_Told to the Montreal (Canada) "Herald and Star"_
"Hi, Bodger! Just keep clear of my weighing machine! It's only up to a
quarter of a ton, and I'm not taking any risks."
Temporary Captain Bodger, R.G.A., turned sadly away from the Ration
Depot and lumbered back to his howitzers. He was an excellent officer,
and his 8 in. shells reached their address in Bocheland with the
precision of a postal delivery. But he weighed 280 pounds, and his
girth was threatening his career.
Only yesterday he had walked five miles to a field artillery observing
station in the trenches, whence he was to range on a new German
redoubt, and had ignominiously failed to get through the tunnel. A
party of grinning Tommies had taken 40 minutes to enlarge the entrance
for him; the subaltern to whom the observation post belonged had
complained of his attracting the attention of the enemy's airmen by
waiting outside, and the general, who unfortunately went by, had
regarded him with a send-him-to-the-base look in his eye. Something
must be done, but what?
Bodger had a light lunch of three chops and a plate of ham, trifled
with some suet pudding and cheese, and ordered a second bottle of
beer to assist his meditations. But the only idea that emerged was
a transfer to Coast Defence, and this involved boat work, which his
stomach loathed. With a regretful glance at the empty bottles, he went
back to his work.
But in the meantime an intelligence of a higher order had been shaping
his destinies. The Army commander, hearing the tale of the tunnel
and the observation post, had remarked: "Sound gunner, is he? No use
sending him to the Transport; lorries are overloaded already. There's
one thing in this Army that's up to his weight, and that's a tank.
Shift him over, will you?"
When the great man spoke things moved quickly, and in the battery
Bodger met an orderly with a "memo," directing him to report at once
to H. M. landship _Mastodon_ for instruction. The _Mastodon_ was a
new ship. Her commander, a cavalry major, was pleased to get a good
gunnery man who was also useful as shifting ballast. Bodger took kindly
to his new duties, and the tank steered sweetly under his sympathetic
hand.
A week later the _Mastodon_ took part in a minor push--a little affair
of straightening the line.
There was a parapet to get over, and the _Mastodon_, according to
custom, cocked up her tail and charged it.
Now if things had gone right the tail should have come down with a
whump, throwing her nose up, and she should have cleared the bank like
a porpoise jumping. But the glue-like mud piled under her belly, her
tail remained up, her nose down, and she hit the face of the bank with
a bump like a luggage train in collision. She backed out, but her tail
remained high in air.
It was then that Bodger first distinguished himself. He squeezed
through a door. Heedless of the bullets which hummed round him, he
swarmed up the tail with the determination of a bull walrus and sat on
the end of it. There was no mistake about the tail coming down this
time. The _Mastodon_ charged again, nose well up, and got over the
bank, kicking up a shower of clods behind her.
Bodger stuck to his perch, though the shell-splinters whanged on the
armour, and got off with nothing worse than a chipped ear. After this
he became a tank enthusiast, and when his major was promoted Admiral of
the Fleet and hoisted his flag in the _Mammoth_, Bodger succeeded to
the command of the _Mastodon_. He painted her in a beautiful chromatic
color-scheme, and fitted a larder and a cushioned beer-bin. He worked
up his crew at gunnery till they could hit a Boche parapet while
bumping across country. He enjoyed four solid meals a day and ceased to
repine at his increasing weight.
The Big Push came on, and Bodger's _Mastodon_ proved the smartest
landship in the fleet, while at gunnery she could have given points to
the _Excellent_. There came a day when we had pierced deeply into the
German lines, and with it came Bodger's chance, which has made his name
in the Land Fleet. He saw a locomotive half a mile in front dragging
off a couple of howitzers along a light railway, and, regardless of his
admiral's warning toots he made for it across the trenches.
Furious Germans tried to rush him as he ploughed through their lines
but he held the _Mastodon_ to her course, spouting flame on both
broadsides. Field guns were hurriedly turned on him, but the shells
missed or glanced from the armour. He headed off the locomotive by
a bare 50 fathoms, and, reversing his starboard chain, jockeyed the
_Mastodon_ sharply round to meet it.
Now when a 60-ton locomotive hauling double its weight of heavy
howitzer, meets a 100-ton tank, both all out, something is almost
certain to happen. This time it was the unexpected.
The antagonists stood on their tails, locked for a moment like
wrestlers, and then suddenly disappeared from view. The railway crossed
a hollow road at the point of encounter and the bridge had given way.
Down went the locomotive, wheels uppermost, with the _Mastodon_ on top
of it. The trucks with the monster howitzers lumbered up and pitched on
top of the heap. But the tank, though dented like an old tin can, was
little the worse, and the Germans, who expected to find a wreck, were
met by shells and machine-gun fire.
There was no holding our men that day, and they pressed on well
beyond the hollow road where the _Mastodon_ had "brought up." When
the leading battalion reached her they found Bodger lunching on deck,
with a dozen bottles of beer standing ready for his visitors. He was
asked to describe his trip across the German trenches, but preferred
to expatiate on the perfections of his cushioned beer-bin. "Only two
bottles broken, and I believe one of them had gone flat!"
A new 1,000-horsepower tank, carrying a 6 inch gun, is ready for
launching, and Bodger will command her. He is looking forward to
steering her through the streets of Berlin.