AN ARMOURED CAR IN AMBUSH
[Sir John French, in one of his despatches, expressed his great
admiration of the splendid work which has been done at the front by
our Territorials--that work, indeed, by this time has become almost
equal to the glorious achievements of our Regular troops. The first
of our Territorials to go into action during the war were the
Northumberland Hussars, and this story is told by Trooper Stanley
Dodds, of that fine corps, who was serving as a despatch-rider and
on being wounded was invalided home. He afterwards returned to the
front. Trooper Dodds is one of the best-known motor cyclists in the
North, and winner in the competition of the summer of 1914 promoted
by the North-Eastern Automobile Association. This was decided in
North Yorkshire, over difficult country.]
I fancy there are people in England who imagine that the life of a
despatch-rider is one long unbroken joy ride. They seem to think that he
gets somewhere near the front, and spends all his days careering over
beautifully kept military roads between headquarters and the firing
line, and seeing and enjoying everything that goes on; but I can assure
such people that in practice despatch-riding does not work out like that
at all.
I am only a humble member of the fraternity, but I have had a fair share
of despatch work, and I do know that I have not had a single joy ride
since I took the business on, and I can vouch for the fact that
beautifully kept roads do not exist anywhere near the front, at any
rate in Flanders. Even some of the so-called roads have never been
roads--they were simply tracks to start with, and when military traffic
had been going over them for some time they had lost all resemblance to
roads, and you could scarcely tell the difference between them and the
ordinary countryside.
The fact is that the life of a despatch-rider, though exciting enough to
satisfy the cravings of any ordinary man, is largely an endless battle
amongst bad roads, bullets and shell fire, want of sleep, and the
hundred-and-one other things which often wreck the nerves; but the life
is well worth living, all the same.
In work like this there is a good deal of nerve-racking riding and all
sorts of difficult jobs have to be tackled. One of the worst I had to
carry out while I was at the front was riding back to a patrol which was
in our rear, and which had been lost sight of in the strain and turmoil
of a rapid retirement.
The patrol had been left at a corner where there were some forked roads,
and in order to reach them it was necessary to go through a village.
The Germans were everywhere and keenly on the look-out for a chance of
sniping, so that there was plenty of excitement in the affair,
especially as it was night and there was a darkness which was literally
black.
This made the task doubly dangerous, for in addition to the ordinary
risks of being shot there was the great danger of coming to serious
grief on the road--a road which you could feel but scarcely see. I don’t
mind saying that when I started in the pitch darkness on this expedition
I did not feel any too comfortable.
It is the custom at such times to ride without lights, because lights
serve as targets, but in spite of this I was forced to light up, because
it would have been utterly impossible to ride without some sort of
guide.
After a good deal of trouble and a lot of risk I reached the village and
then I had a most unpleasant shock, for a Belgian peasant told me that
the Germans were actually occupying some of the houses.
That was a startling announcement, but the added danger forced me to set
my wits to work to decide what it was best to do. At last I determined
to make tracks down a side street.
I was riding very slowly and carefully when I was pulled up short with a
sharp cry of “Halt” and I knew that a loaded rifle was covering me not
far away.
I did halt--I didn’t need to be told twice, not knowing what fate had in
store for me; but thank heaven I quickly found that it was a British
sentry who had spoken.
I rapidly told him what I was out to do, and I was very glad to have his
help and advice.
The sentry told me that the patrol, like wise men, had acted on their
own initiative and had fallen back on the village--and that was joyful
news, because it meant that my work was practically done.
Being greatly relieved I could not resist the temptation to tell the
sentry that I might have scooted past him and got clear, but my humour
vanished when another British soldier from the darkness said grimly,
“Yes, you might have got past _him_, but _I_ should have put a bullet
into you!”
I have not the slightest doubt that this smart fellow spoke the
truth--anyway, if he had missed me I should doubtless have been potted
by a chum of his, because there were four sentries posted at short
distances from this place. I could not see a sign of them, but of course
they had my light as a target and they were as keen as mustard, knowing
that the Germans were in the village.
There were a good many little thrilling experiences for all of us which
came in as part of the day’s work, and most of them were thoroughly
enjoyable--a few in particular I would not have missed for worlds. One
of these was a little jaunt with an armoured motor-car.
Incidentally, this experience showed me that we have learnt a good deal
from the South African War. It is pretty common knowledge by this time
that the Germans sprang something of a surprise on the world with their
big guns; but our own armoured cars came on the Germans with even more
stunning effect. It was the South African War which to a great extent
gave us the most useful knowledge we now possess of armoured cars and
armoured trains.
The armoured car is a development of the idea of the armoured train,
with this enormous advantage, that you can get your car pretty nearly
anywhere, while the train is limited in its operations to the lines on
which it runs. Remarkably good motor-car work at the front has been done
by Brigadier-General Seely and Commander Sampson. Some of these cars are
extremely powerful and fast, with huge wheels, and in the hands of
skilful drivers they can overcome almost any obstacle.
In order to meet the exceptional demands which a war like this makes
upon them the cars have to be specially protected and strengthened. The
body itself is protected with toughened steel, which has so much
resistance that bullets simply make no impression on it, and light guns
can therefore be mounted behind the metal which can do enormous
execution amongst bodies of the enemy’s riflemen or troops who are not
protected by anything but rifles. If you want excitement, therefore, you
can get it to the full by being associated with these machines. Whenever
they go out they simply look for trouble--and they can afford to do so,
because they despise ordinary cavalry and infantry tactics. Their chief
gain has been Uhlan patrols, which they have wiped out with the greatest
ease.
Scouts bring in word of enemy patrols on the road; off swoop the cars
straight to the spot, and the fun begins.
My own little job was not actually in an armoured car, but accompanying
one. Very often, in the case of a retreat, the cars remain behind the
main line, to do the work of wiping out as many of the enemy’s advanced
guards as they can get under fire, and an affair of this description
took place during the retreat from Roulers.
I happened to be there, armed with my rifle, which I carry in preference
to a revolver, because I have found it more useful.
I stayed behind to keep in touch with the armoured car. This was at a
corner of one of the roads, and a prominent feature of the district was
a brewery, the entrance to which commanded the approach by road.
Matters at that particular time were very lively and the car was swiftly
run into the yard, where with astonishing skill and speed it was
disguised as much as possible and then it was ready to give the Germans
a surprise.
I left my machine round the corner, and made my way into one of the
nearest of the houses. Rushing upstairs, I entered a bedroom and went to
the window, where I took up a position with my rifle, and kept properly
on the alert, for you never knew from which quarter a bullet would come
and settle your account for ever.
There was every reason to believe that the enemy would come--and they
did. They came along as if they were satisfied that nothing could happen
to them--certainly the German body that was making its way along the
road had no idea that a disguised motor-car was ready to give it a
welcome as soon as it got within striking distance of the entrance to
the brewery. Being Germans, doubtless their thoughts, when they saw the
brewery, were more concentrated on beer than on the British troops in
ambush.
On the Germans came, and one could not help feeling how awful it was
that they should be advancing utterly unsuspectingly into a perfect
death-trap.
From behind my bedroom window, rifle in hand, I watched them come up to
their doom. They got nearer and nearer to the innocent-looking brewery
entrance and to the houses and other places where the unseen rifles were
covering them; then, just at the right moment, the maxims from the
armoured car rattled and the rifles kept them company.
The German ranks were shattered and scattered instantly. It was a swift
and destructive cannonade and the Germans went down in the fatal roadway
just like ninepins. I do not think I exaggerate when I say that
practically the whole of the enemy’s advanced guard was wiped out in a
few moments.
This little affair was as short as it was brilliant and decisive, and
almost before there was time to realise fully what had happened the car
was stripped of its disguise and was triumphantly driven out of the
brewery yard and back to the British lines.
When I saw the car going I took it as a signal that I had better make
tracks myself, so I hurried away from the bedroom, got clear of the
house, jumped on to my machine, and lost no time in following it.
This fine performance, typical of a great number of such deeds done in
the war by resourceful men of which nothing has been heard and perhaps
never will be, strikes me as being a very good illustration of doing
exactly those things which the enemy does not expect you to do.
Personally, I have always made a point of putting this principle into
practice. If the enemy is waiting for you to take the highroad, the
obvious thing, it seems to me, is to take to the fields, especially as
in bad weather, in a country like Flanders, there is very little
difference between the fields and the roads.
There is one interesting point which I may mention, and it is that so
far I have had no difficulty in finding petrol. Nearly all the Belgian
farmers use gas-engines, and their stores are very useful for motor
cycles. I need hardly say that I never saw any want of willingness on
the part of Belgian farmers to help the fighters who are doing their
best to get the country back for them.
At present I am not a bit useful as a fighting man, because when I was
going into the trenches I heard the ping of a German bullet and found
that blood was running down my arm.
When I was actually struck I felt only a numb sensation, and did not
for some time know what had happened; but later it was discovered that
the bullet had struck me between the wrist and elbow of the right arm
and had gone clean through, leaving a hole on each side of the arm.
Strange though it may seem, I felt little pain at any time, in spite of
the fact that one of the bones of the arm was broken, and I am glad to
say that this wound--and there have been an enormous number like it
since the war began--is making a first-class recovery, and I shall soon
be all right again.
A man does not go to war for fun, but there is a bright side to the grim
business, as I found when I reached a Belgian hospital. I spent three
very comfortable days there, and when I was sent off to England the
nurse who was attending me very gravely made me a little present, which
I as gravely accepted. She paid me three-halfpence! I did not know what
it meant, but I concluded that I had received the Belgian’s rate of
daily pay as a soldier, and his keep. I was perfectly satisfied, and I
hope my excellent nurse was the same.