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LIFE IN A TANK
[Illustration: A TANK ON ITS WAY INTO ACTION]
LIFE IN A TANK
_By_
RICHARD HAIGH, M.C.
CAPTAIN IN THE TANK CORPS
_With Illustrations_
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY RICHARD HAIGH
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published June 1918_
Contents
I. The Meaning of the Tank Corps 1
II. First Days of Training 11
III. Later Days of Training 37
IV. Moving up the Line 49
V. Preparations for the Show 61
VI. The First Battle 76
VII. The Second Battle 90
VIII. Rest and Discipline 120
IX. A Philosophy of War 128
Illustrations
A Tank on its Way into Action _Frontispiece_
British Official Photograph
King George and Queen Mary inspecting a Tank on the British
Front in France 8
British Official Photograph
A British Tank and its Crew in New York 20
Photograph by Underwood & Underwood
A Tank moving to the Attack down what was once a Main Street 56
British Official Photograph
A Tank going over a Trench on its Way into Action 72
British Official Photograph
A Tank halfway over the Top and awaiting the Order to
Advance in the Battle of Menin Road 80
Photograph by Underwood & Underwood
A Tank bringing in a Captured German Gun under Protection
of Camouflage 112
Photograph by Underwood & Underwood
A British Tank in the Liberty Loan Parade in New York 124
Photograph by Underwood & Underwood
LIFE IN A TANK
I
THE MEANING OF THE TANK CORPS
TANKS!
To the uninitiated--as were we in those days when we returned to the
Somme, too late to see the tanks make their first dramatic
entrance--the name conjures up a picture of an iron monster, breathing
fire and exhaling bullets and shells, hurling itself against the
enemy, unassailable by man and impervious to the most deadly engines
of war; sublime, indeed, in its expression of indomitable power and
resolution.
This picture was one of the two factors which attracted us toward the
Heavy Branch Machine-Gun Corps--as the Tank Corps was known in the
first year of its being. On the Somme we had seen a derelict tank,
wrecked, despoiled of her guns, and forsaken in No Man's Land. We had
swarmed around and over her, wild with curiosity, much as the
Lilliputians must have swarmed around the prostrate Gulliver. Our
imagination was fired.
The second factor was, frankly, that we were tired of going over the
top as infantrymen. The first time that a man goes into an attack, he
as a rule enjoys it. He has no conception of its horrors,--no, not
horrors, for war possesses no horrors,--but, rather, he has no
knowledge of the sudden realization of the sweetness of life that
comes to a man when he is "up against it." The first time, it is a
splendid, ennobling novelty. And as for the "show" itself, in actual
practice it is more like a dream which only clarifies several days
later, after it is all over. But to do the same thing a second and
third and fourth time, is to bring a man face to face with Death in
its fullest and most realistic uncertainty. In soldier jargon he "gets
most awful wind up." It is five minutes before "Zero Hour." All
preparations are complete. You are waiting for the signal to hop over
the parapet. Very probably the Boche knows that you are coming, and
is already skimming the sandbags with his machine guns and knocking
little pieces of earth and stone into your face. Extraordinary, how
maddening is the sting of these harmless little pebbles and bits of
dirt! The bullets ricochet away with a peculiar singing hiss, or crack
overhead when they go too high. The shells which burst on the other
side of the parapet shake the ground with a dull thud and crash. There
are two minutes to wait before going over. Then is the time when a man
feels a sinking sensation in his stomach; when his hands tremble ever
so slightly, and when he offers up a pathetic little prayer to God
that if he's a bit of a sportsman he may be spared from death, should
his getting through not violate the divine and fatalistic plans. He
has that unpleasant lack of knowledge of what comes beyond. For after
all, with the most intense belief in the world, it is hard to
reconcile the comforting feeling of what one knows with that terrible
dread of the unknown.
A man has no great and glorious ideas that nothing matters because he
is ready to die for his country. He is, of course, ready to die for
her. But he does not think about it. He lights a cigarette and tries
to be nonchalant, for he knows that his men are watching him, and it
is his duty to keep up a front for their sake. Probably, at the same
time, they are keeping up a front for him. Then the Sergeant Major
comes along, cool and smiling, as if he were out for a stroll at home.
Suddenly he is an immense comfort. One forgets that sinking feeling in
the stomach and thinks, "How easy and jolly he is! What a splendid
fellow!" Immediately, one begins unconsciously to imitate him. Then
another thinks the same thing about one, and begins to imitate too. So
it passes on, down the line. But there is nothing heroic or exalting
in going over the top.
This, then, was our possible second reason for preferring to attack
inside bullet-proof steel; not that death is less likely in a tank,
but there seems to be a more sporting chance with a shell than with a
bullet. The enemy infantryman looks along his sight and he has you for
a certainty, but the gunner cannot be so accurate and twenty yards
may mean a world of difference. Above all, the new monster had our
imaginations in thrall. Here were novelty and wonderful developments.
In the end of 1916, therefore, a certain number of officers and men
received their orders to join the H.B.M.G.C., and proceeded
sorrowfully and joyfully away from the trenches. Sorrowfully, because
it is a poor thing to leave your men and your friends in danger, and
get out of it yourself into something new and fresh; joyfully, because
one is, after all, but human.
About thirty miles behind the line some villages were set aside for
the housing and training of the new units. Each unit had a nucleus of
men who had already served in tanks, with the new arrivals spread
around to make up to strength.
The new arrivals came from all branches of the Service; Infantry,
Sappers, Gunners, Cavalry, and the Army Service Corps. Each man was
very proud of his own Branch; and a wonderfully healthy rivalry and
affection sprang up between them. The gunner twitted the sapper, the
cavalryman made jokes at the A.S.C., and the infantryman groused at
the whole lot. But all knew at the bottom of their hearts, how each is
essential to the other.
It was to be expected when all these varied men came together, that
the inculcating of a proper _esprit de corps_--the training of each
individual in an entirely new science for the benefit of the
whole--would prove a very difficult and painstaking task. But the
wonderful development, however, in a few months, of a large,
heterogeneous collection of men into a solid, keen, self-sacrificing
unit, was but another instance of the way in which war improves the
character and temperament of man.
It was entirely new for men who were formerly in a regiment, full of
traditions, to find themselves in the Tank Corps. Here was a Corps,
the functions of which resulted from an idea born of the exigencies of
this science-demanding war. Unlike every other branch of the Service,
it has no regimental history to direct it, no traditions upon which to
build, and still more important from a practical point of view, no
experience from which to draw for guidance, either in training or in
action. In the Infantry, the attack has resulted from a steady
development in ideas and tactics, with past wars to give a foundation
and this present one to suggest changes and to bring about remedies
for the defects which crop up daily. With this new weapon, which was
launched on the Somme on September 15, 1916, the tactics had to be
decided upon with no realistic experimentation as ground work; and,
moreover, with the very difficult task of working in concert with
other arms of the Service that had had two years of fighting, from
which to learn wisdom.
With regard to discipline, too,--of all things the most important, for
the success of a battle has depended, does, and always will depend,
upon the state of discipline of the troops engaged,--all old regiments
have their staff of regular instructors to drill and teach recruits.
In them has grown up that certain feeling and loyalty which time and
past deeds have done so much to foster and cherish. Here were we,
lacking traditions, history, and experience of any kind.
It is easy to realize the responsibility that lay not only upon the
Chief of this new Corps, but upon each individual and lowest member
thereof. It was for us all to produce _esprit de corps_, and to
produce it quickly. It was necessary for us to develop a love of the
work, not because we felt it was worth while, but because we knew that
success or failure depended on each man's individual efforts.
But, naturally, the real impetus came from the top, and no admiration
or praise can be worthy of that small number of men in whose hands the
real destinies of this new formation lay; who were continually
devising new schemes and ideas for binding the whole together, and for
turning that whole into a highly efficient, up-to-date machine.
[Illustration: KING GEORGE AND QUEEN MARY INSPECTING A TANK ON
THE BRITISH FRONT IN FRANCE]
"How did the tank happen to be invented?" is a common question. The
answer is that in past wars experience has made it an axiom that the
defenders suffer more casualties than the attacking forces. From the
first days of 1914, however, this condition was reversed, and whole
waves of attacking troops were mown down by two or three machine guns,
each manned, possibly, by not more than three men. There may be in a
certain sector, before an attack, an enormous preliminary bombardment
which is destined to knock out guns, observation posts, dumps, men,
and above all, machine-gun emplacements. Nevertheless, it has been
found in actual practice that despite the most careful observation and
equally careful study of aeroplane photographs, there are, as a rule,
just one or two machine guns which, either through bad luck or through
precautions on the part of the enemy, have escaped destruction. These
are the guns which inflict the damage when the infantrymen go over and
which may hold up a whole attack.
It was thought, therefore, that a machine might be devised which would
cross shell-craters, wire and trenches, and be at the same time
impervious to bullets, and which would contain a certain number of
guns to be used for knocking out such machine guns as were still in
use, or to lay low the enemy infantry. With this idea, a group of men,
in the end of 1915, devised the present type of heavy armoured car. In
order to keep the whole plan as secret as possible, about twenty-five
square miles of ground in Great Britain were set aside and surrounded
with armed guards. There, through all the spring and early summer of
1916, the work was carried on, without the slightest hint of its
existence reaching the outside world. Then, one night, the tanks were
loaded up and shipped over to France, to make that first sensational
appearance on the Somme, with the success which warranted their
further production on a larger and more ambitious scale.
II
FIRST DAYS OF TRAINING
We were at a rest camp on the Somme when the chit first came round
regarding the joining of the H.B.M.G.C. The Colonel came up to us one
day with some papers in his hand.
"Does anybody want to join this?" he asked.
We all crowded around to find out what "this" might be.
"Tanks!" some one cried. Some were facetious; others indifferent; a
few mildly interested. But no one seemed very keen about it,
especially as the tanks in those days had a reputation for rather
heavy casualties. Only Talbot, remembering the derelict and the
interest she had inspired, said, with a laugh,--
"I rather think I'll put my name down, sir. Nothing will come of it,
but one might just as well try." And taking one of the papers he
filled it in, while the others stood around making all the remarks
appropriate to such an occasion.
Two or three weeks went by and Talbot had forgotten all about it, in
the more absorbing events which crowded months into days on the Somme.
One day the Adjutant came up to him and, smiling, put out his hand.
"Well, good-bye, Talbot. Good luck."
When a man puts out his hand and says "Good-bye," you naturally take
the proffered hand and say "Good-bye," too. Talbot found himself
saying "Good-bye" before he realized what he was doing. Then he
laughed.
"Now that I've said 'Good-bye,' where am I going?" he asked.
"To the Tanks," the Adjutant replied.
So he was really to go; really to leave behind his battalion, his
friends, his men, and his servant. For a moment the Somme and the camp
seemed the most desirable places on earth. He thought he must have
been a fool the day he signed that paper signifying his desire to join
another Corps. But it was done now. There were his orders in the
Colonel's hand.
"When do I start, sir? And where do I go?" he asked.
"You're to leave immediately for B----, wherever that is. Take your
horse as far as the railhead and get a train for B----, where the Tank
Headquarters are. Good-bye, Talbot; I'm sorry to lose you." A silent
handshake, and they parted.
Talbot's kit was packed and sent off on the transport. A few minutes
later he was shaking hands all round. His spirits were rising at the
thought of this new adventure, but it was a wrench, leaving his
regiment. It was, in a way, he thought, as if he were turning his back
on an old friend. The face of Dobbin, his groom, as he brought the
horses round was not conducive to cheer. He must get the business over
and be off. So he mounted and rode off through a gray, murky drizzle,
to the railhead about eight miles away. There came the parting with
Dobbin and with his pony. Horses mean as much as men sometimes, and
his had worked so nobly with him through the mud on the Somme. He
wondered if there would be any one in the new place who would be so
faithful to him as Polly. Finally, there was Dobbin riding away, back
to M----, with the horse, and its empty saddle, trotting along beside
him. It was simply rotten leaving them all!
One has, however, little time for introspection in the Army, and
especially when one engages in a tilt with an R.T.O. The R.T.O. has
been glorified by an imaginative soul with the title of "Royal
Transportation Officer." As a matter of fact, the "R" does not stand
for "royal," but for "railway," and the "T" is "transport," nothing so
grandiose as "transportation." Now an R.T.O.'s job, though it may be a
safe one, is not enviable. He is forced to combine the qualities of
booking-clerk, station-master, goods-agent, information clerk, and day
and night watchman all into one. In consequence of this it is
necessary for the traveller's speech and attitude to be strictly
soothing and complimentary. Talbot's obsession at this moment was as
to whether B---- was near or far back from the line.
If he supposed that B---- was "near" the line, the R.T.O. might tell
him--just to prove how kind Fate is--that it was a good many miles in
the rear. But no such luck. The R.T.O. coldly informed Talbot that he
hadn't the slightest idea where B---- was. He only knew that trains
went there. And, by the way, the trains didn't go there direct. It
would be necessary for him to change at Boulogne. Talbot noticed these
signs of thawing with delight. And to change at Boulogne! Life was
brighter.
Travelling in France in the northern area, at the present time, would
seem to be a refutation of the truth that a straight line is the
shortest distance between two points. For in order to arrive at one's
destination, it is usually necessary to go about sixty miles out of
one's way,--hence the necessity for Talbot's going to Boulogne in
order to get a train running north.
He arrived at Boulogne only to find that the train for B---- left in
an hour.
He strolled out into the streets. Boulogne had then become the Mecca
for all those in search of gaiety. Here were civilized people once
again. And a restaurant with linen and silver and shining glass, and
the best dinner he had ever eaten.
When he had paid his bill and gone out, he stopped at the corner of
the street just to look at the people passing by. A large part of the
monotony of this war is occasioned, of course, by the fact that the
soldier sees nothing but the everlasting drab of uniforms. When a man
is in the front line, or just behind, for weeks at a time he sees
nothing but soldiers, soldiers, soldiers! Each man has the same
coloured uniform; each has the same pattern tunic, the same puttees.
Each is covered with the same mud for days at a time. It is the
occasion for a thrill when a "Brass Hat" arrives, for he at least has
the little brilliant red tabs on his tunic! A man sometimes finds
himself envying the soldiers of the old days who could have occasional
glimpses of the dashing uniforms of their officers, and although a red
coat makes a target of a man, the colour is at least more cheerful
than the eternal khaki. The old-time soldier had his red coat and his
bands, blaring encouragingly. The soldier of to-day has his drab and
no music at all, unless he sings. And every man in an army is not
gifted with a voice.
So Talbot looked with joy on the charming dresses and still more
charming faces of the women and girls who passed him. Even the men in
their civilian clothes were good to look upon.
Riding on French trains is very soothing unless one is in a hurry. But
unlike a man in civil life, the soldier has no interest in the speed
of trains. The civilian takes it as a personal affront if his train is
a few minutes late, or if it does not go as fast as he thinks it
should. But the soldier can afford to let the Government look after
such minor details. The train moved along at a leisurely pace through
the lovely French countryside, making frequent friendly stops at
wayside stations. On the platform at Étaples station was posted a
rhyme which read:--
"A wise old owl lived in an oak,
The more he saw, the less he spoke;
The less he spoke, the more he heard;
Soldiers should imitate that old bird."
It was the first time that Talbot had seen this warlike ditty. Its
intention was to guard soldiers from saying too much in front of
strangers. Talbot vowed, however, to apply its moral to himself at all
times and under all conditions.
From nine in the morning until half-past two in the afternoon they
rolled along, and had covered by this time the extraordinary distance
of about forty miles! Here at last was the station of Saint-P----.
Talbot looked about him. Standing near was an officer with the
Machine-Gun Corps Badge, whom he hailed, and questioned about the
Headquarters of the Tank Corps.
"About ten miles from here. Are you going there?" the fellow asked.
Talbot explained that he hoped to, and being saturated with Infantry
ideas, he wondered if a passing motor lorry might give him a lift.
The man laughed. "Why don't you telephone Headquarters and ask them to
send a car over for you?" he asked.
Talbot did not quite know whether the fellow were ragging him or not.
He decided that he was, for who had ever heard of "telephoning for a
car"?
"Oh, I don't believe I'll do that--thanks very much for the hint, all
the same," he said. "Just tell me which road to take and I'll be quite
all right."
The officer smiled.
"I'm quite serious about it," he said. "We all telephone for cars when
we need them. There's really no point in your walking--in fact,
they'll be surprised if you stroll in upon them. Try telephoning and
you'll find they won't die of shock."
Partly to see whether they would or not, and partly because he found
the prospect of a motor car more agreeable than a ten-mile walk,
Talbot telephoned. Here he experienced another pleasant surprise, for
he was put through to Headquarters with no difficulty at all. A
cheerful voice answered and he stated his case.
"Cheero," the voice replied. "We'll have a car there for you in an
hour--haven't one now, but there will be one ready shortly."
Saint-P---- was a typical French town, and Talbot strolled around.
There were soldiers everywhere, but the town had never seen the
Germans, and it was a pleasant place. There was, too, a refreshing
lack of thick mud--at least it was not a foot deep.
Although Talbot could not quite believe that the car would
materialize, it proved to be a substantial fact in the form of a
box-body, and in about an hour he was speeding toward Headquarters. It
was dark when they reached the village, and as they entered, he
experienced that curious feeling of apprehensive expectancy with which
one approaches the spot where one is to live and work for some time to
come. The car slowed up to pass some carts on the road, and started
forward with such a jerk that Talbot was precipitated from the back of
the machine into the road. He picked himself up, covered with mud. The
solemn face of the driver did not lessen his discomfiture. Here was a
strange village, strange men, and he was covered with mud!
[Illustration: _Copyright by Underwood & Underwood, N.Y._
A BRITISH TANK AND ITS CREW IN NEW YORK]
Making himself as presentable as possible, Talbot reported to
Headquarters, and was posted to "J" Company, 4th Battalion. That night
he had dinner with them. New men were arriving every few minutes, and
the next day, after he had been transferred to "K" Company, they
continued to arrive. The nucleus of this company were officers of the
original tanks, three or four of them perhaps, and the rest was made
up with the newcomers.
Men continued to arrive in driblets, from the beginning of December to
the first of January. When a new man joins an old regiment there is a
reserve about the others which is rather chilling. They wait to see
whether he is going to fit in, before they make any attempts to fit
him in. In a way, this very aloofness makes for comfort on the part of
the newcomer. At mess, he is left alone until he is absorbed
naturally. It gives him a chance to find his level.
All this was different with the Tank Corps. With the exception of the
very few officers who were "old men," we were all painfully new, so
that we regarded one another without criticism and came to know each
other without having to break through the wall of reserve and
instinctive mistrust which is characteristically British. A happy bond
of good-fellowship was formed immediately.
The first few days were spent in finding billets for the men. They
were finally quartered at a hospice in the village. This was a private
almshouse, in charge of a group of French nuns, where lived a number
of old men and women, most of them in the last stages of consumption.
The Hospice consisted of the old Abbey of Ste. Berthe, built in the
twelfth century, and several outbuildings around a courtyard. In these
barns lived the men, and one large room was reserved for the officers'
mess. The Company Orderly Room and Quartermaster's Stores were also
kept in the Hospice, and four or five officers were quartered above
the Refectory. The buildings were clean and comfortable, and the only
drawback lay in the fact that one sometimes found it objectionable to
have to look at these poor old creatures, dragging themselves around.
They had nothing to do, it seemed, but to wait and die. One old man
was a gruesome sight. He was about ninety years old and spent his days
walking about the courtyard, wearing a cigarette tin hung around his
neck, into which he used to cough with such terrible effort that it
seemed as if he would die every time the spasm shook him. As a matter
of fact, he and many others did die before we left the village: the
extreme cold was too much for them; or perhaps it was the fact that
their quiet had been invaded by the "mad English."
It was during this time that Talbot developed a positive genius for
disappearing whenever a gray habit came into sight. The nuns were
splendid women: kind and hospitable and eager for our comfort, but
they did not like to be imposed upon, however slightly. The first
thing that Frenchwomen do--and these nuns were no exception--when
soldiers are billeted with them, is to learn who is the officer in
charge, in order that they may lose no time in bringing their
complaints to him. The Mother Superior of the Hospice selected Talbot
with unerring zeal. His days were made miserable, until in
self-defence he thought of formulating a new calendar of "crimes" for
his men, in which would be included all the terrible offences which
the Mother Superior told off to him.
Did the Colonel send for Captain Talbot, and did Talbot hurry off to
obey the command, just so surely would the Mother Superior select that
moment to bar his path.
"Ah, mon Capitaine!" she would exclaim, with a beaming smile. "J'ai
quelque chose à vous dire. Un soldat--"
Talbot would break in politely, just as she had settled down for a
good long chat, and explain that the Colonel wished to see him. As
well try to move the Rock. It was either stand and listen, or go into
the presence of his superior officer with an excited nun following him
with tales of the "crimes" his men had committed. Needless to say, the
Mother Superior conquered. Talbot would have visions of some fairly
serious offence, and would hear the tale of a soldier who had borrowed
a bucket an hour ago, promising, on his honour as a soldier of the
King, to return it in fifty minutes at the most.
"And it is now a full sixty minutes by the clock on the kitchen
mantel, M'sieu le Capitaine," she would say, her colour mounting, "and
your soldier has not returned my bucket. If he does not bring it back,
when can we get another bucket?"
And so on, until Talbot would pacify her, promising her that the
bucket would be returned. Then he would go on to the Colonel,
breathless and perturbed, his mind so full of buckets that there was
hardly room for the business of the Tank Corps. Small wonder that the
sight of a gray habit was enough to unnerve the man.
He, himself, was billeted with a French family, just around the corner
from the Hospice. The head of the family had been, in the halcyon days
before the war, the village butcher. There was now Madame, the little
Marie, a sturdy boy about twelve, and the old Grand'mère. The husband
was away, of course,--"dans les tranchées," explained Madame with
copious tears.
Talbot was moved to sympathy, and made a few tactful inquiries as to
where the husband was now, and how he had fared.
"Il est maintenant à Paris," said Madame with a sigh.
"In Paris! What rank has he?--a General, maybe?"
"Ah, M'sieu s'amuse," said Madame, brightening up. No, her husband was
a chef at an officers' mess in Paris, she explained proudly. He had
been there since the war broke out. He would soon come home, the
Saints be praised. Then the Captain would hear him tell his tales of
life in the Army!
The hero came home one day, and great was the rejoicing. Thrilling
evenings the family spent around the stove while they listened to
stories of great deeds. On the day when his _permission_ was finished,
and he set out for his hazardous post once more, great was the
lamenting. Madame wept. All the brave man's relatives poured in to
kiss him good-bye. The departing soldier wept, himself. Even
Grand'mère desisted for that day from cracking jokes, which she was
always doing in a patois that to Talbot was unintelligible.
But they were very kind to Talbot, and very courageous through the
hard winter. When he lay ill with fever in his little low room, where
the frost whitened the plaster and icicles hung from the ceiling,
Madame and all the others were most solicitous for his comfort. His
appreciation and thanks were sincere.
By the middle of December the Battalion had finally settled down and
we began our training. Our first course of study was in the mechanism
of the tanks. We marched down, early one morning, to an engine hangar
that was both cold and draughty. We did not look in the least like
embryo heroes. Over our khaki we wore ill-fitting blue garments which
men on the railways, who wear them, call "boilers." The effect of
wearing them was to cause us to slouch along, and suddenly Talbot
burst out laughing at the spectacle. Then he remembered having heard
that some of the original "Tankers" had, during the Somme battles,
been mistaken for Germans in their blue dungarees. They had been fired
on from some distance away, by their own infantry; though nothing
fatal ensued. In consequence, before the next "show" chocolate ones
were issued.
In the shadows of the engine shed, a gray armour-plated hulk loomed
up.
"There it is!" cried Gould, and started forward for a better look at
the "Willie."
Across the face of Rigden, the instructor, flashed a look of scorn and
pain. Just such a look you may have seen on the face of a young mother
when you refer to her baby as "it."
"Don't call a tank 'it,' Gould," he said with admirable patience. "A
tank is either 'he' or 'she'; there is no 'it.'"
"In Heaven's name, what's the difference?" asked Gould, completely
mystified. The rest of us were all ears.
"The female tank carries machine guns only," Rigden explained. "The
male tank carries light field guns as well as machine guns. Don't ever
make the mistake again, any of you fellows."
Having firmly fixed in our minds the fact that we were to begin on a
female "Willie," the instruction proceeded rapidly. Rigden opened a
little door in the side of the tank. It was about as big as the door
to a large, old-fashioned brick oven built into the chimney beside the
fireplace. His head disappeared and his body followed after. He was
swallowed up, save for a hand that waved to us and a muffled voice
which said, "Come on in, you fellows."
Gould went first. He scrambled in, was lost to sight, and then we
heard his voice.
McKnutt's infectious laugh rose above the sound of our mirth. But not
for long.
"Hurry up!" called Rigden. "You next, McKnutt."
McKnutt disappeared. Then to our further astonishment his rich Irish
voice could be heard upraised in picturesque malediction. What was
Rigden doing to them inside the tank to provoke such profanity from
them both? The rest of us scrambled to find out. We soon learned.
When you enter a tank, you go in head first, entering by the side
doors. (There is an emergency exit--a hole in the roof which is used
by the wise ones.) You wiggle your body in with more or less grace,
and then you stand up. Then, if it is the first time, you are usually
profane. For you have banged your head most unmercifully against the
steel roof and you learn, once and for all, that it is impossible to
stand upright in a tank. Each one of us received our baptism in this
way. Seven of us, crouched in uncomfortable positions, ruefully rubbed
our heads, to Rigden's intense enjoyment. Our life in a tank had
begun!
We looked around the little chamber with eager curiosity. Our first
thought was that seven men and an officer could never do any work in
such a little place. Eight of us were, at present, jammed in here, but
we were standing still. When it came to going into action and moving
around inside the tank, it would be impossible,--there was no room to
pass one another. So we thought. In front are two stiff seats, one for
the officer and one for the driver. Two narrow slits serve as
portholes through which to look ahead. In front of the officer is a
map board, and gun mounting. Behind the engine, one on each side, are
the secondary gears. Down the middle of the tank is the powerful
petrol engine, part of it covered with a hood, and along either side a
narrow passage through which a man can slide from the officer's and
driver's seat back and forth to the mechanism at the rear. There are
four gun turrets, two on each side. There is also a place for a gun in
the rear, but this is rarely used, for "Willies" do not often turn
tail and flee!
Along the steel walls are numberless ingenious little cupboards for
stores, and ammunition cases are stacked high. Every bit of space is
utilized. Electric bulbs light the interior. Beside the driver are the
engine levers. Behind the engine are the secondary gears, by which the
machine is turned in any direction. All action inside is directed by
signals, for when the tank moves the noise is such as to drown a man's
voice.
All that first day and for many days after, we struggled with the
intricacies of the mechanism. Sometimes, Rigden despaired of us. We
might just as well go back to our regiments, unless they were so glad
to be rid of us that they would refuse. On other days, he beamed with
pride, even when Darwin and the Old Bird distinguished themselves by
asking foolish questions. "Darwin" is, of course, not his right name.
Because he came from South Africa and looked like a baboon, we called
him "Baboon." So let evolution evolve the name of "Darwin" for him in
these pages. As for the Old Bird, no other name could have suited him
so well. He was the craftiest old bird at successfully avoiding work
we had ever known, and yet he was one of the best liked men in the
Company. He was one of those men who are absolutely essential to a
mess because of his never-failing cheer and gaiety. He never did a
stroke of work that he could possibly "wangle" out of. A Scotchman by
birth, he was about thirty-eight years old and had lived all over the
world. He had a special fondness for China. Until he left "K" Company,
he was never known by any other name than that of "Old Bird."
There was one man, from another Company, who gave us the greatest
amusement during our Tank-mechanism Course. He was pathetically in
earnest, but appeared to have no brains at all. Sometimes, while
asking each other catch questions, we would put the most senseless
ones to him.
Darwin would say, "Look here, how is the radiator connected with the
differential?"
The poor fellow would ponder for a minute or two and then reply, "Oh!
through the magneto."
He naturally failed again and again to pass his tests, and was
returned to his old Corps.
Somehow we learned not to attempt to stand upright in our steel
prison. Before long, McKnutt had ceased his remarks about sardines in
a tin and announced, "Sure! there is plenty of room and to spare for a
dozen others here." The Old Bird no longer compared the atmosphere,
when we were all shut in tight, with the Black Hole of Calcutta. In a
word, we had succumbed to the "Willies," and would permit no man to
utter a word of criticism against them.
It is necessary here, perhaps, to explain why we always call our
machines "Willies." When the tanks were first being experimented
upon, they evolved two, a big and a little one. Standing together they
looked so ludicrous, that they were nicknamed "Big" and "Little
Willie." The name stuck; and now, no one in the Corps refers to his
machine in any other way.
A few days before Christmas, our tank course was finished, and the Old
Bird suggested a celebration. McKnutt led the cheering. Talbot had an
idea.
"Let's get a box-body and go over to Amiens and do our Christmas
shopping," he said.
A chorus of "Jove, that's great!" arose. Every one made himself useful
excepting the Old Bird, who made up by contributing more than any one
else to the gaiety of the occasion. The car was secured, and we all
piled in, making early morning hideous with our songs.
We sped along over the snowy roads. War seemed very far away. We were
extraordinarily light-hearted. After about twenty miles the cold
sobered us down a little. Suddenly, the car seemed to slip from under
us and we found ourselves piled up in the soft snow of the road. A
rear wheel had shot off, and it went rolling along on its own.
Fortunately we had been going rather slowly since we were entering a
town, and no one was hurt. Borwick, the musician of the Company,
looked like a snow image; Darwin and the Old Bird were locked in each
other's arms, and had an impromptu and friendly wrestling match in a
snowdrift. McKnutt was invoking the aid of the Saints in his
endeavours to prevent the snow from trickling down his back. Talbot
and Gould, who had got off lightly, supplied the laughter. The wheel
was finally rescued and restored to its proper place, and we crawled
along at an ignominious pace until the spires of Amiens welcomed us.
We shopped in the afternoon, buying all sorts of ridiculous things,
and collecting enough stores to see us through a siege. After a
hilarious dinner at the Hôtel de l'Univers (never had the Old Bird
been so witty and gay), we started back about eleven o'clock, and
forgetting our injured wheel, raced out of the town toward home. A
short distance down the main boulevard, the wheel again came off, and
this time the damage could not be repaired. There was nothing for it
but to wait until morning, and it was a disconsolate group that
wandered about. All the hotels were full up. Finally, a Y.M.C.A. hut
made some of us welcome. We sat about, reading and talking, until we
dozed off in our chairs. The next morning we got a new wheel and ran
gingerly the sixty-odd miles back, to regale the others with enviable
tales of our pre-Christmas festivities.
III
LATER DAYS OF TRAINING
"Well, thank Heaven, that sweat's over," said the Old Bird the night
after we finished our tank course, and had our celebration. He
stretched luxuriously.
"Yes, but you're starting off again on the gun to-morrow morning,"
said the Major, cheerfully.
The Old Bird protested.
"But I can have a few days' rest, sir, can't I?" he said sorrowfully.
The Major laughed.
"No, you can't. You're down, so you'll have to go through with it."
So for three days we sat in the open, in the driving sleet, from
half-past eight in the morning until half-past four in the afternoon,
learning the gun. On the fourth day we finished off our course with
firing on the range. Surprising as it may seem, after two or three
rounds we could hit the very smallest object at a distance of four or
five hundred yards.
"How many more courses must we go through?" asked the Old Bird of
Rigden, as they strolled back one evening from the range. The Old Bird
was always interested in how much--or, rather, how little--work he had
before him.
"There's the machine gun; the signalling course,--you'll have to work
hard on that, but I know you don't object,--and also revolver
practice. Aren't you thrilled?"
"No, I'm not," grumbled the Old Bird. "Life isn't worth living with
all this work to do. I wish we could get into action."
"So do I," said Talbot, joining them. "But while we're waiting,
wouldn't you rather be back here with good warm billets and a
comfortable bed and plenty to eat, instead of sitting in a wet trench
with the Infantry?" He remembered an old man in his regiment who had
been with the Salvation Army at home. He would stump along on his flat
feet, trudging miles with his pack on his back, and Talbot had never
heard him complain. He was bad at drill. He could never get the orders
or formations through his head. Talbot had often lost patience with
him, but the old fellow was always cheerful. One morning, in front of
Bapaume, after a night of terrible cold, the old man could not move.
Talbot tried to cheer him up and to help him, but he said feebly: "I
think I'm done for--I don't believe I shall ever get warm. But never
mind, sir." And in a few minutes he died, as uncomplainingly as he had
lived.
"You're right, of course, Talbot," the Old Bird said. "We're very well
off here. But, I say, how I should like to be down in Boulogne for a
few days!" And until they reached the Mess, the Old Bird dilated on
the charm of Boulogne and all the luxuries he would indulge in the
next time he visited the city.
The rest of that week found us each day parading at eight o'clock in
the courtyard of the Hospice, and after instruction the various
parties marched off to their several duties. Some of us went to the
tankdrome; some of us to the hills overlooking historic Agincourt,
and others to the barn by the railroad where we practised with the
guns. Another party accompanied Borwick to a secluded spot where he
drilled them in machine-gun practice. Borwick was as skilful with a
machine gun as with a piano. This was the highest praise one could
give him.
That night at mess, Gould said suddenly:--
"To-morrow's a half day, isn't it?"
"Of course. Wake up, you idiot," said Talbot. "We're playing 'J'
Company at soccer, and on Sunday we're playing 'L' at rugger. Two
strenuous days before us. Are you feeling fit?"
Gould was feeling most awfully fit. In fact, he assured the mess that
he, alone, was a match for "J" Company.
Our soccer team was made up almost entirely of men who had been
professional players. We had great pride in them, so that on the
following afternoon, an eager crowd streamed out of the village to our
football field, which we had selected with great care. It was as flat
as a cricket pitch. A year ago it had been ploughed as part of the
French farmland, and now here were the English playing football!
Before the game began there was a good deal of cheerful chaffing on
the respective merits of the "J" and "K" Company teams. And when the
play was in progress and savage yells rent the air, the French
villagers looked on in wonder and pity. They had always believed the
English to be mad. Now they were convinced of it.
From the outset, however, "J" Company was hopelessly outclassed, and
wishing to be generous to a failing foe, we ceased our wild cheering.
"J" Company, on the other hand, wishing to exhort their team to
greater efforts, made up for our moderation, with the result that our
allies were firmly convinced that "J" Company had won the game! If
not, why should they dance up and down and wave their hats and shriek?
And even the score, five to one in favor of "K" Company, failed to
convince them entirely. But "K" went home to an hilarious tea, with a
sense of work well done.
And what of the rugger game the next day? Let us draw a veil over it.
Suffice it to say that the French congratulated "K" Company over the
outcome of that, although the score was twelve to three in favor of
"J"!
We awoke on Monday morning with a delightful feeling that something
pleasant was going to happen, for all the world the same sensation we
used to experience on waking on our birthday and suddenly remembering
that gifts were sure to appear and that there would be something
rather special for tea! By the time full consciousness returned, we
remembered that this was the day when, for the first time, the tank
was to be set in motion. Even the Old Bird was eager.
We hurry off to the tankdrome. One after another we slide in through
the little door and are swallowed up. The door is bolted behind the
last to enter. Officer and driver slip into their respective seats.
The steel shutters of the portholes click as they are opened. The
gunners take their positions. The driver opens the throttle a little
and tickles the carburetor, and the engine is started up. The driver
races the engine a moment, to warm her up. The officer reaches out a
hand and signals for first speed on each gear; the driver throws his
lever into first; he opens the throttle: the tank--our "Willie"--moves!
Supposing you were locked in a steel box, with neither portholes to
look through nor airholes to breathe from. Supposing you felt the
steel box begin to move, and, of course, were unable to see where you
were going. Can you imagine the sensation? Then you can guess the
feelings of the men in a tank,--excepting the officer and driver, who
can see ahead through their portholes,--when the monster gets under
way. There are times, of course, with the bullets flying thick and
fast, when all portholes, for officer, driver, and gunners, must be
closed. Then we plunge ahead, taking an occasional glimpse through the
special pin-point holes.
Thirty tons of steel rolls along with its human freight. Suddenly,
the driver rings a bell. He presses another button, and signals the
driver of the right-hand track into "neutral." This disconnects the
track from the engine. The tank swings around to the right. The
right-hand driver gets the signal "First speed," and we are off again,
at a right angle to our former direction.
Now we are headed for a gentle slope across the field, and as we
approach it, the tank digs her nose into the base of the hill. She
crawls up. The men in the rear tip back and enjoy it hugely. If the
hill is steep enough they may even find themselves lying flat on their
backs or standing on their heads! But no such luck. Presently they are
standing as nearly upright as it is ever possible to stand, and the
tank is balancing on the top of the slope. The driver is not expert as
yet, and we go over with an awful jolt and tumble forward. This is
rare fun!
But the instructor is not pleased. We must try it all over again. So
back again to attack the hill a second time. The top is reached once
more and we balance there. The driver throws out his clutch, we slip
over very gently, and carefully he lets the clutch in again and down
we go. The "Willie" flounders around for the fraction of a second.
Then, nothing daunted, she starts off once more. We have visions of
her sweeping all before her some day far behind the German lines.
Three or four weeks of this sort of thing, and we are hardened to it.
Our reward came at last, however. After mess one morning, when the
conversation had consisted mainly of the question, "When are we going
into a show?" with no answer to the question, we were called into the
Major's room, where he told us, in strictest secrecy, that in about
three weeks a big attack was to come off. We should go in at last!
For the next two or three weeks we studied maps and aeroplane
photographs, marking out our routes, starting-points, rear
ammunition-dumps, forward dumps, and lines of supply. At last, then,
our goal loomed up and these months of training, for the most part
interesting, but at times terribly boring, would bear fruit. Two
direct results were noticeable now on looking back to the time when we
joined. First, each man in the Battalion knew how to run a tank, how
to effect slight repairs, how to work the guns, and how to obtain the
best results from the machine. Second, and very important, was the
fact that the men and officers had got together. The crews and
officers of each section knew and trusted each other. The strangeness
of feeling that was apparent in the first days had now entirely
disappeared, and that cohesion of units which is so essential in
warfare had been accomplished. Each of us knew the other's faults and
the mistakes he was prone to make. More important still, we knew our
own faults and weaknesses and had the courage to carry on and overcome
them.
A few nights before we moved up the line, we gave a grand concert.
Borwick and the Old Bird planned it. On an occasion of this sort, the
Old Bird never grumbled at the amount of work he was obliged to do.
Some weeks before we had bought a piano from one of the inhabitants of
the village, and the piano was naturally the _pièce de résistance_ of
the concert. The Old Bird went around for days at a time, humming
scraps of music with unintelligible words which it afterwards
developed at the concert were awfully good songs of his own composing.
The Battalion tailor was called in to make up rough Pierrot costumes.
The Old Bird drilled us until we begged for mercy, while Borwick
strummed untiringly at the piano. At last the great night arrived.
A stage had been built at one end of a hangar, and curtains hung up.
The whole of the Staff and H.Q. had been invited, and the _maire_, the
_curé_, the _médecin_ of the village, and their families were also to
attend.
Promptly at eight o'clock, the concert began, with Borwick at the
piano. Everything went off without a hitch. Although "K" Company
provided most of the talent, the Battalion shared the honours of the
entertainment. Each song had a chorus, and so appreciative was our
audience that the choruses were repeated again and again. The one
"lady" of the Troupe looked charming, and "she" arranged for "her"
voice to be entirely in keeping with "her" dress and paint. The French
spectators enjoyed it hugely. They were a great encouragement, for
they laughed at everything uproariously, though it could not have been
due to their understanding of the jokes.
At ten o'clock we finished off with "God Save the King," and went back
to our billets feeling that our stay in the village had been
splendidly rounded off.
IV
MOVING UP THE LINE