THE COCKCROFT (_continued_).
I.
Very few of us contrived to sleep before dawn. The 18-pounder, for its
size, makes the most ear-splitting report of any gun, and there were
batteries so near to us that their fire, which never ceased, kept the
tanks in a continual state of vibration. The only pillow available
for most of us was made of armour-plate, studded with bolt-heads, and
now being hit by these concussions as if by millions of muffled but
infuriated hammers. Under these circumstances any sort of rest was out
of the question. Toward dawn, however, the bombardment slackened. I
had just begun thankfully to doze when I was aroused again by some one
shouting my name. It turned out to be the Major, who very thoughtfully
had walked across at that unconscionable hour from Company H.Q.
(established overnight on the canal bank) to take some of us back for a
wash, a rest, and a meal before we attended a Divisional conference at
midday. It was now just after five, and a bright sunny morning. When I
joined the Major outside the tank, I obtained my first daylight view of
our quarters, which were much as one might have expected. I do not know
the cynic who named the spot Bellevue, but no doubt he had his reasons.
It was the site, apparently, of a small farm--a building, at least,
was marked on the map, although long since invisible to the naked eye;
and it was happily situated in the original No Man’s Land, close to
the German front line, the remains of whose first trench, California,
bounded this desirable property to the east. For the rest, there was a
square of bedraggled hedge, entirely imaginary in places, behind parts
of which the tanks, like so many ostriches, believed themselves to be
concealed: the usual ground surface of mud, wire, and shell-holes; and
in one corner a patch of unmitigated bog where a pond had been. Buffs
Road, lined by sand-bagged shelters and dead mules, and now void of any
sign of life, passed by the north side toward its junction with the
main St Julien road at California Reserve. Beyond it, and to the east
and south-east, rose the curve of the ridge, while behind us were the
stump of wall at Hill Top Farm, the trees of Frascati, and the higher
branches of the shattered avenue along the canal. The whole landscape,
if intrinsically depressing, was very peaceful at that moment. No one
seemed to be discharging any sort of lethal weapon anywhere.
It appeared that 19 and 20 Companies had made their own arrangements
with their officers in the detachment, and only four of us, therefore,
accompanied the Major back to headquarters. Bubb was left in charge of
our tanks. As the Major was in excellent condition, and had not been
up all night, we had an exhausting walk across country at the rate
of about five miles an hour. Before six o’clock we arrived at that
singular colony of sand-bagged dwellings which had grown up in regular
terraces along the inner face of the eastern bank of the canal. The
address of the two shelters appropriated to our use, if I remember
correctly, was 9 and 10 Gordon Terrace. They commanded no view, except
(across a two-foot duckboard walk) of the back of a similar terrace on
a lower level, and their accommodation was limited. They were, in fact,
the familiar structures of curved elephant iron, about eight feet high
in the centre and perhaps twice as long, half the length being dug out
of the canal bank, and the front part surmounted by a towering mass
of sandbags. There were a couple of wire-beds and a table or two in
each, and everywhere there were flies. One of these tenements was given
over to our signallers, runners, and other details. Into its fellow we
crowded as thankfully as if it had been the Ritz, and sat about on the
beds and floor while kindly people brought us tea and bacon and bread.
Kessel was there, and with him his invaluable servant, Taylor, who
always seemed to have a hot drink ready at the psychological moment.
We passed the morning at Gordon Terrace, washing, shaving, and behaving
generally like gentlemen of leisure, worried only by the malignant
flies and the telephone, which conspired successfully to rob us of
what we needed most--two or three hours’ sleep. Shortly before midday,
Claughton, Chaddock, and I left with the Major for the conference at
the 48th Divisional Headquarters. Coutts was working by himself with
the 33rd Brigade of the 11th Division, and had already gone off to
hunt for his Brigadier, who was living in some remote dug-out east of
the canal. Our destination was nearer at hand. There runs side by side
with the canal north of Ypres a sluggish stream called, I think, the
Yperlee. Overhanging this, there had been built into the western canal
bank a series of dug-outs and shelters similar to those on the east
side, and divisional headquarters occupied a quite commodious suite in
this part, with a railed balcony projecting over the stream. Here were
a great number of immaculate persons wearing red tabs; and scattered
humbly among them, like poor relations, a few more workmanlike figures
in steel helmets and privates’ tunics--the officers of the two infantry
battalions which, with ourselves, were going to do the fighting.
At these conferences one is always kept waiting, the delay usually
being in strict ratio to the presiding General’s dignity; and on this
occasion it was nearly one o’clock before any of the actual performers
were called upon. We spent the interval profitably in becoming
acquainted with our infantry colleagues. I discovered the platoon
commander of the 7th Warwicks who was to follow the fortunes of G 47.
The Major was then summoned to consultation with the infantry battalion
commanders, and we continued to stand patiently about and wonder when
we were going to get any lunch. At length the conference was over: it
appeared that none of us, except the Major, had been wanted at all; and
we trooped thankfully back to Gordon Terrace, where we found Merchant
and some other faithful souls who had come all the way from Lovie to
bring us our letters and wish us luck.
The Divisional conference, all natural misgivings notwithstanding, had
at least accomplished something: the scope and details of the attack
were agreed upon--for how long of course no one could prophesy. The
operation had been modified, as I have explained, until it took in only
the western side of the triangle of roads. It was limited, that is, to
the Poelcapelle road itself, the apex, and the two formidable works to
the west and north-west of the latter. Nine tanks were to go in, the
other two remaining in reserve at Bellevue. Tanks were detailed for
objectives as follows, and were to move in this order:--
Coutts, with Willard of 19 Company, for the Cockcroft, the most distant
fort to be attacked (it was a mile north of St Julien). Charles Baker
and Kane of 20 Company, for Maison du Hibou; Morgan and Close of 20
Company, for Triangle Farm and Vancouver, at the apex; Claughton of 21
Company, for Hillock Farm, at the side of the Poelcapelle road, 400
yards south of Triangle Farm; myself for a row of fortified gun-pits
lying almost opposite Hillock Farm, but well off the road, toward the
middle of the triangle. Chaddock, with the ninth tank, was to follow me
and make himself useful where possible. We were to cross the Steenbeek,
not by the ruined bridge at St Julien, but at a point 100 yards to the
left, where the engineers that night were going to lay fascines in
the bed of the stream. As this necessitated our leaving the road for
a short distance, rejoining it in the village itself, Guy and Kessel
were detailed to tape the crossing after dark. Our battle headquarters
would be established before zero at Cheddar Villa, a large concrete
mebus by the roadside on the crest of the ridge, from where a good view
was obtained over the whole area of the attack.
It was unfortunate that there were only two male tanks in the
detachment--Willard’s and Baker’s. Six-pounder guns are of great
service against these field forts, especially if the tank can get round
to the rear of the latter, where the concrete is always weaker and
where the entrance is situated. This weakness is intentional, as it
facilitates a lost post’s recapture with the aid of field-guns, whose
shells penetrate the thin rear wall. As the Cockcroft was believed
to be the most formidable of the St Julien forts, Willard with his
6-pounder was detailed to assist Coutts’s female machine, but in the
event Willard did not get into action. His tank was not running well,
and from the first it was thought likely that Coutts might have to
tackle the Cockcroft single-handed. Chaddock therefore, if required,
and if he could pass the other tanks in front of him on the road, was
to push on to Coutts’s help. The Maison du Hibou, almost as powerful as
the Cockcroft, was allotted for the same tactical reasons to Baker’s
remaining male tank, assisted by Kane.
Coutts returned from his interview with the 33rd Brigade while we were
having lunch at Gordon Terrace. He was not in the best of spirits,
as he had been impressed unfavourably by what he had seen of the
infantry who were to work with him. As it fell out, his misgivings were
justified. About this time Brown, the assistant Reconnaissance Officer
of 21 Company, arrived with some aeroplane photographs and additional
maps; and a little later Colonel Hankey and the Adjutant appeared with
the battalion R.O., Hatton Hall.
We spent the afternoon lounging about near the dug-out, a dreary
interval of waiting without any genuine rest. A slight shower fell,
but toward evening the weather cleared again and gave promise of a
fine night. At eight o’clock the four of us started to walk back to
our tanks by way of Buffs Road. Evening was always the most melancholy
time in the Salient: the colours and mists of sunset serve only to
emphasise the utter ruin of the country. At that hour no one was
moving, for industry above ground began only with the dark. The road
wound on deserted in front of us, and on either side were only mud,
sandbags, dead animals, and skeleton trees. Even the guns were silent.
Impressed as we were with the unpleasant possibilities of the morning’s
battle, we compared reflections of a generally pessimistic tone as we
tramped through the twilight, while the wilderness about us awoke to
its nocturnal life; and looking back upon it, that walk appears as
one of the least exhilarating I can recall. We had some excuse for
dubiety, especially Coutts, who had the most difficult task of all and
who mistrusted the people who were to support him. The whole operation
before us confessedly was another gamble, of a novel and more than
ordinarily hazardous nature so far as tanks were concerned. It had
been an axiom in the corps, until the latter was plunged into liquid
mud at Ypres, that in action tanks should avoid roads like the plague,
for obvious reasons. In the present case, the field forts themselves
did not worry us an atom; but if everything went wrong--if the smoke
barrage failed or if the enemy by any means suspected in time what
was happening--then our tanks, strung out along a highroad which they
dared not leave, on which it was doubtful if two could pass each other,
and which the German batteries on the next rise knew to a yard, stood
every chance of being blown to pieces in a few minutes. Although as it
happened our attack proved a complete surprise, and was successful in
all essential details, those of us who remained on the road to the end
escaped damage or destruction very narrowly; and subsequent operations
on similar lines were mostly disastrous failures. And during that
evening walk we could not foresee events--we could only imagine them.
[Illustration: _The Cockcroft, Aug. 19, 1917._]
II.
It was quite dark when we arrived back at Bellevue. Already some of the
batteries in our neighbourhood had begun their night firing, and all
round the Salient the cold white flares and Very lights were rising and
glowing and fading once more. The tank crews had passed a peaceful day,
sleeping during the morning and completing their battle preparations
in the afternoon. They had been visited by the Chaplain, who brought
them letters, newspapers, and cigarettes. He also held a Communion
service before he left, a proceeding which provoked the Major to a
characteristic utterance. “That’s the worst of these _specialists_,” he
remarked a day or two later, “they’re always butting in where they’ve
no business to be!”[18] The Chaplain, in fact, had the temerity to wish
to be of some real use on these occasions. He had accompanied the tanks
of 20 Company on their dismal fiasco a few days before, and had done
admirable work preparing food and hot drinks under shell-fire for crews
whose machines were ditched, winding up by assisting to bring home a
tank whose officer had been gassed. He was given the Military Cross for
his work that day.
I found there was little, or nothing, for me to do before the time
came for us to start. Meyrick and Corporal Mitchell had thought of
everything, and G 47 was as ready to go into action as she ever
was likely to be. The pigeons, even, had arrived, and our pair was
stowed away in their basket beneath my seat in close proximity to
the left-hand track-oiler, a conjunction which they seemed to find
beneficial. I explained to my crew exactly what was required of us,
but tactically our part in the affair was so simple that very little
discussion was necessary. It merely resolved itself into a question
of going up a road and, with a percentage of luck, coming down it
again. In these final conferences one does not enlarge upon unpleasant
contingencies. We examined the map and photographs inside the tank by
the light of an electric torch, and then after the inevitable ritual of
bully, cocoa, and rum, disposed ourselves for sleep, if such was to be
had. We had still two hours and a half before we need be disturbed.
The tanks were to be formed up in the road, in their fighting order,
by 1 A.M. Guy and Kessel having gone on to tape the crossing over the
Steenbeek, Wright was in charge of this stage of the proceedings. I
must have fallen asleep, notwithstanding the noisy batteries and my
vibrating steel pillow, because I remember him waking me prematurely to
ask me some question which, at the time, I considered superfluous. I
did not get to sleep again. At 12.30 I roused the crew, and we started
the engine. Soon after this, Coutts and Willard, the leading pair, were
moving on to the road, and before one o’clock all the nine tanks were
lined up, their engines ticking over almost silently, ready to start.
We were away on the stroke of one, with three hours and three-quarters
before us in which to get to St Julien, a distance by the road of
only 2500 yards, or less than a mile and a half. The whole trek,
however, was to be taken very slowly, and the latter part, from Cheddar
Villa onward, must be covered at a mere crawl, for then we should be
descending the reverse slope of the ridge without any covering noise
except the normal night firing from our field batteries. It may be
as well to correct here any misapprehension that shall have arisen
from all this talk about ridges and valleys. These terms have only a
relative significance, and the reader who is so fortunate as to know
nothing of the Salient must not picture us climbing and descending
a range of hills like the Pennines, or even like the Chilterns. It
is necessary, however humiliating, to confess that the famous Pilkem
Ridge, at the highest point attained by the St Julien road, rises no
more than 81 feet above sea-level. The valley of the Steenbeek is only
some 40 feet lower. In the country of the blind, however, the one-eyed
man is king; and a geographical excrescence negligible anywhere else
becomes a prominent feature in Flanders. The Steenbeek valley is
a genuine depression, led down to by a level slope over a mile in
length, and it carries sound as well as any similar if more pronounced
depression elsewhere. Once we began to descend, moreover, we were
without any direct cover from view, for the night, although dark, was
starlit and free from mist, and a few sparks from the exhaust of a tank
would have been clearly visible from the German posts on the rising
ground beyond the stream. Hence the various precautions entailed in our
approach over this portion of the route. Not only must we crawl, but
for tank commanders who, like myself, were walking outside, cigarettes
even (one’s chief comfort during an approach-march) very properly were
forbidden.
Before we had been long on the road an irritating delay ensued,
due to trouble in Willard’s tank. The gases from his exhaust were
escaping through the breathers in the engine casing, and threatening
to asphyxiate the crew. This fault having been remedied for the
time being, we proceeded for some way without further incident, and
presently topped the crest and began our cautious descent. The fall of
the ground was so gentle that one might hardly have observed it but
for other material evidence, unmistakable even in the darkness, that
we were on a forward and not on a reverse slope. Up the western face
of the ridge the road was clear of all obstructions. Such objects as
dead mules and shattered limbers were pushed to one side. But once over
the crest one began to encounter dead animals lying in the roadway,
and also other shapeless forms that were not those of animals--in
the common usage of the term. No one moved about on the road on this
side during daylight, or lingered at night to clear anything away
but the wounded; and as in the darkness some of these remains were
indistinguishable until too late from the black mud on which they lay,
while others, when seen in time, could not be avoided, one could only
hope that no single spark of life still flickered anywhere among them.
For after nine tanks had passed over them....
The sky being cloudless, the night, dark as it was, had not the same
impenetrable quality as that of the 31st July, when I had last taken
a tank down toward the German lines. I could imagine now at times
that I could see a little mist over the Steenbeek below us, and even
the vague outline of the farther ridge; and presently, when far away
in the German rear a fire broke out, a short strip of skyline in the
direction of Langemarck was clearly visible against the glow. In
reality, however, one saw virtually nothing but the stumps of trees
on either side, the faint shine of water in ruts and pools on the
roadway, and the darker shadow of the tank in front. After a while
came another halt, due to further trouble in Willard’s machine. In our
exposed position, any experiments with the exhaust were impossible, and
he had to proceed eventually as best he could, with everything flung
open to admit fresh air. The next event I remember was the appearance
on the right of the road of a clump of ruined buildings--presumably
Vanheule Farm. Away to the left the trees in front of Juliet Farm were
just visible. Vanheule was only some 600 yards from the crest, but
this distance seemed to have taken us hours. The time, in fact, was
2.30. And at this point the first really unpleasant interruption of
our march occurred, with the whine and crash of a shell which burst
somewhere behind the farm. Several more followed in our neighbourhood,
and somehow it was additionally disturbing to perceive the flashes of
the guns that were firing, apparently not so very far away. If we could
see these flashes, one could not help the illogical suspicion that the
gunners could see us. In any case, I decided I should be more happy
inside the tank, as shell fragments have a way of travelling unexpected
distances. I scrambled in accordingly, hoping devoutly that this sudden
activity was a mere caprice, having no connection with our presence on
the road. Once inside I could hear nothing, but I believe this shelling
was a spasmodic burst directed vaguely at some suspected target near
Vanheule Farm. We were not troubled again during the rest of our
journey.
Owing to our deliberate pace and the several delays in the front of the
column, most of the tanks had little time to spare, after all. Coutts,
unhampered, pushed on well ahead, and was in St Julien a quarter of
an hour before zero, at which time the rest of us were crossing, or
waiting to cross, the Steenbeek. This stream, when I arrived at it,
presented in the growing light (for dawn was just about to break) so
forbidding a spectacle that I got hurriedly out of the tank to lead
the way across myself. At one time an insignificant trickle of water
a couple of yards wide at the most, but enclosed between banks 6 to 8
feet high, the pounding of our own barrage, followed during the past
three weeks by that of the Germans, had multiplied its difficulties
tenfold. There was little water to be seen now, only a sort of boggy
surface, several yards across, beneath which the fascines laid that
night by the engineers had already disappeared completely under the
weight of the leading tanks. Some of these tanks were now climbing a
perfect precipice of mud on the opposite side, the black nose of one
pointing almost vertically upward against the rapidly brightening sky
in the east. Two, however, out of the seven in front of me, had not got
so far. Close to my left was Willard’s unfortunate machine, apparently
ditched. Behind this was a second tank, which I discovered afterwards
to be Kane’s. He had missed the tape, or attempted to find a crossing
for himself, and was ditched hopelessly in consequence. I had little
time for investigation, however, for I was pounced on immediately
by Guy, who was waiting there to see all the tanks across--a most
unattractive duty, as the German barrage always fell on the stream.
He abused me roundly for being outside, pointed out the way, and then
pushed me in again. The fascines, it appeared, were there, although
invisible, and we crossed the stream and mounted the farther bank
without difficulty. A final climb over the debris of a house, and we
were in the main street of St Julien on the stroke of zero. I did
not even pause there. As we swung left-handed on the brick-littered
_pavé_ and saw the tail of Claughton’s tank, with its large-painted
number, G 44, moving forward a few yards in front, the yellow sky
beyond was dotted suddenly with shrapnel bursts, a dense cloud of white
smoke billowed upward from the far end of the village, and almost
simultaneously there soared above this the red and green rockets from
the startled German forts.
III.
I find that my memory plays me curious tricks on, or after, occasions
of this kind. I gained a distinct impression, for example, that I moved
down a street whose houses, although battered, were for the most part
standing to a considerable height. It appears, however, that there was
nothing standing in St Julien at all. The place was merely a series of
rubbish-heaps. On the other hand, I remember with unnecessary accuracy
certain objects lying amid the reddish brick-rubble and dust which
covered the muddy road--a dead German soldier on his face, two of our
own infantrymen, also dead (and not recently, to judge by appearances),
a neat roll of wire-netting, half an iron bedstead, a decapitated
mule, and, several yards distant, the mule’s head. I do not know why I
should have noted these particular items among the assorted domestic,
military, and human debris which littered the street. St Julien had
been systematically destroyed only within the last few weeks. Before
that, being hidden from direct observation (unlike St Jean, its
equivalent on our side), probably it was in fair preservation and in
use for billeting troops on their way into or out of the line. I have
an idea that there were a number of fragmentary articles of furniture
lying about, perhaps dragged from the cellars to make hasty obstacles
during the recent fighting in the place. It is curious how often such
trumpery things survive the effects of a bombardment. You will see a
house dissolved into its elements, and, amid the wreckage, some old
bird-cage or an almost perfect chair.
The dawn seemed to have broken into full day with startling rapidity.
The morning was bright and cloudless, and one other feature I somehow
found time to notice and even to enjoy--the extreme brilliance of the
yellow-green sky, streaked with green and crimson rockets, above the
cloud of the smoke barrage in front. The smoke, however, was rising
fast and drifting back down the street. A smoke-shell, falling short,
burst in front of the tank, blinding us so completely that we nearly
ran into Claughton’s machine; and from that moment until I was in St
Julien again on my way home I was never able to see more than a few
hundred yards in any direction. There was no wind, and the smoke lay
heavily in the best way possible for our purpose.
Through the village the going for tanks was good, as the greasy road
was coated with brick-rubble and there were no pitfalls on either side.
But once beyond the last ruins our troubles began. The Poelcapelle
road is, or was, a characteristic, straight, continental highway,
rising very gently uphill from St Julien, lined by fine trees, provided
with a deep ditch on both sides, and paved in the middle. It had been
shelled now very heavily for over a month by one army or the other, or
both at once; and its condition was this. The central strip of _pavé_
had withstood the shell-fire moderately well, but was badly broken in
places by jagged holes. It was covered by a thick greasy scum, and as
it was cambered, careful driving was needed if one wished to avoid
slipping off. And to avoid this was essential, for the macadamised
portions on either side had, for all practical purposes, vanished. They
were blown away and merged in the ditches, forming deep gulfs a yard
or two wide, out of which the stouter _pavé_ stood up like a causeway.
Of the double line of trees, half were down, and a large proportion of
these victims lay across the road at all angles. Beyond the trees the
country was quite impassable for tanks, and on the east side of the
road, where my objective lay, was simply a swamp. A small tributary
of the Steenbeek rose near my gun-pits, and since its bed had been
destroyed by the shelling, its waters had welled up and spread over a
wide area of ground from St Julien to Triangle Farm. This inundation
was shown clearly on aeroplane photographs, and it put out of the
question any attempt on my part, had I wished to make one, to leave the
road. My only course of action was to remain on the _pavé_ and engage
the strong-point across the intervening 150 yards of quagmire.
We had to get there first, however, and this was a delicate matter.
As we emerged from the village I saw Claughton’s tank, 50 yards
ahead, surmounting the first fallen tree. A big tree is an unpleasant
impediment to a tank, as it is impossible to balance on the rounded
trunk, and one comes down inevitably on the other side with a jarring
crash. On the Poelcapelle road these trees became a dangerous obstacle,
because in crashing down over them, with the nose of the tank falling
from a great height and the whole thing entirely out of the driver’s
control, the machine was very likely to slip straight off the greasy
_pavé_, which was none too wide, into one of the gulfs on either side.
(This happened eventually, I believe, to Morgan’s tank when he was
trying to draw closer to Triangle Farm.) There also was a danger of
breaking a track-plate on the stones. The angle at which the trees
could best be taken, lying as they did in all directions, required to
be judged, and when this was done they might move suddenly under the
tracks and precipitate a crash at the wrong moment. Negligible, in
short, as they would have been on a good road, in the circumstances
they caused us all a great deal of anxiety. Everything depended on the
drivers; and the fact that all seven tanks reached at least the close
vicinity of their objectives was a distinct feather in the cap of
every one of these admirable men. Waller drove G 47 over a succession
of trees without a semblance of trouble. Everything loose inside, of
course, including the crew, fell helplessly about each time we crashed;
but this was a part of the ordinary day’s work. The pigeons, as I
have remarked before, bore this repeated experience, which must have
seemed to them like a series of earthquakes, with as much equanimity as
anybody, although their basket usually was dislodged and upset.
All this time I was peering out for some sign of my gun-pits. The
smoke was still very dense, and visibility a matter of a couple of
hundred yards. G 44 sometimes faded to a mere blur in front. The
first recognisable feature I saw was a wide sheet of water to the
right of the road, which I took correctly to mark the actual course
of the flooded stream. Immediately after, my right-hand pair of
gunners, Sergeant Meyrick and Carter, opened fire. It appeared that
they had sighted not only the gun-pits but also some figures moving
out from them carrying a machine-gun. I could still see nothing from
the flap in front, but on craning over Waller’s head and opening a
revolver loophole on that side of the cab, I discovered at once a row
of high mounds, looking enormous through the smoke, about 150 yards
from the road. It had been obvious from an inspection of aeroplane
photographs that these pits had been constructed for heavy guns, but
I had not expected to find them so conspicuous. Further investigation
was curtailed rather summarily by a rapid “tat-tat-tat-tat” upon
the side of the cab, indicating two things: (_a_) that some one in
or near the gun-pits was firing at us with a machine-gun; and (_b_)
that if he could see, and was aiming at, my revolver loophole, he was
making remarkably good shooting, and must be blessed with far better
eyesight than I could claim. It is true that by this time the German
machine-gunner knew all about tanks, while we must have presented a
fairly clear-cut target. I closed the loophole instantly, and telling
Waller to hold G 47 in her present position, broadside on to the
strong-point, proceeded to fish about in the locker for our periscopes.
It is impossible to see anything on a flank through the front flaps,
nor, if one can use them, is it advisable to do so under machine-gun
fire. We carried six periscopes, drawn in a hurry from store before
we left camp. It was only when I had pushed all six through the hole
in the roof, and had failed utterly to see anything through any one of
them, that I remembered that we had lashed our camouflage net on top of
the cab. Normally the net is carried on the spud-box in the rear, but
it is then very apt to be shaken on to the red-hot exhaust-pipe, when
it catches fire. I had a horror of fires on a tank, and was determined
on this occasion to put the net in some safer place, forgetting that I
might want to use the periscopes.
During this time Meyrick and Carter had continued to fire busily, and
there was a periodic clatter of emptied Lewis drums on the floor. The
tattoo on the cab having ceased, I resorted again to the revolver port.
There was not a sign of life about the gun-pits, but so long as the
smoke continued to hang over the ground they might have concealed a
battalion of infantry for all we could see. My gunners, in addition to
claiming the destruction of the party seen to run out in the beginning,
asserted that their fire was hotly returned; and the lead splashes on G
47’s exposed flank proved that there was some truth in this contention;
but my belief is that the garrison of the pits abandoned them after the
first few minutes--a fact which, if true, in no sense detracts from
the spirit and general excellence of our performance. And as we had no
means of telling what had happened, we could only continue firing until
the situation (and the light) became clearer. After a while I moved the
tank a short distance up the road, with the slight hope that I might
find a patch of ground firm enough to justify our attempting to get to
closer quarters; but between us and the enigmatic gun-pits the swamp
lay everywhere.
In all, this curious duel lasted for about a quarter of an hour.
While it proceeded I could see Claughton’s tank, a little way ahead,
motionless alongside the ruins of Hillock Farm, which abutted on to
the road. His guns appeared to be firing point-blank through what was
left of the windows. Beyond him was nothing but smoke, in which the
leading tanks were swallowed up. While I watched G 44, and while my
own two guns were still in theory dealing out death and destruction
to the gun-pits, I saw Claughton’s shovel, that grotesque symbol,
waved triumphantly out of his manhole. Hillock Farm, presumably, had
fallen. Out of my left-hand loophole an extended line of infantry was
visible crawling forward with extreme care through the mud beside the
road--evidently Claughton’s supporting platoon moving up to take over
the farm. And very shortly after this, welcome portents became manifest
about my gun-pits. A great plume of smoke and mud shot suddenly upward
beside them, and then a second plume, and a third. Others followed,
appearing in some cases to rise out of the mounds themselves. The
Germans were shelling their lost property (and with remarkable
accuracy, as it must still have been invisible to the gunners), a
fact which could be taken as evidence that it definitely was lost,
for if any of the garrison remained there, they would not give much
trouble while they were being bombarded by their friends. I indicated
the “cease fire” by the usual method of thumping my nearest gunner on
the back, and then clamoured loudly for the shovel. The Germans were
only shelling the pits at the moment, but there was no knowing in what
direction they might not extend their activities; and as the smoke
cloud was thinning palpably, I did not wish to remain stationary on the
road longer than was necessary. I had a rooted dislike to stationary
tanks in action.
We waved our shovel and peered out of every opening for signs of our
following infantry. Failing to detect them, I told Waller to swing the
tank round, in order that I could get a better view backward, and also
be in a position to start for home. Although I had definite orders to
return the moment my objective was secured, I had thought of pushing
on to help Coutts in his single-handed attempt on the Cockcroft, but a
glance at the _pavé_ negatived this idea. It was too narrow to permit
of my passing Claughton’s tank, now also in the act of swinging
round. For the same reason, Chaddock, who had a roving commission,
and who wished to go on to Coutts’s help, could not pass G 47. There
was nothing for it, therefore, but to return as soon as the infantry
were in the gun-pits. The business of swinging on the narrow greasy
camber of the _pavé_ was not easy, but Waller accomplished it with his
usual skill, and I found myself presently facing Chaddock’s tank and
waving to him out of my flap. He was about twenty yards behind me, and
his guns also had been firing at the gun-pits. A line of infantry was
now visible close at hand, the men crouching in a sort of drain which
ran outward from the road. I beckoned to the nearest man, who was
kneeling behind a fragment of wall by the roadside, and on his running
cautiously to the front of the tank I learnt that these people were the
second wave of my supports. The leading platoon had moved on to the
gun-pits. Our work, therefore, was done. Chaddock, in his turn, was
edging carefully round on the _pavé_ to start for home; Claughton was
close astern of me; and in a few minutes the three tanks were making
for St Julien again at their best speed. None of us knew what had
happened to the other four in front.
The time was 5.45, the sun was up, the smoke and dust about the village
had vanished away, and as we crashed once more over the fallen trees,
I could see to the left, between St Julien and Winnipeg, two of 19
Company’s disabled tanks lying where they had been hit on the 31st of
July. At this time, although I did not know it, the German batteries
had at last turned their guns upon the road. Possibly we were now in
sight as we jolted down it. Three or four shells burst clean on the
_pavé_, between G 44 and my own tank, so that Claughton thought we had
been hit, but we heard nothing of this until after. It appears to have
been a narrow escape for both of us. In the street of St Julien we
were able to push on at top speed, until I remembered that I had not
despatched the necessary pigeon-message. We slowed up while I wrote
it, thus letting in Claughton, who passed us at a great pace. I have
in front of me now my copy of Army Book 418 A, containing the carbon
duplicate of that historic document. It is all but illegible. Having
released the bird, we put on speed again and made for the Steenbeek
crossing.
That unpleasant spot appeared less formidable in daylight, but it was
to provide us with a final nerve-wracking incident before we finished
with it. As we mounted the ruined house again and looked down upon
the muddy gulf below, it was congested with tanks. Willard, with his
asphyxiating box of tricks, was still in much the same position as
when I had passed him before zero--hours ago, as it seemed now. He
had contrived, however, to unditch himself partially, and crawl a few
yards forward, so that he almost blocked the narrow crossing. Close
beside him was G 44, clawing its way precariously round. Behind was
Kane’s tank, still in its old place, while Chaddock, who had got across
in safety, was close to Kane. I had begun to descend toward this
congregation before I realised that it was going to be very difficult
to get past Willard. The passage where lay the buried fascines was
only just broad enough to take a tank, and on either side was the
bog which represented the true bed of the Steenbeek. We slid down
the bank rather more rapidly than I intended, and brought up nose to
nose against Willard’s tank. We tried to swing, and failed. We tried
to reverse, and failed again. It was a repetition of our experience
at Kitchener’s Wood. We were sunk too deep in mud to permit of any
movement but a forward one, which was rendered impossible by the tank
in front. External measures were necessary, and I led the way outside.
It was then that I discovered that the village behind us, and also the
Steenbeek itself, were being shelled heavily. We had stopped, in fact,
on the line of the German counter-barrage, which fell automatically
along the stream, particular attention being paid to the neighbourhood
of St Julien. This was an unfortunate circumstance, and I do not
think any of us can ever have worked harder, or more apprehensively,
than we did in the course of the next twenty minutes. Chaddock and
Claughton by this time had got clear of the imbroglio, although the
former, deciding for some reason not to return to the road, got himself
ditched hopelessly farther on. Willard and some of his crew appeared
from his tank and asked for assistance in starting up the engine.
They all seemed rather dazed and helpless, from the poisonous exhaust
fumes, as I supposed; and finding them still standing about in the
open after I had sent two of my men to help, I pointed out to Willard
that they would be very much safer inside, fumes or no fumes. Heavy
shells were exploding about us much closer and more frequently than was
pleasant, and fragments flew whining overhead continually. Twice we
were deluged with brick-rubble from the remains of a house on the bank
above. Presently Deakin was hit in the back by a flying piece of brick,
which knocked him down; but as it struck a buckle of his equipment, it
did him no harm. All this time we were labouring feverishly, digging
away the mud piled against one side of the tank, as it prevented her
swinging, collecting bits of timber, boughs of trees, bricks, and
other rubbish, to form a holding-surface beneath her, clamping on the
unditching beam, and removing the camouflage net from the cab, where
it interfered with the beam’s action. These varied pursuits took up a
considerable amount of time, as any one who has engaged in them will
believe, and we were interrupted periodically and impelled to shelter
against the tank by the sudden rush and explosion of some more imminent
shell. Altogether, this job must have taken us nearly half an hour,
for a premature attempt to swing G 47 failed, and we had to back her
again and continue our work. At length we had prepared what seemed an
adequate base for her manœuvre, and I pushed most of the crew inside
again and beckoned to Waller to come on. As the heavy unditching
beam fell over the nose and jammed beneath the tracks against our
rubbish-heap, and the tank climbed over it until she was almost on the
point of balance, I signalled to him to swing. She came round, to my
intense relief, dragging the beam with her, and cleared the nose of
Willard’s machine. All was now plain sailing. Three of us unclamped the
beam as it came up, like Caliban, filthy and dripping, over the tracks
behind, and made it fast; and the tank climbed easily over the mud
slope toward the road. I could do nothing to help Willard or Kane. The
former, indeed, as his engine was running again, could effect his own
salvation now that I was out of the way. I scrambled up the slippery
slope after G 47, and hoisted myself on board as she increased speed on
the level ground between the Steenbeek and the road.
IV.
The remainder of our return journey went without a hitch. No shells
were falling west of St Julien, and we rolled along the deserted
road at a good pace and at peace with all men. We had that sense of
exhilaration (rare in the Tank Corps at Ypres) that follows after the
successful achievement of a task, however small. As we neared the top
of the ridge, Meyrick and I got outside again and looked back over
the valley, but we could see nothing of interest. Our own artillery
was still busy, as was the enemy’s, and a haze of smoke hid all the
farther end of the triangle and the ground beyond. There was no
sign of any of the other tanks. As we passed Cheddar Villa, Kessel
ran out to congratulate us and hear our news. He was without any
detailed information himself, beyond the fact, conveyed by telephone,
that the whole operation had been a remarkable success. He and the
other watchers at Cheddar Villa had seen through their glasses the
German troops abandoning their third-line trenches (which nobody
had approached), and streaming away over the farther crest. A little
later we passed Bellevue, and found it deserted, the two reserve
tanks having been ordered to return. From the battery positions in
this region, gunner officers came out to inquire anxiously about the
efficacy of their smoke barrage. Being able to assure them, from ocular
evidence, that it had been little short of blinding, I became extremely
popular, and was dragged off to the nearest dug-out for a very welcome
whisky-and-soda.
Farther down, in Buffs Road, we met with one or two delays. Traffic
was on the move here, and my radiator started to boil again. Somewhere
about this time we came across Chaddock, carrying a Lewis gun and
helping one of his crew, who had been hit by a shrapnel bullet in
the leg. His tank, it appeared, was ditched near Juliet Farm. I took
the wounded man and the gun on board, and deposited the former at a
dressing station lower down the road. Owing to these and other brief
stoppages, it must have been nearly 10.30 when we drew near to the
canal. I halted the tank by Marengo Causeway while I went to report at
Gordon Terrace. At our headquarters I found the Colonel and Adjutant
with the Major, all in a very Christian frame of mind and full of
felicitations, messages having arrived from both infantry and tanks
reporting the capture of all objectives at a ridiculously low cost. The
infantry casualties, up to the date of the last message, totalled a
dozen wounded. I was beginning to realise by now that between us we had
accomplished something rather exceptional that morning. It transpired,
however, that our four leading tanks were ditched, and no further news
had come through as to the fortunes or whereabouts of their people.
I was told to proceed with G 47 to Murat Farm, where a fresh crew would
take over the tank. I rejoined the latter, and we began the last stage
of our journey. All my men were thoroughly exhausted, and Waller in
particular, as he had been driving for seven or eight hours. But in
view of my experiences during the latter part of our homeward trek
from St Julien, where my second and third drivers had been in charge
alternately, I felt obliged to ask him to complete the run. (It was a
misfortune that at Ypres there were no facilities for driving practice
for second and third drivers. Tanks hardly moved except when going
into action. The first drivers usually were highly skilled men, but
between them and the others there often was a great gulf fixed, which
we had no opportunity of reducing by a little regular training.) I
took the brakes, and with poor Waller almost falling asleep in his
seat, we crossed the causeway and parked up eventually under a hedge
at Murat Farm just after midday. One minor _contretemps_ rounded off
the performance. We proceeded as a matter of routine to camouflage the
tank. The little canvas tags sewn profusely over a camouflage net are
dyed in some highly inflammable green paint, the cause of innumerable
fires. Our engine having been running continually for twelve hours, the
whole machine was like an oven, and the exhaust-pipe on the roof all
but red-hot; and the net instantly caught alight. We had to use every
pyrene extinguisher we carried to keep the flames under before we had
pushed the last smouldering fragments over the side. I was standing
on the roof stamping out a few stray embers and blaspheming about war
in general to Allerton, of 20 Company, who had just appeared, when my
nerves received a final shock. The 9.2 naval gun on the other side of
the hedge, whose existence I had forgotten, fired with a frightful
detonation and nearly threw me off the tank.
Our tribulations were now, however, at an end. It is true that I missed
the lorry which took my crew back to Lovie; but after waiting for
some time at Essex Corner, on the main road beside the canal, for any
vehicle which would take me on my way, I was picked up by Major Fernie
in his car and arrived at the camp, fast asleep, at tea-time.
V.
Leaving for the next chapter a consideration of the causes which gave
to the Cockcroft operation a significance out of all proportion to its
scope, I will describe briefly the general result and the fortunes of
the other tanks. The accounts hitherto published are inaccurate.
Coutts, who gave the “star turn” of the performance, was reduced as
we have seen to tackling the Cockcroft itself single-handed with a
female tank. This fort was an extremely powerful and massive affair
of concrete, erected in the ruins of some farm buildings. It held a
garrison of something like 100 men, with a number of machine-guns,
and was further protected by wire and outlying posts. The concrete of
the walls and roof would keep out any projectile below a 9.2 howitzer
shell, being in places eight feet thick. A formidable stronghold
of this nature bears as little resemblance to the ordinary light
“pill-box,” containing half a dozen men, as does a first-class fortress
to a semi-permanent redoubt, and if held by a determined garrison in
combination with similar forts, could check a large force indefinitely,
as indeed the Cockcroft and its fellows had conclusively demonstrated.
A 6-pounder tank, provided it could place itself against the weak rear
face of such a fort, might compel its surrender; but a female tank,
moral effect apart, was in fact as helpless against it as a platoon of
infantry, although less vulnerable itself. Nevertheless, when Coutts,
by leaving the road, managed to get within 50 yards of the Cockcroft
before becoming ditched, the large garrison abandoned it after a brief
defence. As an instance of a tank’s moral effect this was the more
remarkable in that the infantry of the 33rd Brigade, confirming all the
tank commander’s previous misgivings, failed signally in their duty
of supporting him. No attention was paid to his signals announcing
the evacuation of the fort. His sergeant was sent with a message to
the same effect, but still the infantry did not come on. Eventually
Coutts himself went back under machine-gun fire and through the German
barrage, found the officer commanding the supporting battalion, and
urged him to send his men forward: after which a move was at length
made and the Cockcroft occupied, with no more than two or three light
casualties. Coutts and his crew, after failing to extricate the tank,
formed Lewis-gun posts at the request of the infantry, and only
returned in the late afternoon.
The Maison du Hibou was scarcely less formidable than the Cockcroft,
and consisted of two storeys of solid concrete, garrisoned by about
sixty men. It was attacked by Charles Baker with the only remaining
6-pounder tank. The fort stood some way off the road, in the middle of
a perfect morass; but Baker, finding he could effect little from the
_pavé_, plunged into the mud and was able to crawl round to the rear
before, like Coutts, he also became bogged. One 6-pounder, however,
now bore on the entrance of the Maison du Hibou at short range. Thirty
or forty rounds were fired into the door. Most of the garrison came
running out, and thirty were shot down or captured by the infantry of
the 48th Division, who followed up in excellent style. The tank being
immovable, Baker formed Lewis-gun posts with the infantry until the
afternoon. One of his men was killed.
Morgan and Close, engaging Triangle Farm and Vancouver at the
cross-roads in the apex, met with a good deal of trouble. Morgan’s
tank proved to have defective plating, and the German armour-piercing
bullets filled the interior with flying splinters. With his help,
however, the infantry got into Triangle Farm, which was not so
powerfully constructed as some of the other forts, and shot or
bayoneted the garrison, who had been resisting stoutly. Morgan then
attempted to go to Baker’s assistance, but became ditched through
slipping off the greasy road. He was in a position to fire into the
back of the Maison du Hibou, and his Lewis guns accounted for a number
of the escaping garrison of that place. Having unditched his tank
after a while, he returned to St Julien by midday.
Close had a variety of adventures, including that of being taken
prisoner for a time. His tank also was permanently ditched somewhere
near Vancouver, but its influence seems to have been responsible for
the abandonment of the strong-point. Close himself did not appear again
until the next day.
Claughton, whose tank I had watched, had no trouble with Hillock Farm,
whose garrison fled the moment he ranged up alongside and opened fire.
My own experiences with the gun-pits I have already described at
unpardonable length. I may add that my two right-hand guns fired 1200
rounds between them, but I never heard evidence as to what damage, if
any, they effected.
All the four leading tanks came under excessively heavy machine-gun
fire from posts outside the strong-points. Morgan’s machine, which
was the only one we had the opportunity of examining, had large areas
of its armour plastered a whitish-grey with lead splashes, and the
armour-piercing bullets were driven almost through the defective
plates. He and his crew suffered a number of tiny wounds in their faces
and hands from steel splinters. These counted as casualties, and made
up more than half of our very trifling list, which totalled two men
killed and one officer and ten men wounded. The infantry casualties,
however, were even more remarkable for their insignificance. The two
Warwick battalions (of the 48th Division) which were working with every
tank except Coutts’s, followed up in an admirable manner throughout;
yet the whole operation, in which the equivalent of a brigade took
part, which resulted in the capture within ninety minutes of six
formidable strong-points and a gain of 600 yards of ground on a mile
front, and in which the enemy must have lost several hundred men
killed, wounded, and prisoners, together with some fifty machine-guns,
was carried out at a cost to the infantry engaged of fifteen men
wounded!