemanship to
officers, who had never ridden, produced an occasional laugh. We may
ourselves have given pleasure in turn to our friends, the yeomanry, who
were billeted in Gonnehem itself.
To us in our damp and melancholy retreat came rumours of tanks. It
was said that they were manned by "bantams." The supply officer
related that on the first occasion on which tanks went into action
the ear-drums of the crews were split. Effective remedies had been
provided. We learned from an officer, who had met the quartermaster
of a battalion that had been on the Somme, the approximate shape and
appearance of tanks. We pictured them and wondered what a cyclist
battalion could do against them. Apparently the tanks had not been a
great success on the Somme, but we imagined potentialities. They were
coloured with the romance that had long ago departed from the war. An
application was made for volunteers. We read it through with care.
I returned from leave. It was pouring with rain and there was nothing
to do. The whole of my battalion was scattered in small parties over
the Corps area. Most of my officers and men were under somebody else's
command. I sent in an application for transfer to the heavy branch of
the Machine-Gun Corps, the title of the Tank Corps in those days. I was
passed as suitable by the Chief Engineer of the Corps, and waited.
It was on the 28th December 1916 that I was ordered by wire to proceed
immediately to the headquarters of the tanks. Christmas festivities had
cheered a depressed battalion, but there was at the time no likelihood
of the mildest excitement. Hamond had disappeared suddenly--it was
rumoured to England and tanks. I was left with a bare handful of men to
command. It was still raining, and we were flooded. I was not sorry to
go....
We set out on a bright morning, in a smart gig that Wiggans had
bought, with his latest acquisition in the shafts, bedecked with some
second-hand harness we had found in Bethune, and clattered through
Lillers to the Hôtel de la Gare.
Lillers was a pleasant town, famous principally for the lady in the
swimming-bath and its oyster-bar. Every morning, in the large open-air
swimming-bath of the town, a lady of considerable beauty was said
to disport herself. The swimming-bath was consequently crowded. The
oyster-bar provided a slight feminine interest as well as particularly
fine _marennes verts_. Lillers was an army headquarters. Like all towns
so fated it bristled with neat notices, clean soldiers with wonderful
salutes, and many motor-cars. It possessed an under-world of staff
officers who hurried ceaselessly from office to office and found but
little time to swim in the morning or consume oysters in the afternoon.
The Hôtel de la Gare was distinguished from lesser hotels by an infant
prodigy and champagne cocktails. The infant prodigy was a dumpy child
of uncertain age, who, with or without encouragement, would climb on
to the piano-stool and pick out simple tunes with one finger. The
champagne cocktails infected a doctor of my acquaintance with an
unreasoning desire to change horses and gallop back to billets.
At last the train came in. My servant, my baggage, and myself were
thrown on board, and alighted at the next station in accordance with
the instructions of the R.T.O....
A few months later the Cyclist Battalion went to Italy, under Major
Percy Davies. It returned to France in time for the German offensive of
April 1918, and gained everlasting honour by holding back the enemy,
when the Portuguese withdrew, until our infantry arrived. For its
skilful and dogged defence this battalion was mentioned by name in the
despatches of the Commander-in-Chief.