[Illustration: cover]
TO THE FORE WITH THE TANKS!
THE GREAT
ADVENTURE
SERIES
PERCY F. WESTERMAN:
THE AIRSHIP "GOLDEN HIND"
TO THE FORE WITH THE TANKS
THE SECRET BATTLEPLANE
WILMSHURST OF THE FRONTIER FORCE
ROWLAND WALKER:
DEVILLE MCKEENE
THE EXPLOITS OF THE MYSTERY
AIRMAN
BLAKE OF THE MERCHANT SERVICE
BUCKLE OF SUBMARINE V2
OSCAR DANBY, V.C.
DASTRAL OF THE FLYING CORPS
THE PHANTOM AIRMAN
S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.
4, 5, & 6 SOHO SQUARE,
LONDON, W.1.
TO THE FORE
WITH THE TANKS!
BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
AUTHOR OF
"A WATCHDOG OF THE NORTH SEA"; "A SUB. OF THE R.N.R."
"THE RIVAL SUBMARINES," ETC., ETC.
[Illustration: logo]
S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.
4, 5 & 6 SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.1.
MADE IN GREAT BRITAIN
_First Published 1917_
_Frequently Reprinted_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. TO THE FRONT
II. THE COMMUNICATION TRENCH
III. THE NIGHT ATTACK
IV. GRUB
V. THE EXPEDITION TO NO MAN'S LAND
VI. A PRISONER OF WAR
VII. THE FIRST ADVANCE
VIII. CUT OFF
IX. THE ADVANCE OF THE TANKS
X. THE WRECKED LANDSHIP
XI. AN INTERVIEW WITH THE C.O.
XII. "THE BEST OF LUCK"
XIII. THE BEGINNING OF THE GREATER PUSH
XIV. THE COMMAND OF A TANK
XV. THE BOGGED LANDSHIP
XVI. ALDERHAME'S GOOD SHOT
XVII. THE SPY
XVIII. THE STRUGGLE FOR NEANCOURT VILLAGE
XIX. THE MINED TUNNEL
XX. THE FALL OF THE VON DER GOLZ REDOUBT
XXI. TRAPPED
XXII. TANK VERSUS LOCOMOTIVE
XVIII. THE LAST STAND
TO THE FORE WITH
THE TANKS!
CHAPTER I
TO THE FRONT
THE jolting cattle-trucks pulled up with a disconcerting jerk at the
termination of a fifty-mile railway journey, performed in the
remarkably record time of fifteen hours.
From a springless truck, on which was painted the legend, "40 hommes
ou 8 chevaux," descended fifty-two tired but elated Tommies, thirsty,
ravenously hungry, but quite able to keep up a bantering conversation
with the peasants who had gathered by the side of the temporary line.
It was a miserable night, even for the Somme district in early March.
Rain was falling solidly. The ground was churned into deep mud of the
consistency of treacle. The gaunt gables of a dozen roofless houses,
silhouetted against the constant glare in the sky, betokened ruined
homes and uncomfortable billets; while the loud rumble of distant
artillery was in itself ample proof that at last the Second
Wheatshires had arrived somewhere on the Western Front--the goal of
six months' constant and arduous training.
Into the squelching mud the men stepped blithely. They were used to
it by this time. The double line of khaki-clad figures, showing dimly
through the darkness, shuffled impatiently. Here and there a man
would "hike" his pack to relieve the weight of the webbing equipment
over his shoulders, or sling his rifle while he lighted the almost
inseparable "fag." The distant flashes of the heavy guns glinted from
the wet "tin-hats" of the Tommies, as the unaccustomed head-gear
wobbled with every movement of the wearer's head. The issue of steel
trench helmets given before the commencement of the railway journey
had confirmed the rumour of the past fortnight--that No. 3 Platoon
was to be sent to join the rest of the battalion at the Front.
"Ah, well, 'tis certain he hath crossed River Somme,'" quoted Private
Graham Alderhame formerly of the Shakesperian Repertoire Company and
now a humble foot-slogging Tommy in a noted Line Regiment. "Well, if
this is across the Somme I don't think much of it. Another ten miles
by motor-bus, I suppose, and then something in the way of grub. Got a
cigarette on you, dear boy?"
Private Ralph Setley, who seven months previously had been a
bank-clerk in a busy provincial town, placed his rifle against a pile
of equipment that was serenely resting in the mud, and fumbled for a
packet of smokes. Then, having handed one of the contents to his
chum, he struck a match.
The light flickered upon the honest, deeply tanned features of a
typical British lad of about nineteen or twenty. In spite of a day of
extreme discomfort in the over-crowded horse-box which the French
Government placed at the disposal of Allied troops, his eyes twinkled
with the excitement of the moment. At last he was within sound of the
guns, and more, the chance of meeting a Hun was within measurable
distance.
Having lighted Alderhame's cigarette and his own, Setley was about to
throw the vilely sulphurous match to the ground when another voice
interposed:
"Hold hard, chum. Let's have a light."
Ralph was about to comply with the request when a hand shot out and
sent the still flaring match flying through the air.
"What's that for, George?" asked the disappointed applicant for a
light, with mingled truculence and resentment.
"'Cause 'tain't for no good; third chap as 'as a light from the same
match allus goes West--honest fact," replied Ginger Anderson, a
short, wiry man, who, according to his attestation papers, used to be
a gamekeeper, although others of his platoon swore that he had been
convicted three times for poaching.
"Listen!" exclaimed Alderhame, placing a hand on Setley's shoulder.
A short distance along the double line of waiting Tommies a hungry
Kentish man was endeavouring to persuade an ancient _paysanne_ to
sell some eggs. Judging by the man's injured tone his efforts were
not meeting with success.
"Wot, no compree?" he asked. "Des woffs, des woffs. Blimey, these old
Frenchies don't understand their own bloomin' language. Woffs, I
said, missis--them wot we calls heggs."
A motor-car with dimmed head-lights dashed up, throwing showers of
mud on either side like miniature cascades. From it descended a
great-coated staff-officer. The ranks stiffened. Something was in the
air. Information, perhaps, as to the place where the tired Tommies
were to be billeted.
"Who's in charge of this platoon?" rasped out an authoritative voice.
"I am, sir," replied a subaltern fresh from home, a beardless youth
of about nineteen, Stanley Dacres by name. "Details for the Second
Wheatshires."
"Quite about time," rejoined the staff officer. "You are to take your
men to the reserve trenches. Motor-buses for the first five miles.
With luck you ought to be there by midnight. Arms and equipment all
correct?"
"All correct, sir."
"Gas masks?"
"Two per man, sir."
"All right; see that one is returned. New pattern gas-helmets will be
issued. A guide will accompany you. Good night and good luck."
The staff officer vanished in the darkness, his place being taken by
a sergeant who had evidently emerged from an _estaminet_.
In single file the No. 3 Platoon marched off, ankle deep in liquid
mud, the coldness of which penetrated the thick puttees and boots of
the men as they made their way towards the supply depot.
The depot was a long, rambling stone building that originally
possessed one doorway. Now there were two, a Hun shell having
obligingly knocked away twenty or thirty square feet of masonry in
the end wall, while of the roof only a few rafters and tiles
remained. Tarpaulin sheets had been nailed to the woodwork to form a
temporary shelter from the driving rain. The corners of the canvas,
flapping in the wind, threatened to demolish the remaining structure,
besides allowing a steady stream of water to pour upon the earth and
lime-trodden floor.
As each man entered the building he threw one of the two gas-masks in
a corner, and in return had a complicated anti-poison-gas device
thrust unceremoniously into his hand. Three paces further on he was
greeted with half of a very dry loaf and a tin of bully-beef, while
as he emerged into the night another gift in the shape of one hundred
and fifty rounds of ball ammunition in clips was bestowed on the
already heavily weighted Tommy.
"Repairs executed while you wait!" exclaimed Ginger Anderson. "Oh,
dash! There goes my bloomin' tucker."
The half-loaf had slipped from his grasp and was rolling in the mud.
As he stooped to retrieve it the man next to him cannoned into his
unstable form, with the result that Ginger went on all-fours, plus
equipment, in the Artois mud.
"Say, sergeant," remarked the luckless private, holding up the bread.
"Wot am I ter do wi' this?"
"Get outside it when you're hungry," was the N.C.O.'s unsympathetic
reply. "If you've never got to eat stuff worse than that you can
thank your lucky stars."
"All aboard for 'Appy 'Ampstead!" shouted a wag as a line of
motor-buses, some possessing the original advertisements they had
displayed in London Town, snorted up through the blinding rain.
"Silence in the ranks!" ordered the platoon commander.
Even had his order not been given absolute silence fell upon the men
as a blinding flash stabbed the darkness, followed by an appalling
crash like a concerted roar of a dozen thunder claps. The ground
trembled. A partly demolished gable collapsed with a long drawn-out
rumble.
"We're under shell fire at last, then," remarked Second-Lieutenant
Dacres to the sergeant told off as guide to the platoon.
"Fritz's evening hate, sir," replied the N.C.O. imperturbably. "He
drops them occasionally on the high road well behind our lines on the
off chance of strafing some of our chaps. That one fell quite five
hundred yards away. You'll soon get used to it, sir. There'll be two
more coming, and then we can get a move on."
Private Setley could feel his heart beating against his ribs as he
waited. Being under shell fire for the first time was decidedly an
uncanny sensation. Dimly he wondered if he would ever get used to it.
The second and third projectiles came almost simultaneously, one
bursting a quarter of a mile away on the right, the other landing in
an already ruined farm building on the outskirts of the village.
Beams and masses of brick-bats were tossed sky-high like straws in a
gale of wind, while some of the men felt certain that they saw
portions of a field gun hurled upwards in the glare of the bursting
shell.
"That's the lot," declared the sergeant coolly. "'Tain't like what it
used to be. Fritz thinks twice about wasting heavy gun ammunition."
Silently the Tommies boarded the waiting buses. For the time being
their natural hilarity was subdued by the unwonted display of war.
"Seeking a bubble reputation at the cannon's mouth,'" declared the
ex-actor. "If it weren't for the fact that I've come a very long way
to see the fun, I, like Pistol's boy, would give all my fame for a
pot of ale and safety. What say you, Setley?"
Private Setley did not reply. Mentally he was comparing his present
position with that of a few short months ago. Then he would have
given almost anything to be "clear of the Bank." The long hours spent
in making up the "half-yearly balance" were loathsome. It was a
relief to be able to live an open-air life. Now he was about to
realise the dreams of months--yet, somehow, he hardly relished those
bursting shells. It was too one-sided to his liking--to be potted at
from an unknown distance and be unable to lift so much as a little
finger in self-defence.
"Wait till it comes to bayonet work," he mused. "Then our fellows
will give the Huns a bit of a surprise."
The detachment was really good at bayonet practice. While attached to
the Fifth Battalion at home the men had earned unstinted praise from
super-critical instructors at the way in which they prodded the
suspended sacks.
With a few exceptions all the men of No. 3 Platoon were either Derby
men or conscripts. They all had good excuses--or they individually
firmly imagined they had--why they should not "join up." It wasn't
that they were not patriotic, yet circumstances urged them to hold
back as long as possible. They groused while they awaited the
long-deferred call. The uncertainty of the whole business was the
worst part of it; but when they did join up they made the very best
of an unwanted job, went through the training like Trojans, and
longed for the order for the Front.
Socially they were a motley lot. In addition to the "former
occupations" of men already mentioned there were two solicitors, a
'Varsity graduate, an artist, a general manager, half a score of
small business men, several mechanics and labourers and two
ex-convicts--all firmly determined to have a slap at Kaiser Bill's
grey-coated Huns.
For twenty minutes the line of motor-buses jolted and swayed,
sometimes making abrupt turns to avoid deep shell holes, at others
slowing down or stopping to allow convoys proceeding in opposite
direction to pass. All the while the deafening din continued,
increasing in intensity as the distance decreased.
At length the vehicles pulled up at the end of that stage of the
journey. The stiff-limbed and sleepy men, hampered by their heavy
equipment, got down into the mud once more.
There was very little talking. Every man seemed to be too interested
in the novel form of Brock's fireworks to indulge in conversation. As
far as the eye could reach the countryside--slightly undulating--was
pin-pricked with flashes of gun-fire. Overhead star-shells of varying
colours threw a lurid glare upon the mounds of brickwork that at one
time formed populous and prosperous villages. Half a mile to the
right a church tower still stood, with a jagged hole in one angle. It
seemed marvellous that the whole structure had not collapsed. Ahead
the road ended abruptly in a mound of earth and stones thrown up by
the impact and explosion of a Hun eleven-inch shell. Almost touching
the outer edge of the crater was a Calvary--the cross standing out
sharply against the artificially lighted horizon. The crucifix was
the only object left standing within a radius of a hundred yards from
the place where the shell had dropped.
Suddenly a lurid flash, followed almost simultaneously by a roar that
outvoiced the distant rumble of the artillery, seemed to burst from
the ground within thirty paces of the platoon as they formed up to
continue their journey on the march.
The spurt of fire directed upwards at an acute angle was followed by
the hideous tearing screech of a huge projectile. A British gun, so
cleverly screened that none of the detachment was aware of its
existence, had just been fired. "It's only 'Gentle Gerty' saying good
night to the Boches, sir," explained the guide. "Now, sir, single
file, and no smoking in the ranks."
The Tommies, throwing away their cigarette ends and knocking out
their pipes, set out on the last stage of their journey. They were
now at the Front.