PRISONERS
For weeks after our first introduction to the tanks they were the
chief topic of conversation in our battalion. And, notwithstanding
the fact that we had seen the monsters go into action, had seen
what they did and the effect they had on the Boche, the details of
their building and of their mechanism remained a mystery for a long
time.
For weeks about all we knew about them was what we gathered from
their appearance as they reeled along, camouflaged with browns and
yellows like great toads, and that they were named with quaint
names like "Creme de Menthe" and "Diplodocus."
Eventually I met with a member of the crews who had manned the
tanks at the battle of High Wood, and I obtained from him a
description of some of his sensations. It was a thing we had all
wondered about,--how the men inside felt as they went over.
My tanker was a young fellow not over twenty-five, a machine
gunner, and in a little _estaminet_, over a glass of citron and
soda, he told me of his first battle.
"Before we went in," he said, "I was a little bit uncertain as to
how we were coming out. We had tried the old boats out and had
given them every reasonable test. We knew how much they would stand
in the way of shells on top and in the way of bombs or mines
underneath. Still there was all the difference between rehearsal
and the actual going on the stage.
"When we crawled in through the trapdoor for the first time over,
the shut-up feeling got me. I'd felt it before but not that way. I
got to imagining what would happen if we got stalled somewhere in
the Boche lines, and they built a fire around us. That was natural,
because it's hot inside a tank at the best. You mustn't smoke
either. I hadn't minded that in rehearsal, but in action I was
crazy for a fag.
"We went across, you remember, at eleven, and the sun was shining
bright. We were parboiled before we started, and when we got going
good it was like a Turkish bath. I was stripped to the waist and
was dripping. Besides that, when we begun to give 'em hell, the
place filled with gas, and it was stifling. The old boat pitched a
good deal going into shell holes, and it was all a man could do to
keep his station. I put my nose up to my loop-hole to get air, but
only once. The machine-gun bullets were simply rattling on our
hide. Tock, tock, tock they kept drumming. The first shell that hit
us must have been head on and a direct hit. There was a terrific
crash, and the old girl shook all over,--seemed to pause a little
even. But no harm was done. After that we breathed easier. We
hadn't been quite sure that the Boche shells wouldn't do us in.
"By the time we got to the Boche trenches, we knew he hadn't
anything that could hurt us. We just sat and raked him and laughed
and wished it was over, so we could get the air."
I had already seen the effect of the tanks on the Germans. The
batch of prisoners who had been turned over to me seemed dazed. One
who spoke English said in a quavering voice:
"Gott in Himmel, Kamarad, how could one endure? These things are
not human. They are not fair."
That "fair" thing made a hit with me after going against tear gas
and hearing about liquid fire and such things.
The great number of the prisoners we took at High Wood were very
scared looking at first and very surly. They apparently expected to
be badly treated and perhaps tortured. They were tractable enough
for the most part. But they needed watching, and they got it from
me, as I had heard much of the treachery of the Boche prisoners.
On the way to the rear with my bunch, I ran into a little episode
which showed the foolishness of trusting a German,--particularly an
officer.
I was herding my lot along when we came up with about twelve in
charge of a young fellow from a Leicester regiment. He was a
private, and as most of his non-commissioned officers had been put
out of action, he was acting corporal. We were walking together
behind the prisoners, swapping notes on the fight, when one of his
stopped, and no amount of coaxing would induce him to go any
farther. He was an officer, of what rank I don't know, but judging
from his age probably a lieutenant.
Finally Crane--that was the Leicester chap--went up to the officer,
threatened him with his bayonet, and let him know that he was due
for the cold steel if he didn't get up and hike.
Whereupon Mr. Fritz pulled an automatic from under his coat--he
evidently had not been carefully searched--and aimed it at Crane.
Crane dove at him and grabbed his wrist, but was too late. The gun
went off and tore away Crane's right cheek. He didn't go down,
however, and before I could get in without danger to Crane, he
polished off the officer on the spot.
The prisoners looked almost pleased. I suppose they knew the
officer too well. I bandaged Crane and offered to take his
prisoners in, but he insisted upon carrying on. He got very weak
from loss of blood after a bit, and I had two of the Boches carry
him to the nearest dressing station, where they took care of him. I
have often wondered whether the poor chap "clicked" it.
Eventually I got my batch of prisoners back to headquarters and
turned them over. I want to say a word right here as to the
treatment of the German prisoners by the British. In spite of the
verified stories of the brutality shown to the Allied prisoners by
the Hun, the English and French have too much humanity to
retaliate. Time and again I have seen British soldiers who were
bringing in Germans stop and spend their own scanty pocket money
for their captives' comfort. I have done it myself.
Almost inevitably the Boche prisoners were expecting harsh
treatment. I found several who said that they had been told by
their officers that they would be skinned alive if they surrendered
to the English. They believed it, and you could hardly blame the
poor devils for being scared.
Whenever we were taking prisoners back, we always, unless we were
in too much of a hurry, took them to the nearest canteen run by the
Y.M.C.A. or by one of the artillery companies, and here we would
buy English or American fags. And believe me, they liked them. Any
one who has smoked the tobacco issued to the German army could
almost understand a soldier surrendering just to get away from it.
Usually, too, we bought bread and sweets, if we could stand the
price. The Heinies would bolt the food down as though they were
half starved. And it was perfectly clear from the way they went
after the luxuries that they got little more than the hard
necessities of army fare.
At the battle of High Wood the prisoners we took ran largely to
very young fellows and to men of fifty or over. Some of the
youngsters said they were only seventeen and they looked not over
fifteen. Many of them had never shaved.
I think the sight of those war-worn boys, haggard and hard,
already touched with cruelty and blood lust, brought home to me
closer than ever before what a hellish thing war is, and how keenly
Germany must be suffering, along with the rest of us.