THE COMMAND OF A TANK
SECOND-LIEUTENANT SETLEY'S attention had been directed to a
machine-gun emplacement that, notwithstanding the terrific pounding
of the Hun lines, had somehow escaped the general demolition. It
stood in a slight hollow, the dip in the ground enabling the
machine-guns to fire diagonally across the line of advancing troops
and, incidentally, into the crowd of demoralized Hun prisoners.
Although the arc of fire was limited, the result was hardly less
efficacious on that account.
The harmless splaying of bullets upon the Tank's armoured side had
drawn Ralph's attention to the source of the hail of small missiles.
He could discern the domed tops of the three portable steel cupolas
in which the machine-guns were housed. Evidently these metal defence
works had been kept in a deep dug-out during the bombardment, and
when the British guns lifted had been raised from the bowels of the
earth--giving trouble and asking for it.
Round swung the Tank, slowly, ponderously. Her "tail"--the pair of
wheels used for steering purposes when on fairly level ground--was
tilted clear of the crater-pitted earth. Grimly and remorselessly she
set out to squash the viper's nest out of existence.
The Huns held on doggedly. They must have realized that they were
already cut off by swarms of British infantry, and that sooner or
later they would be "rushed" from all sides. Under the impression
that no quarter is accorded to machine-gunners the Boches determined
to fight to the last. Even the approach of the Tank, even if it spelt
doom, did not make them desert their guns and with uplifted hands
shout "Kamerad."
Right and left of the emplacement were lines of barbed wire, many of
the posts still standing; but directly in front the entanglement had
been flattened, scorched posts and short fragments of twisted wire
alone remaining to mark the position. The path for the Tank was
invitingly open, but that fact, combined with the determined stand of
the Hun machine-gunners, struck Setley as being suspicious. Either
the ground in front of the three cupolas was mined, or else a deep
pit, with vertical sides, had been dug, and concealed by means of a
covering of boards strong enough to bear the weight of a few men but
unable to withstand the 200 tons dead weight of a Tank.
With one tractor band grinding ahead and the other reversed the Tank
made a half turn in its own length and commenced to cross the front
of its objective. Then climbing the rising ground with consummate
ease the mammoth charger drew up to the flank of the machine-gunners'
lair.
The Huns in the nearest cupola promptly bolted and surrendered to the
nearest Tommies they met. Those in the second one, firing to the
last, were neatly "done in," for the Tank, charging the metal-box
obliquely, toppled it into the nearest mud and finished off by
pulverizing the light steel plating and the crew within.
The men belonging to the third machine-gun, seeing that their mobile
fortress was powerless against the immensely superior weight of the
Tank, fled for the nearest dug-out. Three were shot down by the
Tank's machine-gun, while two managed to reach the doubtful shelter.
Too late they discovered that the dug-out had caved in under the
impact of a huge shell, and only the entrance and a few steps were
left.
Ralph ordered his command to be brought to a standstill. His work for
the present was accomplished. The rounding-up of the two surviving
Huns must be left to the infantry, numbers of whom were swarming over
the captured lines, securing prisoners and exploring dug-outs lest
the gentle Boches had left explosives with time-fuses in those
cavernous depths.
Setley gave a whoop of surprise and delight as a dozen Tommies
approached. They were the Wheatshires--his late regiment--and, to be
more exact, men of his former platoon. But in vain he looked for
Sergeant Alderhame. Penfold--well, he could hardly be expected to be
out at the Front so soon. But there was Sidney, the lad with Polish
blood in his veins. George Anderson, too.
Ralph felt tempted to shout as the little Cockney dashed past the
stationary Tank. With his rifle slung across his back, and a bomb
held ready to hurl, Ginger was the personification of activity and
alertness. He had spotted the two Huns in the mouth of the dug-out.
It would be obviously unwise for Ralph to attract the bomber's
attention.
"Up with yer dooks!" shouted Ginger, swinging the bomb.
One of the men obeyed promptly, begging the while for quarter.
"Course you'll save your hide, Fritz," said his conqueror
encouragingly. "Mike, take that blighter out of it, will yer?"
Remained one Hun, a tall, broad-shouldered lout, with a face that had
animal cunning and ferocity written on every line of it. He stood
with his rifle and bayonet at the "ready." His last cartridge had
been spent. He was determined to fight to the last.
"Up with 'em!" yelled Ginger, brandishing the Mills bomb, while other
men of the platoon gradually closed in upon the solitary Prussian.
The Hun made no attempt to comply. Snarling, he lunged ineffectually
at a Wheatshire who had come almost within reach of the glittering
steel.
"Hanged if I can do the bloomer in with this," exclaimed Ginger,
placing his supply of bombs on the ground and grasping his rifle.
"Form a ring, chums, an' see fair play. Now, Fritz, it's either you
or me."
"I haf no chance," replied the Prussian. "If out I come der odders
vill shoot in my back."
"Don't talk rot, Dutchy," protested Anderson. "We ain't 'Uns. Either
'ands up or fight me!"
The Prussian had more faith in a British Tommy's word than he had in
his own. Still snarling, he emerged cautiously from his retreat;
then, finding that no attempt was made on the part of the other men
to molest him, he crouched behind his bayonet and stealthily
approached the imperturbable Cockney.
With a longer reach and armed with a rifle and bayonet of greater
length than the British service weapon the Hun had a certain
advantage; but lack of initiative and the slowness of his mental and
physical powers neutralized his ascendancy over the short, sturdily
built Wheatshire corporal.
Thrice the steel crossed. Once the Prussian's bayonet rasped against
the wood casing of Ginger's rifle--a foiled effort to cripple his
antagonist's fingers. By a brilliant parry Anderson knocked the point
aside, and the next instant his bayonet was thrust deeply into the
Hun's body.
"Well done, Ginger!" shouted his comrades.
"Too bloomin' well done," rejoined the victor. "'Ere, you chaps,
who's gotter fust-aid dressin'? Mine's been kippered. Thanks, mate."
And almost before the heat of the combat had had time to cool
Anderson was on his knees by the side of his late adversary, working
diligently to staunch the flow of blood from the wound that he had
made.
"Yer asked for it properly, Fritz," he exclaimed. "Why didn't yer put
yer bloomin' 'ands up when I told yer?"
In answer, the wounded Hun turned his head and bit the hand of the
man who was tending him.
"Yer rotten cannibal!" ejaculated Ginger, and disregarding the advice
of his comrades to knock the fellow over the head, Anderson gathered
up his bombs, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and vanished from
Setley's view.
By this time the battle had rolled onwards. Away on the right German
shells were pounding the slopes of Vimy Ridge. That was a good sign.
It proved that the British troops had secured a footing in what was
unquestionably a key to this section of the hostile line.
Hindenburg had had his wish gratified--to meet the British in the
open. He had failed to gain anything by it. In trench warfare the New
Army had proved itself superior to the product of the German High
Command, and now, with their trenches left miles in the rear, the
Tommies were "mopping up" the Huns as neatly as the most exacting
commander could wish.
And yet an admirable restraint was noticeable in the movements of the
attacking troops. In the heat of the battle and joy of victory it was
pardonable for the men to wish to push on beyond the protection of
their artillery. With a very few exceptions the various units kept
well under control. Never was the maxim "Hasten slowly" better
applied.
A motor-cyclist, riding furiously and yet avoiding the yawning shell
craters with a dexterity acquired by long practice, pulled up by the
side of the stationary Tank. With the engine still running and
keeping the machine balanced by placing one foot on the ground, the
grimy mud-caked dispatch rider delivered his message.
"There's a Tank bogged fifty yards south-east of Henricourt Farm,
sir," he reported. "The CO. sends orders for you to proceed to her
assistance."
"Very good," replied Setley, and closing and locking the door, he
gave instructions for full speed ahead to the aid of his crippled
consort.