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Title: The tank in action
Author: Douglas Gordon Browne
Release date: August 4, 2026 [eBook #79272]
Language: English
Original publication: Edinburgh: William Blackwood & Sons, 1920
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79272
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TANK IN ACTION ***
[Illustration: Crossing the Steenbeek for the attack beyond St Julien
(The Cockcroft), August 19, 1917.]
The Tank in Action
BY
CAPTAIN D. G. BROWNE, M.C.
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS_
William Blackwood and Sons
Edinburgh and London
1920
_ALL RIGHTS RESERVED_
_TO THE
OFFICERS, NON-COMMISSIONED OFFICERS,
AND MEN
OF THE
7TH & 12TH (G. & L.) TANK BATTALIONS._
CONTENTS.
PART I.
THE FIRST PHASE: FROM THE SOMME TO YPRES.
I. INTRODUCTORY: THE GENESIS OF THE LANDSHIP 3
II. THE MARK I. AND MARK IV. TANKS: THE FIRST COMPANIES 15
III. THE SOMME BATTLES 28
IV. EXPANSION: THE BATTLES IN FRONT OF ARRAS 47
V. THE PALESTINE DETACHMENT 71
VI. MESSINES 89
VII. YPRES: THE PRELIMINARIES 98
VIII. YPRES: THE 31ST JULY 125
IX. YPRES: THE 31ST JULY (_continued_) 153
X. THE “HUSH” OPERATION AND THE COCKCROFT 181
XI. THE COCKCROFT (_continued_) 204
XII. FROM THE COCKCROFT TO CAMBRAI 231
PART II.
THE SECOND PHASE: CAMBRAI AND AFTER.
XIII. CAMBRAI 257
XIV. MISCELLANEOUS. THE GERMANS AND THE TANK: THE FRENCH
ARTILLERIE D’ASSAUT 285
XV. THE GERMAN OFFENSIVE. MEAULTE, BOUVIGNY, AND
BÉTHUNE 306
XVI. THE GERMAN OFFENSIVE (_continued_). ANNEQUIN: AND THE
TANK CORPS IN RETREAT 328
XVII. HAMEL, MOREUIL, AND THE THIRD BATTLE OF THE SOMME 347
XVIII. THE GREAT ADVANCE: FROM BUCQUOY TO BAPAUME 368
XIX. THE FIGHTING FOR BEUGNY, AND THE ADVANCE TO THE CANAL
DU NORD 400
XX. THE CANAL DU NORD AND BOURLON 431
XXI. THE FIGHTING ROUND CAMBRAI: SANCOURT 459
XXII. FROM NIERGNIES TO THE ARMISTICE: CONCLUSION 486
INDEX 511
ILLUSTRATIONS.
CROSSING THE STEENBEEK FOR THE ATTACK BEYOND ST JULIEN (THE
COCKCROFT), AUGUST 19, 1917 _Frontispiece_
THE MARK V. TANK 16
DISABLED MARK II. TANK, ARRAS, 1917 16
TANK ON OUTPOST HILL, GAZA 78
KITCHENER’S WOOD AND GERMAN SECOND LINE. PHOTO TAKEN JULY
3, 1917. SHOWING POSITION OF TANKS G 45 AND 46 132
TANK G 46 AS I LEFT HER (EXCEPT FOR HIT ON TRACK), AUGUST
1, 1917 162
D BATTALION TANK DITCHED ON REMAINS OF POELCAPELLE CHURCH,
OCTOBER 4, 1917 240
POELCAPELLE CHURCH BEFORE THE ADVANCE IN AUGUST, SEPTEMBER,
ETC., 1917. (GERMAN PHOTO) 240
BATTLE OF CAMBRAI. BOURLON WOOD AND VILLAGE, WITH
BAPAUME-CAMBRAI ROAD IN FRONT 276
DISABLED TANK IN FONTAINE-NOTRE-DAME, NOVEMBER 1917.
(GERMAN PHOTO) 282
G BATTALION TANKS AT THE SHOOTING-BOX, BOURLON WOOD,
NOVEMBER 1917. (GERMAN PHOTO) 282
GERMAN TANK, “ADALBERT.” (GERMAN PHOTO) 288
FRENCH HEAVY SCHNEIDER TANK, CARRYING 7.5 FIELD-GUN.
(GERMAN PHOTO) 288
ABLAINZEVELLE, LOGEAST WOOD, AND ACHIET-LE-GRAND 376
BUCQUOY AND ACHIET-LE-PETIT 382
BAPAUME BURNING. END OF AUGUST 1918 404
CANAL DU NORD AT LOCK 4 438
TANKS OF “A” COMPANY, 7TH BATTALION, PARKED IN CANAL DU
NORD AFTER CAPTURING BOURLON VILLAGE, SEPTEMBER 27, 1918.
(OFFICIAL PHOTO) 452
SANCOURT, WITH CAMBRAI-DOUAI ROAD AND RAILWAY 476
CAPTURED ENGLISH TANKS BEING USED DURING THE REVOLUTION IN
BERLIN 500
MARK V. TANKS OF THE 12TH BATTALION AT COLOGNE 500
MAPS
Sketch map to illustrate the 2nd & 3rd battles of Gaza. 77
Third Battle of Ypres, Aug.-Nov. 1917. 130
The Cockcroft, Aug. 19, 1917. 209
First Battle of Cambrai. 269
Third Battle of the Somme. 355
Attack on August 21, 1918. 381
The Advance beyond the Arras-Albert Railway, August 23-29. 391
Beugny. 407
The Canal du Nord and Bourlon. 435
Sancourt. 467
PART I.
THE FIRST PHASE:
FROM THE SOMME TO YPRES
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY: THE GENESIS OF THE LANDSHIP.
I.
This book is not, in a formal sense, a history of the Tank Corps. Such
a history must necessarily be impersonal in tone, and probably would
aim at being judicial in manner--this last an almost impossible feat
in our present state of knowledge. A more elastic form of narrative,
based to some degree on my own experiences as a subaltern in the corps,
appears to me to be preferable, as it will allow greater freedom of
method and opinion and a large scope for the merely interesting and
picturesque. Moreover, there already is in preparation (and likely to
be in print before this appears) more than one semi-official history.
It is my aim, therefore, to avoid giving a monotonous tale of battles
which (to the lay mind) seem very familiar in type, and to describe
instead in general terms the actual work of the tank in action at
various stages of its career as an arm of the service, with its
problems, its tactics, and its influence upon the war as a whole.
At the same time, it is necessary to use chronological facts as a
scaffolding. The operations of the Tank Corps in the field, up to
the date of the Armistice, fall naturally into two phases, marked
very happily by a change in nomenclature. During the first phase, as
the Heavy Section of the Machine Gun Corps, the new organisation was
definitely on trial, finding its feet, learning its job, conquering
obstruction, indifference, and other impediments: during the second
phase, as a separate arm with a name and establishment of its own,
the corps moved onward from success to success, became indispensable
and ubiquitous, grew to an astounding size, suffered (from friend
and enemy) the sincerest form of flattery, and effected a complete
revolution in the tactics of battle. The turning-point in its fortunes
is marked approximately by two actions, of widely different scope,
fought in the autumn of 1917--the little affair known as the Cockcroft,
on August 19th, and the first battle of Cambrai ten weeks later. Such
milestones as these, and certain of the final operations in which
the corps played a conspicuous part and with which I am personally
familiar, I shall treat at considerable length; but for the rest a mere
skeleton of history will amply serve.
II.
Introductions, if so labelled, are often left unread; and for this
reason I have introduced already into this chapter matter belonging
more properly to a preface. There remain certain other points which
should be borne continually in mind by all who read this (or any
other) account of the birth, growth, and achievement of the corps. I
am enumerating them here, out of their real order in the narrative,
because, in the present general ignorance of the subject, it is only by
the help of some such basis for judgment that an adequate estimate of
performance can be attempted.
The points are these:--
(1) The tank, even when the war ended, was still in an
experimental stage.
(2) The Tank Corps was the only arm of the service equipped
with an entirely novel weapon which was formed while the
war actually was in progress. Every one had to learn
everything from the beginning. There were no traditions,
nor any experience of any kind to draw on until the first
battle had been fought.
(3) The corps suffered at the outset from a surfeit of parents.
For months it was governed in turn or together by a number
of departments; and often the right hand did not know what
the left hand was about.
(4) Perhaps at that time it was taken seriously by only two
classes of persons--firstly, the actual projectors, a few
naval and military officers and civil engineers, who worked
tirelessly, without reward or even recognition, and to whom
most of the credit for the eventual triumph is due; and,
secondly, that commercial element which, in our country,
profits by every national crisis and sees in every new and
struggling enterprise for the public benefit only another
opportunity of making money.
(5) Until the first battle of Cambrai the corps was still on
probation. It had enemies among the conservatives at
the War Office and at G.H.Q. in France; and its early
fights, which in effect were practical experiments on an
ever-increasing scale, abounding in lessons for those who
cared to learn, were taken as proof of its permanently
limited value. At Cambrai, for the first time, it was given
a chance under favourable conditions; and after that, all
was changed. No one could have too many tanks. Infantry
commanders clamoured for them in and out of season.
(6) The functions and limitations of the tank as a weapon were
very imperfectly apprehended in the beginning by the other
arms of the service. Again it was Cambrai, that greatest
of all military experiments, which, by its magnitude
and success, drove home once for all the lesson that
notwithstanding wire, entrenchments, and machine-guns,
surprise frontal attacks on a large scale were become
practicable once more.
(7) The tank was now taken up in earnest. Co-operation with
infantry, unheard of as a feature of training until just
before that battle, was practised regularly behind certain
army fronts, and was not suspended even during the German
offensives in the following spring. It was realised at
last that when we regained the initiative we should be
in possession of a weapon which had revolutionised the
principles of attack. The evil of the long preliminary
bombardment, warning the enemy days and weeks before an
assault, and destroying one set of obstacles only to
set up another of its own making, had reached excessive
proportions at Ypres in the past autumn. It was now laid
for ever. The sound of it, at least from the British lines,
was hardly heard again during the remainder of the war. The
tank was to lead the infantry over instead.
(8) If any one invention hastened the end, it was the tank.
The German Higher Command, who ought to know, repeatedly
coupled the new weapon with the blockade as one of
the ultimate causes of their defeat. Captured German
orders during the final year were filled with warnings
and instructions concerning tanks. Telephonic messages
referring to them were to have priority over all others.
Troops were to be trained or cajoled into learning to face
them. Special officers, to deal with anti-tank defence,
were attached to divisional headquarters. Traps were to be
dug. Mine-fields were to be laid. Anti-tank stockades, in
village streets or defiles, were a common feature of the
later battlefields. If it sounds extravagant to claim that
tanks won the war, it is indisputable that they hastened
its end by six months or a year. The final advance would
have been an impossibility without them.
(9) The corps was consistently disregarded in official
despatches. It was hampered at every turn by the
conservative outlook of senior officers. Out of six army
commanders, only three fought offensive actions over ground
where tanks could properly be used, and they, at least,
understood their value. But for a just appreciation one
must turn to the official reports and grateful personal
acknowledgments of infantry brigade and battalion
commanders, and to the infantry rank and file themselves.
(10) As some proof of the vital part which tanks played in
the final advance, it may be pointed out that, from
the 8th August 1918 to the 7th November--approximately
ninety days--the corps led the infantry of two armies
in seventy engagements, ranging from full-dress battle,
where two or three hundred tanks were employed, to the
daily local attacks in which only half a dozen took part.
Simultaneously, the French were using their light Rénaults
in scores: the Americans took Rénaults in at St Mihiel and
our Mark V.’s beyond Le Cateau; and one of the few German
counter-attacks which gained a temporary success was led
by tanks captured from us in the March retreat. On this
occasion a serious reverse was only stayed by the arrival
of some of our own machines, which drove the Germans off
when our infantry was breaking.
Enough has been said at this stage. It will be necessary, at the risk
of becoming tedious, to reiterate and amplify these points from time to
time as the narrative grows; but it is well to get them tabulated here.
We can proceed now to a brief consideration of the modern tank, its
genesis, its growth, and its early days of experiment and training.
III.
The curious might spend a profitable week or so at the British Museum
investigating the origins of the landship. These are indeed obvious
enough, for although there is a school (in the halfpenny press) which
traces them no further back than to a story by Mr H. G. Wells, the tank
is, in fact, the lineal descendant of the knight in armour, the “war
carts” of the Scots, the Roman testudo, the elephants of Hannibal, and
the chariots of Boadicea. Among the innumerable activities of Leonardo
da Vinci was a scheme for “secure and covered chariots,” carrying
guns; and as recently as 1888 (but still forestalling Mr Wells) a
steam-driven vehicle on the caterpillar principle was projected. All of
these manifestations were but varieties of shock troops, calculated to
overcome the defensive tactics of their period. Perhaps the elephant
was the least reliable, as he showed a tendency to turn about in the
heat of battle and forthwith trample down his own friends. Within the
last twenty years the caterpillar tractor, the immediate ancestor of
the tank, was pulling 60-pounder guns over ditches on Salisbury Plain;
and this form of locomotive was still in use for such haulage purposes
when war broke out in 1914.
It occurred to no one in the first stages of this conflict that a
continent would prove too small for the manœuvres of modern armies.
But the open fighting in the early autumn of 1914 came to an end with
the race for the coast; and the opposing forces found themselves
entrenched along the whole of the immense front, their flanks resting
on Switzerland and the Channel, and therefore perfectly secure, and
with no apparent way out of this _impasse_ but the costly method of
frontal assaults. Here, in fact, was that German bugbear, the “parallel
battle.” The enemy proceeded to launch his series of attacks in
Flanders, in an endeavour to create a flank, and learnt again that a
stubborn and disciplined infantry, given time to dig itself in, even
“if only with a spoon,” could beat off greatly superior numbers. The
assailant had everything in his favour, for on top of our numerical
weakness we were lamentably short of machine-guns, howitzers, and, in
particular, field artillery H.E. ammunition. (Batteries about this time
were limited--except during an enemy attack--to five rounds per gun per
day; and it is said that on one occasion two of these precious rounds
having been expended in answer to some call from our infantry, the
gunners rang up the latter to ask if they really needed the remaining
three!) It was manifest, therefore, that if opportunity for a serious
counter-attack had arisen, even supposing we had the men available, we
had no means of preparing the way for their advance. And if and when
we had both men and guns, what were the chances of success against the
precision of modern weapons? The Germans, tackling the same problem
from their side, tried again with poison gas; but to this, after its
initial triumph, the chemists speedily found an antidote, and it fell
to be a mere adjunct of the ordinary harassing tactics of artillery.
The Flammenwerfer, a far more futile invention, went the same road.
And when, after several months, our new divisions had been trained,
and guns and ammunition manufactured in what then was thought to
be sufficient quantity, we found out in our turn at Neuve Chapelle
and Loos that the resources of the defence were still too manifold
and powerful: that concrete, barbed wire, and machine-guns, if sown
lavishly and backed by well-trained infantry and artillery, could
fend the assailants off from any but the most limited objectives. It
is astonishing and rather pitiful to recall now the optimism of those
days. Before the morning of Loos there was much confident talk of our
being in Douai the next evening. The cavalry--the phrase was not then
as stale as it afterwards became--the cavalry was moving up, ready (in
the ingenuous euphemism of operation orders) to be “passed through”
the gap which the bombardment and infantry assault would create. Every
one, in fact, was anticipating a big advance and a resumption of open
warfare. And this in 1915! There was to be no “passing through” for
any arm until the tanks broke the Hindenburg Line at Cambrai; and even
then we had not the courage of our convictions, and the cavalry was
four hours late.
All this, of course, is the obvious wisdom after the event; but there
were many who had misgivings at the time. Certainly there was then at
work in England a small committee, consisting of naval and military
officers and technical advisers, who, realising that no expenditure of
blood and shells, as then employed, would carry an attack far enough
against modern prepared positions, were seeking for a means by which
to overcome the difficulty. Trench warfare, indeed, was hardly begun
before they were ready with a suggestion. As early as November 1914,
the Committee of Imperial Defence was approached by Colonel Swinton
with a proposal for the construction of so-called landships for use on
the Western Front.
It will be fitting here to set down the names of these innovators. They
were, Colonel E. D. Swinton; Admiral Sir R. H. S. Bacon; Captain T.
J. Tulloch, manager of the Chilworth Powder Factory; Mr Diplock, who
had designed an improved gun-tractor earlier in the year; and Major
Hetherington, of the R.N.A.S.
The problem they were attempting to solve has been indicated already,
and, with its developments, will be considered more fully later on;
but it may be repeated that in essentials it was this: How to break
down the triple obstruction of trenches, wire, and machine-guns to
such an extent as would allow the infantry to reach an objective with
sufficient numbers and spirit left to ensure its capture and retention.
This, roughly, was the limited aim of the first landship. It was known
or suspected that artillery alone could not be counted on to do the
work thoroughly. After the most intense bombardment, patches of wire
would remain uncut, strongly emplaced machine-guns undestroyed, if not
in the first hostile line, then in the second or the third; and, in
any case, we had not then enough guns or ammunition to make even the
effort worth the while. But if in addition to gun-fire some secondary
means of crushing wire and neutralising machine-guns could be devised,
much might be effected later on. The answer to this problem, in the
opinion of Colonel Swinton and his colleagues, was a combination of two
existing machines, the tractor and the armoured car--in other words,
the tank.
Perhaps this idea smelt too much of Mr Wells and Jules Verne for the
Committee of Imperial Defence. Perhaps it really was not their business
after all. In any case, they displayed no marked enthusiasm for it,
but seem to have forwarded it a little later, not, as might have been
expected, to the War Department, but to Mr Winston Churchill, then
First Lord of the Admiralty. They may have thought that so chimerical
a project, introduced, moreover, by an officer who had been guilty of
writing fiction, was something peculiarly in Mr Churchill’s line. If
they did reason in this manner, they wrought better than they knew.
They rendered excellent service to the budding enterprise, which
secured in the First Lord a powerful and pertinacious advocate. A
man so restless and intelligent could not fail to score a hit with
some of his shots; and amid the long catalogue of his disastrous
experiments it should at least be laid to his credit that he saw at
once some of the possibilities of this new weapon of offence. Whether
he foresaw all the developments of warfare which it entailed may be
doubted; but the thing itself was novel and startling: it appealed
instantly to his imagination; and he wrote forthwith a long letter
to the military authorities recommending its immediate adoption, and
incidentally rebuking them for having failed to think of something
of the sort themselves. He pointed out that, modern battles being
fought at short range, assaulting troops were exposed to a storm of
bullets from the moment they left their cover, and that some kind of
steel shelter, running on caterpillar tracks and carrying guns, would
be invaluable for convoying them through wire and machine-gun fire.
Such an experiment would cost little: if it failed, no harm was done;
and if it was moderately successful, its moral effect alone would be
great. Going somewhat beyond his brief, the First Lord then proposed
the manufacture of steel shields of various types--to be carried, to be
worn as body armour, and to be pushed on wheels. He recommended also
the use of smoke-screens in the attack, and ended by remarking that if
we did not take the lead at once in this department of warfare we might
find that the enemy had forestalled us.
This letter was written in January 1915. It produced no immediate
effect. Probably any suggestions from this source were suspect at the
War Office, and stood little chance of consideration on their merits;
and it is true that Mr Churchill’s letter was not conciliatory in tone.
About this time Colonel Swinton endeavoured to obtain a hearing on his
own account, but with no better result. Shortly after, he returned
to his duties in France. Here, during the next six months, he made
repeated unofficial attempts to get the landship idea considered, and
these may have paved the way; for when, on 4th June, he tried official
channels again and forwarded a memorandum on the subject to G.H.Q., he
received some encouragement at last. Sir John French, with practical
experience of the difficulties before him in the field, thought well
enough of the idea to submit it to the War Office.[1]
In the meantime, however, things had been moving in England, although
in a manner impossible, one would imagine, in any other country.
While the War Office had long forgotten all about this pestilent and
unpractical proposal, the Admiralty had been defraying the cost of
various experiments carried out with a Foster tractor by Admiral Bacon
and Major Hetherington, and with an adapted Holt tractor by Captain
Tulloch. The trials of the Holt machine at Shoeburyness were highly
successful. Immense cutters, like lobster claws, had been fitted
for shearing wire entanglements, but it was found that the tractor
flattened out the wire so effectually that these implements were not
needed. And now, while Colonel Swinton was drafting his memorandum
in France, a Landship Committee came into being at the instance of
Mr Churchill. The President was Mr (now Sir Eustace) D’Eyncourt. The
Consulting Engineer was Lieutenant (now Major) W. G. Wilson; and
Mr (now Sir William) Tritton not only lent his great authority and
technical experience, but produced at once designs for an armoured
tractor, to be run either on wheels or caterpillar tracks. The first
two genuine landships evolved from these and earlier designs, known
respectively as “Mother” and “Little Willie,” were discarded; but
“Big Willie,” their successor, the joint product of Mr Tritton and
Lieutenant Wilson, was to embody all the main features of the Mark I.
Tank.
The situation, as regards the War Office, was now rather ludicrous.
For when that Department, stirred at length into activity by Sir John
French’s advocacy of Colonel Swinton’s scheme, began to look around
and make inquiries, it discovered with astonishment that the Admiralty
had taken up the idea months before, and had been experimenting
quietly ever since. It was impossible, however, that the work could
be continued under a dual control; and accordingly, toward the end
of June a joint committee was formed to manage the whole enterprise.
Henceforth, in effect, the tank became a child of the Army; but it
is doubtful if the public ever knew that it was adopted more or less
under compulsion, and to the Admiralty is due the credit of having
realised its possibilities long before the War Office took a step in
the matter. The work now proceeded steadily toward fulfilment. Colonel
Swinton, returning in July to assume the post of Assistant-Secretary
to the Committee of Imperial Defence, was able to watch over his
scheme and help it on its way. “Little Willie,” already on the stocks
under the ægis of the original committee, was tested at Lincoln and
found wanting; but in the meantime the new joint-control had ordered
the building of “Big Willie” on the lines laid down by Tritton and
Wilson. This experimental machine was tried at Wembley and accepted
as a basis for future construction; and Messrs Foster of Lincoln,
Agricultural Implement Makers, embarked at once on the slightly
modified copy which became the Mark I. tank. This was indeed (to quote
from Mr Williams-Ellis’s book)[2] a case of beating our ploughshares
into swords. At the close of the year Mr Churchill, still true to his
old love, sent to G.H.Q. in France a memorandum on “Variants of the
Offensive,” in which he recapitulated his earlier suggestions for an
attack by armour. As a direct result of this, Lieut.-Colonel H. J.
Elles, R.E., was ordered to England in January 1916, to report on
the progress made; and on February 2nd the improved Wembley machine
carried out trials at Hatfield before representatives of the Army
Council and G.H.Q. in France. The demonstration was successful.
Within a week application was made officially for the construction
by Messrs Foster of 150 similar machines in six months. By this time
the joint-control had ceased to exist, at least in name; for the new
Ministry of Munitions, seeking what it might devour, had descended upon
the Landships Committee, swallowed it entire, defined its powers by
charter, and then reindued it with life as the Tank Committee. But it
was soon felt that here a great chance had been let slip: no Government
institution could thrive beneath so simple and banal a designation;
and in August, by yet one more feat of legerdemain, the much-harassed
control became the Mechanical Warfare Supply Department. All was now
well; and under this euphonious title it continued to supply the
British Army with tanks until the end of the war.
Hand in hand with these events, a military unit was formed to fight
the new machines. The Heavy Section of the Machine Gun Corps came into
being in March, with Colonel Swinton in command.
CHAPTER II.
THE MARK I. AND MARK IV. TANKS: THE FIRST COMPANIES.
I.
The tank was only just emerging from the primitive stage when the war
ended. The Mark V., which entered the field in 1918 (in excellent
time for the Amiens retreat), was in the opinion of many people the
first tank worthy of the name. But the heat and burden of the day
had been borne by the earlier types, whose carcases littered a dozen
battlefields all down the line, from the Salient to Cambrai, and
whose successes and misfortunes provided the foundation for the final
triumph. It will be convenient to deal here with those early types,
Marks I. and IV., together, for they differed only in comparatively
minor features. Marks II. and III. had no genuine existence. The Mark
II. was simply the Mark I. in a slightly advanced stage of evolution
without its tail, and the Mark III. was experimental.
Half a chapter on the idiosyncrasies of these machines will not be
exciting. It will be difficult even to make it interesting. But such
details have to be faced sooner or later, and are better done with for
good and all early in the book.
“Big Willie” and its one hundred and fifty Mark I. successors were
designed to cope with the conditions encountered on what was then
considered to be a typical modern battlefield--namely, that of
Loos. On account of its very limited success and disproportionate
casualties, this battle won many converts to the theory of the “attack
by armour”; but it misled to some extent those who were responsible
for specifying the capabilities required of the new weapon. It was
not fully realised that by the date when the tanks would be ready for
the field, the conditions on most battle-fronts must certainly have
changed materially for the worse. Owing to the enormous projected
increase in our artillery, the autumn of 1916 was likely to find the
terrain immediately behind the enemy’s front line pounded to atoms. But
no one foresaw the appallingly destructive effect of such gun-fire as
was to blast the Somme and Ypres battlefields during the two ensuing
years. It is commonly supposed that the original tank was constructed
expressly to meet this difficulty. It was not: it was designed to fight
over the moderately shelled areas (as they seem to us now) with which
we were familiar at the end of 1915. Actually it made its entry upon
ground which, for miles ahead, was convulsed as if by an earthquake, or
water-logged like a quagmire; and not until Cambrai did tanks operate
under anything approaching favourable conditions.
[Illustration: The Mark V. Tank.]
It was desired to have a machine which, in the first place, would cross
a trench nine feet wide. The engineers’ earliest solution embodied
huge wheels with caterpillar tracks. But as these wheels, to fulfil
the specification, must have had a diameter of fifteen feet, they were
ruled out as offering too big a target; and after several intermediate
stages, in which varieties of the ordinary tractor model (such as
“Mother” and “Little Willie”) were tried and discarded, an ingenious
compromise was discovered. In the Mark I. tank (and all later types
conformed to this shape) the tracks passed completely round the body
of the machine. The underside of this body was in effect a segment of
a wheel, as will be apparent to any one who looks at the outline; and
the tracks, instead of continuing round the whole periphery, turned
back virtually at right angles over the nose and so along the top
of the body. The width of trench which could be crossed by machines of
this design depended only on their length, or, in other words, on the
circumference of the wheel. The Mark I., 26 feet long, could in fact
cross an 11-foot gap, climb a vertical obstacle 5 feet high, and crawl
up any slope of 1 in 2. Craters, however big, presented no difficulty
provided the ground was firm.
[Illustration: Disabled Mark II. Tank, Arras, 1917.]
On the level the tank was resting on no more than 4 or 5 feet of
its length (the wheel again), which gave it when moving a slight
fore-and-aft rocking motion. The point of gravity was almost in the
centre, and with this admirable balance a skilful driver could lower
his machine quite gently down over any drop that was not absolutely
sheer. In the Mark I. this operation was facilitated by a cumbersome
atrocity known as the hydraulic stabiliser, or, more simply, the
tail,--a pivoted structure at the stern carrying two large wheels which
was controlled (in theory) by an hydraulic ram. This tail was designed
also to assist steering, but when the tank was swung (of which more
later) the whole affair had to be raised. It was an abomination from
the start; it took anything from five minutes to half an hour to lift;
and in action it was the first thing to be disabled or shot away. It
was discarded after the Somme battles, where it was found that its loss
made little or no difference to the efficiency of the machine, and was,
from every other point of view, a godsend.
The tank mounted its main armament in sponsons--a form of projecting
gun-casemate borrowed from naval architecture.[3] The male tank
carried two Hotchkiss 6-pounder Q.F. naval guns on recoil mountings,
protected by close-fitting revolving shields, which gave an arc of
fire of about 120 degrees. These are extremely handy little weapons,
especially when shortened as in the Mark IV., and could be loaded and
fired if necessary by one man. With a calibre of 2¹⁄₄ inches, they
fired percussion common shell and case-shot; and although sighted up
to 2600 yards, were used normally at quite short ranges, when their
enormous flash and detonation, out of all proportion to their size, had
a great moral effect. In addition, there was a port in each sponson
for a Hotchkiss machine-gun or automatic rifle. The tank commander
also was provided with one of these weapons, to be fired (with extreme
difficulty) through a port in the cab.
The Mark I. female carried Vickers’ machine-guns, two to a sponson, or
four in all, behind revolving shields. The water-jackets were protected
by a kind of armoured sleeve, and the gunners sat on bicycle-seats
which moved with the shields. The tank commander was again given a
Hotchkiss. The Vickers, a beautiful gun, was perfectly satisfactory
in a tank; but in the Mark IV., either on account of a shortage of
Vickers’ or of some commercial influence, the Lewis gun was introduced
as the light weapon throughout both male and female types. As no
armoured casing was provided for the barrel, it was disabled very
easily by bullets alone, a defect which the Germans did not fail to
discover; and in the Mark V. and later types the Hotchkiss (which is
all but indestructible) reappeared.
The sponsons of the Mark I. tank were heavy affairs bolted to the side
of the machine. The latter then being too wide over-all for carriage
by rail, it was necessary before entrainment to unbolt the sponsons
and hoist them by a laborious process with a girder and tackle on to
specially constructed trolleys, which were towed by the tank. In
the Mark IV. an infinitely superior system was substituted. The male
sponson, reduced in size and weight, could be pushed inwards, gun and
all, after unbolting. On the female tanks a double door, flush with
the body, replaced the lower half of the old sponson; the remaining
upper half, also more compact than in the Mark I., was bolted down the
middle and hinged to the main structure at each end. It was necessary
only to unscrew these few bolts and swing the two portions back on
their hinges. Although not so simple as they sound, these operations
were child’s play in comparison with the earlier abomination of girder
and tackle. Moreover, this new arrangement on the female tank had the
great advantage of facilitating the entrance or escape of the crew. The
manhole in the roof and a dreadful little aperture beside the radiator
in the stern were common to both types; but for ordinary use the Mark
I. female possessed only a small door, some two feet high, in either
sponson; and if the tank were hit and set on fire, some of her men
were almost certain to be trapped. With the improved sponson all could
escape in a few seconds. Male sponsons, it may be noted, always allow
for quite reasonable doors.
So much for the shell and armament of the landship. The motive
power was a more difficult problem. There was no time to design and
construct special plant: some petrol-driven engine already in use
had to be selected. The choice fell eventually on the Daimler 105
H.P. six-cylinder sleeve-valve tractor unit. It must be left to the
mechanically-minded to decide whether a more suitable engine could have
been discovered. The greatest merit of the Daimler was its comparative
simplicity. It was very nearly fool-proof. It took up an immense amount
of space, however, for in the Mark I. the differential gear, radiator,
and petrol-supply were all enclosed in the body of the tank. There was
left just sufficient room for a narrow gangway on either side between
the engine and the sponson, for the two seats for the officer and
driver in the cab in front, and for further seats on the casing above
the crank-shaft and gear-box. Over this casing was the crank-handle for
starting up the engine--a process which required normally the efforts
of three or four men.
A serious fault existed in the method of transmitting the motive power
from the engine to the tracks. Working off the differential, and
manipulated by levers, a primitive and infuriating system of secondary
gears, pinions, and Coventry chains connected with the sprocket wheels
which performed the actual labour of propulsion. Two men were required
to work these gears; and no member of any tank crew who took a Mark I.
or Mark IV. into action is ever likely to forget the sweat and tears
and blasphemy expended over this atrocious system. Apart from the
labour and waste of time (and consequent danger) which it involved,
it has been asserted by pessimists that 75 per cent of power was lost
in the secondary gears and transmission. In addition to changes of
speed, these gears played a prominent part in the more frequent act of
“swinging.” To alter direction to any appreciable degree the tank had
to be swung. The differential was locked, the track on the side toward
which the turn was intended was disconnected by putting the secondary
gears on that side into neutral, and the other track, with the whole
drive behind it, then pulled the tank round--if the soil was firm,
virtually on its axis. Handbrakes, working from the officer’s seat to
the extension shafts on the differential, assisted in the process, and
could be used alone for small changes of direction. Swinging with this
transmission was unsatisfactory in the extreme. It required the work of
four men, and often was very slow. In the Mark V., epicyclic gears and
a one-man control were introduced.
In the Mark I. the petrol-supply was carried in two tanks, one on
either side of the cab in front. With this arrangement, whoever else
might escape when the machine was set on fire, the officer and driver
stood an excellent chance of being burnt alive; and in the Mark IV.
an armoured tank holding sixty gallons, placed outside in rear, was
substituted. In all types, every available inch of space within was
utilised for ammunition racks. The male tank was designed to carry 160
rounds of 6-pounder shell, and 1500 rounds of S.A.A.; the female to
carry 7800 rounds of the latter; but, in fact, these numbers were often
exceeded, and as much as 27,000 rounds of S.A.A. have been taken into
action in a tank. Spare supplies of water, oil, and grease, together
with two days’ rations and the crew’s equipment, were tucked away
wherever room could be found. It will be apparent, therefore, that
there was little scope for movement and no possibility of comfort in a
fully-loaded tank. Although ventilation was assisted by a rotary-fan,
placed in the stern and worked off the half-time shaft, the heat was
terrific: no one could stand upright; and the uproar of the engine was
so loud that orders had to be transmitted by signs. Visibility was
limited in the extreme. The officer and driver had flaps which, when
fully open, gave a fair range of vision immediately in front; but when
it was necessary to close these there remained only a number of double
glass prisms[4] let into the armour, and some inadequate periscopes
thrust up through the roof. After a while naval compasses on gimbals
were provided, but in such a mass of steel and iron they proved of very
small value.
A few words must be said as to a tank’s method of progression. The two
caterpillar tracks, passing completely round the body of the machine,
consisted each of ninety hard steel plates with lips for gripping the
surface. These tracks did not actually move over the ground; the tank
in effect laid its own track, clawed its way along it by means of the
two sprocket wheels in the rear, and then picked it up behind and
passed it over its head, as it were, before laying it down in front
again. During this process the whole weight of the machine rested on
a number of flanged rollers, which wore out very rapidly, as did
the early sprocket wheels. Tracks and rollers required continual
lubrication--the latter by injections from grease-guns. The less said
of this ghastly operation the better.
It will be fitting to include in so tedious a section a few statistics.
The length of the Mark I. tank was 26 feet 6 inches; its width
(including sponsons) 12 feet 9 inches in the male, 10 feet 5 inches in
the female; and its height was 8 feet 1 inch. It weighed approximately
26 tons. The armour throughout the body was 12 mm. thick, but on
the sponsons, for some obscure reason, only 10 mm. It was proof
against shrapnel and ordinary S.A.A., but failed to keep out the “K”
armour-piercing bullet which the Germans, apparently on the strength of
vague warnings received, had just introduced.
Combinations of the primary and secondary gears gave four different
speeds forward and one reverse, the highest reaching something over
four miles an hour on level ground. Not more than 30 to 40 yards
a minute was expected of a tank across trench systems and heavily
shelled areas. The estimated radius of action without a refill was ten
hours; and it was not believed that a crew could endure for longer the
exhausting conditions amid which they must work and fight. Finally,
it was thought that the track-rollers and the sprockets and pinions
of the secondary gears would require to be replaced after about fifty
hours’ running. As a matter of fact, most of these estimates were
conservative. Tanks ran for fifteen hours and more without a refill;
their crews withstood the heat and gases for even longer periods; and
with improved steel in the sprockets and pinions these were found to
survive such journeys as were not dreamed of in the early days.
The Mark IV. was virtually identical with the Mark I. in shape,
dimensions, and method of propulsion. Owing to its modified sponsons it
was of less width. Its armour was slightly thicker and harder, and kept
out the “K” bullets, although the impact of the latter drove splinters
from the inside wall.[5] The exhaust, instead of opening direct on to
the roof, where its flames often betrayed the position of the tank at
night, was led down over the stern. A number of Daimlers of 125 H.P.
were mounted in this class, and, with a better type of radiator, raised
the speed to about five miles an hour on the level.
In conclusion, we will describe briefly the method of conveying tanks
by rail. A 50-ton truck of great length, known officially as a “K.T.,”
was designed especially for the purpose; and after a few preliminary
rites the tank was driven direct on to this over a ramp. The normal
train used in France carried twelve tanks, so that the leader had to
drive over eleven trucks before it arrived at its own, the second
ten, and so on. The trucks were only four inches wider than the span
of the caterpillar tracks: the act of entraining or detraining took
place almost invariably at night: occasionally, owing to the faults
or exigencies of the railway service, the tanks had to be driven off
stern first; and if the line up to the ramp was curved, as often it
was, a very nice judgment in driving and guidance was demanded. It
often happened that some machine suffering from mechanical trouble
required to be towed off by one of its fellows. Finally, at times
of great urgency (as for the big concentration before Cambrai), it
became necessary to make use of French 30-ton trucks, which were never
intended to carry such a load, and were, moreover, actually narrower
than a tank. Yet all ranks became so expert in this work that it was
not uncommon for an entire company to be entrained in the dark in less
than thirty minutes, and detrained in little more. The whole process,
with its harrowing contingencies, will fall to be described at a later
period in the book; but I may add here that, speaking from memory,
I can recall only one serious accident during a move by rail. This
happened just before Cambrai, when a tank fell from a French truck as
the train was taking a sharp curve. And for that battle some 470 were
detrained in a few days in the same area.
II.
In Easter week, 1916, two new companies of the M.G.C., known as the
Heavy Section, and lettered “K” and “L,” were formed at Bisley under
Lieut.-Colonel Bradley. Colonel Swinton remained at Headquarters
in London. The personnel was recruited principally from the A.S.C.
(M.T.) and from the classes attested under the Derby scheme. For
officers, volunteers for what was described as a new armoured-car unit
were gathered in from the ranks of the 18th, 19th, and 21st Royal
Fusiliers--the so-called public-school battalions, then in France--and
from the Motor Machine Gun Corps. There being as yet no tanks available
for training purposes, the programme of work at Bisley was limited
virtually to drill and courses in the Hotchkiss guns. It would be
absurd to pretend that any of this was taken very seriously. The
other established arms of the service, now expanding beyond belief,
absorbed all the best regular soldiers left in England; and the new
formation suffered inevitably from a lack of competent and energetic
senior officers. Many of us must be familiar with the casual methods
and discipline which obtained in such embryo organisations in those
days, and it is unnecessary to fill in the details. Of the subaltern
officers, probably 75 per cent represented as good material as could
be found anywhere--a high proportion, in view of the extraordinary and
haphazard processes by which the commissioned ranks of the New Army
were filled, and one which compared very favourably with that of most
infantry units. From the outbreak of war, while the uneducated and
unintelligent were obtaining commissions for the asking, there were
fighting and dying as private soldiers or N.C.O.’s thousands of men
accustomed to responsibility and leadership; and amid this criminal
wastage the new corps was lucky to obtain so good a nucleus. As for the
original rank and file, they were admirable. A large number, of course,
were skilled mechanics; and the fighting qualities of all, under
conditions entirely novel and trying in the extreme to nerve and body,
were beyond praise.
The prelude at Bisley did not continue long. Arrangements had been
made to take over Lord Iveagh’s estate at Thetford, in Norfolk, for
training purposes; and the Heavy Section was translated thither in June
to make the acquaintance of its new machines. Within the estate the
R.E.’s had constructed a model battlefield, with trenches, craters,
and other obstacles. Since the enterprise, theoretically, was shrouded
in mystery, the whole area was swept clear of inhabitants. Farms and
cottages were evacuated. Fences, barbed wire, and sentries kept the
East Coast labourer intrigued and amused. Aeroplanes which came too
near were fired at. These methods seem, on the whole, to have been
successful. It was impossible to conceal the fact that something was
doing: beautiful female spies and their less attractive colleagues
of the other sex are said to have transmitted vague warnings to the
enemy; but until the Mark I.’s appeared on the Somme front the Germans
had no definite information to work on. Messrs Foster, building the
first 150 at Lincoln, preferred simpler, yet perhaps more subtle,
deceptions. There was no secrecy in their yards. Any one could see
what they were doing. They were building mobile water tanks for the
Russians, those useful people, Russia being notoriously a waterless
country and badly served with roads. There are still to be seen a few
old training machines which bear inscribed on their sides a legend in
large white Russian characters, setting forth their alleged purpose and
destination. This last was Petrograd. In such a manner the word “tank”
came into use as a convenient code expression, and remained to stay.
And as the completed tanks arrived by rail at the training area after
dark, it is probable that few persons outside the corps were aware of
any connection between the simple Russian water-carriers at Lincoln and
the mysterious armoured cars which manœuvred behind the walls of the
huge enclosure at Thetford.
On its arrival in the new area the Heavy Section began work in earnest
on the machines available. At first, unfortunately, there were not
many: there was some delay in delivery, and already there were upwards
of a thousand officers and men to be trained. It had been decided to
form six fighting companies, of which four were to be ready by the
beginning of August. These companies were now lettered from “A” to “F,”
and were each to be composed of four sections of six tanks (three male
and three female), with one reserve tank, making twenty-five in all.
Each section was divided again into three sub-sections of two tanks. A
tank crew consisted of a subaltern, three drivers, and four gunners,
including an N.C.O. The company was commanded by a major, the sections
by captains. The total strength was thirty-one officers and about
200 other ranks. To every two companies there was a quartermaster’s
establishment and a workshop’s section of three officers and thirty
men. By the 14th August the first four companies--A, B, C, and D--were
complete as regards personnel; and the right half of C, with thirteen
tanks, had already left for France.
We can prepare to follow. There is no need to enlarge upon the training
at Thetford. With the arrival of the actual machines, decorated with
Russian characters, interest and zeal revived. It was difficult to
remain enthusiastic about the Hotchkiss gun for weeks on end; but to
drive a tank across trenches and in and out of craters, even in July,
was a novel and piquant form of work. It was felt that things were
moving at last: the atmosphere of secrecy was attractive, and there
were many indications of the importance already attaching to the new
arm. Generals and staff officers came down to witness demonstrations,
and the necessary element of humour was provided when a tank-load of
them was upset in a trench. The men were both clever and keen, and the
most serious trouble was the insufficient supply of machines in which
to train them. Many drivers had spent no more than an hour or two in
a tank when they left for France. It may well seem, indeed, that the
first companies were rushed out too soon; but there were good arguments
for the move. The difficulties encountered in the Somme offensive
led to a request for the early departure of tanks; and although the
training of both officers and men was lamentably incomplete, it was
thought that a month or two of actual battle experience would outweigh
all the manifest disadvantages of a premature entry. The winter
could then be spent in profiting by the lessons learnt. A startling
success in the beginning was not anticipated by any one who realised
the difficulties to be overcome. The danger rather was of a complete
failure, and consequent discouragement; and this possibility had to be
faced. It was hoped, however, that the new arm would at least play so
good a part as to justify its present claims and its demands for future
development.
As we have seen, the right half of C Company left England on the 13th
August. The left half followed on the 22nd. D was the next to go, and
then A and B. There remained the two later companies, E and F, but
these never left the country as units. The other four did all that was
asked of them: the experiment was justified; and E and F stayed to form
the nucleus of the battalions raised at home when the great expansion
of the corps was authorised later in the year.
CHAPTER III.
THE SOMME BATTLES.
I.
As the companies of the Heavy Section arrived in France, they were
assembled with their tanks at Yvrench, near Abbeville. This was before
the days of the Channel Ferry. The heavy machines had to be shipped
like any other form of ordnance; and they were but a part of the load
which required to be carried overseas. Several complete workshops,
dozens of sponson trolleys, light cars, lorries, and motor-bicycles,
together with tons upon tons of spare parts, furnished the first
instalments of that vast collection of material which the Tank Corps
came to accumulate in France.
A training centre was established at Yvrench, at first under
Lieut.-Colonel Brough, but early in September Colonel Bradley came
out to take over the command. It was known that the unit would soon
be called upon, and there still was an immense amount of work to
be done. Drivers and gunners had to receive further training. The
tanks required to be overhauled and tuned up. Workshops and depots
must be established. Above all, a host of novel problems concerning
administration, supply, tactics--in short, the whole method and
manner of tank-work in the field--fell to be solved without delay,
and, what was more, without assistance. The tank companies in France
were nobody’s children. Their nominal parent, the M.G.C. (itself a
mushroom growth of doubtful antecedents and future), had in fact no
actual connection with them whatever; and it would seem that a new
technical unit, in so experimental a stage, should more properly have
been made a branch of an established technical corps, such as the
Royal Engineers. As it was, the companies were self-contained and
unattached. The infantry, whom they had come to help, knew nothing
of them except by rumour. The Generals and staff officers who came
to see them perform regarded them as a curious and rather dangerous
innovation, unlikely to be of much practical value. In so far as this
isolation was intentional, it is very doubtful whether the measure of
secrecy obtained by it outweighed its disadvantages. The first battle
was near at hand; and a few minutes after zero the secret would be
exploded for ever. In the meantime, a fuller comprehension by other
arms, a more liberal interchange of views, in especial some tuition of
the infantry who were to co-operate in action, might have saved much
disappointment and many lives. Nothing of the kind was attempted; and
the companies had to think out and master other people’s problems in
addition to their own, in the field and with small aid from outside.
Some contingencies inevitably were overlooked. Not only was experience
of this new warfare yet to seek, but many of the officers and a larger
proportion of the men actually were in France for the first time, and
knew nothing of normal battle conditions. It is surprising how much was
foreseen and provided for in spite of these disadvantages. The matter
of supply, for example, seems to have been dealt with adequately from
the beginning, for the tanks were seldom hampered for want of petrol
or ammunition, wherever they might be. As regards general tactics, the
new unit was fortunate in possessing a basis to work on in a valuable
memorandum issued by Colonel Swinton early in the year. In this he
outlined the probable scope of tank warfare, dealt with infantry
co-operation and artillery support, and laid down a definite system of
attack which in essentials is in use to-day.[6] On the other hand,
less thought was given to a Department that proved to be of vital
importance. This was Intelligence, or (as the branch of that service in
the Tank Corps is more accurately styled) Reconnaissance. Circumstances
peculiar to tank operations call for the training of special officers
in this duty alone, as well as an unusually high standard of
proficiency in all tank commanders; but these needs were not recognised
fully at the outset, and one Intelligence officer, Captain Hotblack,
was responsible for the welfare of all four companies. A little later,
and there were seven Reconnaissance Officers to each battalion; and the
corps soon won so high a reputation for thoroughness in this work that
every formation in the Army, from Headquarters downward, came to it for
assistance.
II.
In the beginning of September the situation along the Somme Front was
as follows:--
After two months’ very sanguinary fighting two stages of the battle
had been completed, more or less satisfactorily. In the British sector,
which alone concerns us, the enemy’s first and second positions had
been captured from a point just west of Combles (where we touched
the French 6th Army) to Pozières on the Albert-Bapaume road. Farther
northward, from Pozières to Gommecourt, we had failed badly, and were
still in our old front line. The casualties had been extremely heavy.
Before Beaumont Hamel and Thiepval, whole brigades were destroyed on
the first day without gaining a yard of ground; and along this moiety
of our front the battle came virtually to a standstill for months.
In the southern portion our advance, although slow and costly, had
progressed fairly methodically, side by side with that of the French.
The result was a flattish salient biting into the enemy’s old position
from the Albert-Bapaume road, southward across the Somme, to the road
from Amiens to Brie. Corresponding to the curve of the salient was the
German third line of defence, completed since the battle began. On the
British front it ran along the reverse slope of the Pozières Morval
ridge (most of which was in our possession), some five miles west of
Bapaume. It was now intended to resume our advance in an easterly and
north-easterly direction toward that town. The tunnelled positions of
Thiepval and Beaumont Hamel were to be left, for the present, still
unassailed, except for a few minor enterprises required to improve the
existing line.
The main attack was fixed for the 15th of September. Both the British
armies now engaged in the general offensive were taking part: the
4th, under General Rawlinson, whose front extended from the point
of junction with the French to west of Martinpuich, and a part of
Gough’s 5th or Reserve Army, which continued the line northward.
From right to left the 4th Army was to carry the villages of Morval,
Les Bœufs, Gueudecourt, and Flers; while Gough, after a preliminary
operation south-west of Thiepval on the 14th, had in hand the capture
of Martinpuich and Courcelette. The usual orders were issued for a
vigorous exploitation of any opening--a poor hope on the Somme--and
once more the Cavalry Corps, with all its impedimenta, clattered
noisily up toward the battlefield to be at hand if needed.
The tanks were to make their entry in this attack. C and D Companies,
commanded respectively by Major Holford Walker and Major Summers,
D.S.C., were allotted to the two armies, and on the 10th moved up
to the railway centre called the Loop, near Bray. From there the
tanks trekked to their lying-up positions for the battle--C to the
Briqueterie near Trônes Wood, and D to the Green Dump behind Delville
Wood. The companies’ headquarters followed on the 14th. For the actual
attack the tanks were to be distributed as follows:--
Three sections of each company (17 tanks apiece) worked on the right
and right-centre with the 14th and 15th Corps. One section of 8 tanks
of D Company was attached to the 3rd Corps in the centre, while the
remaining section of C (7 tanks) came under the orders of the Reserve
Army on the left. This made a total of 49. It was intended for the
machines to be used in sub-sections of two or three against specified
strong-points. There was some discussion as to whether they should
precede or follow the infantry at zero. If they led, it was feared
that the noise of their approach to the front line would bring down
the enemy’s barrage upon our assembly trenches; and eventually it was
decided that their arrival should be so timed that they could reach the
first objectives--roughly the line of villages--five minutes before the
infantry. For this purpose lanes were to be left in our own barrage.
I shall not attempt a detailed account of this or any other early tank
action. In the first place, it would be difficult to do so, for the
records of those days are meagre and inaccurate. Again, the _rôle_ of
the tanks on the Somme was so largely experimental and subsidiary that
infantry operation orders, even after the secret was blown, were framed
to be carried out irrespective of the action of what was then regarded
in most quarters as an unreliable innovation of doubtful future. As
regards the tactical methods employed, an organisation in its infancy,
with everything to learn, had to take what chances it was offered, and
had little say in the direction of events. No attempt was or could be
made at this stage, or for long after, to introduce those revolutionary
tactics (already discussed and advocated by Colonel Swinton and others)
in which the tank was to be the vital instrument, and wherein lies the
chief interest of its history. Finally, since all tank battles as such
bear very similar features, I prefer to concentrate on later ones of
which I have personal knowledge.
The attack on the 15th September was highly successful on the left and
centre, but failed on the right, where the strong-point known as the
Quadrilateral held up our advance against Morval and Les Bœufs. On
the whole, it may be said that the work of the tanks fully justified
expectations. No startling triumph could be recorded, but under the
circumstances none was anticipated. Enough was done to demonstrate
the inherent soundness of the design, the correctness of the tactical
axioms laid down, and the enormous potential value of the machine when
faults had been rectified and the personnel more highly trained. The
test to which the Heavy Section had been put was a severe one. The
ground everywhere was so pulverised by the ferocious shelling of the
past two months, that out of 49 tanks which left the Briqueterie and
Green Dump that night, 17 failed to reach their starting-points. These
broke down or were ditched on the way, the absence of any unditching
gear, such as was supplied later, proving a serious handicap. Half
an hour before zero, which fell at dawn, the other 32 began to crawl
forward to the front line. The three sections of C Company, on the
right, had been particularly unfortunate during the approach-march, and
the few tanks remaining were able to effect little or nothing against
the Quadrilateral and Les Bœufs. In most cases they were ditched or
knocked out by shell-fire soon after they crossed the German front
line. D Company’s three sections, working with the 15th Corps farther
north, were far more successful. Every one who read the newspapers at
the time knows how one tank preceded the New Zealanders up the main
street of Flers, driving the terrified Germans down into the cellars,
where the infantry rounded them up. The tank then moved on to a trench
strongly held by the enemy, enfiladed it, moved along behind it, and
took 300 prisoners. Farther north, the two sections assisting the 3rd
Corps and the Reserve Army reached Gueudecourt and the famous sugar
factory at Courcelette. In almost every case where a tank succeeded in
arriving at its objective, the mere sight of it was enough. Save for
some picked machine-gunners and a few other desperate men, the enemy
fled or surrendered on the spot.
The moral effect, all proverbs about familiarity to the contrary, is
still and will always remain the chief asset of the tank as a weapon.
No body of infantry, unless very closely supported by guns, will
stand for long in the open before a properly concerted attack led by
tanks. They cannot: accidents apart, they are entirely helpless, and
they know it. The fire from the machine may be erratic, as usually
it is, for the gunners can see very little, and their platform is
continually in motion; but this does not abate in any degree the
moral effect of its onset. In the last five months of the war, when
the proper use of tanks had come at last to be understood, it was
only by the bold use and sacrifice of field artillery, pushed far
forward, that the German armies were able to protract for as long as
they did the final struggle. And this moral influence works both ways:
it helps the attacker as much as it demoralises the attacked. The
tank is terrifying, or inspiring and rather ludicrous, according to
whether it is against you or for you. It is not only a known antidote
to the dreadful trinity of trench, wire, and machine-gun. Its very
appearance is a comfort. Its shape, unlike that of any other example
of man’s handiwork, its deliberate but at times curiously active and
disconcerting movements, its obvious weight and power, even the two
ports, like lidded eyes, which ornament the front of the cab, combine
irresistibly (as all journalists will testify) to suggest some huge
prehistoric animal--some giant sloth or toad. Indeed, to visit a
training-ground in the evening when some dozens of these creatures are
rolling home to their stalls or hangars is, for all the world, like
being at a Zoo during the Pleistocene Age. The striking pattern of
colours with which the machines were painted in the early days only
aided the illusion. The British soldier, whose great merit it is to
see the comic side of everything, could not fail to be exhilarated by
these gorgeous monsters. It was long before he came to rely on them as
he could rely, let us say, on an old-established and perfected arm like
the artillery; but this is not remarkable. Rather is it something of
a miracle, and an abiding testimony to the efforts of the new corps,
that a similar confidence between infantry and tanks actually was
created during the war’s lifetime. And from the very first their mere
appearance in the field was a great moral factor in our favour.
In this, their first battle, their casualties in personnel were
insignificant. One tank, after attacking a field battery in Gueudecourt
and destroying one gun, was itself hit and burnt out, only two of the
crew escaping. Most of the others got off lightly. Altogether ten were
disabled by shell-fire, and seven more were hit, but returned to the
rallying-point.
Reserving remarks and criticism for the end of the chapter, we will run
through the remaining actions fought by the Heavy Section that autumn
and winter. A comparative lull of rather more than a week (marked by a
successful minor operation which gave us the Quadrilateral) followed
on the battle of the 15th; but during this period the tank companies
were feverishly busy. At first no fewer than 50 tanks were asked for
to assist in the next attack. So large a demand at that stage meant an
immense amount of work; and in the end nothing like this number was
required, the co-operation of the Heavy Section being limited to the
northern assault on Gueudecourt, Thiepval, and the height overlooking
the Ancre from the south. Work on the tanks was hampered by the
multitude of visitors who came to see these novelties now that the
secret was disclosed. There was much uncertainty as to the method of
attack, the supply of maps was insufficient, and operation orders, when
they did arrive, were meagre and ambiguous.
The ground along the Thiepval ridge was in an appalling condition. It
had been shelled more or less continuously for upwards of three months
by guns of every calibre. On top of this came two or three days of
heavy rain just before the attack. “The plan,” to quote Colonel Buchan,
“was for an attack by the 4th Army on Monday, the 25th, with--on its
left wing--small objectives; but, on the right and centre, aiming at
completing the captures which had been the ultimate objectives of the
advance of the 15th. The following day the right wing of the 5th Army
would come into action, and it was hoped that from Thiepval to Combles
the enemy would be driven back to his fourth line of defence, and our
own front pushed up well within assaulting distance.” The enemy’s
fourth line of defence ran just in front of Bapaume. Five tanks only
were detailed eventually to work with the 4th Army on the 25th, and
they were able to effect little or nothing. Unable to leave their
starting-point until zero, for the attack was made at midday, they seem
to have become ditched very early. They were hardly needed, except
at one point. The assault was entirely successful everywhere but at
Gueudecourt, where uncut wire held up the 21st Division. It had been
a bitterly disappointing day for the tanks, but the fault was hardly
theirs. It was an error in the first place to employ them at all in
an operation starting in broad daylight, for it was impossible to
conceal them near enough to the front line to enable them to go over
with the infantry. Corps and divisional commanders had not yet learnt
the elements of tank warfare. Secondly, the ground was so riven and
pulverised, so absolutely rotten with shelling and rain, that without
any unditching gear or spuds (iron shoes afterwards provided to grip
sodden or crumbling soil) the odds were all against their getting far.
As it happened, an opportunity was soon offered of redeeming these
mishaps, and was seized in a very brilliant manner. The 21st Division,
we have seen, was brought to a standstill in front of Gueudecourt. Here
was a formidable obstacle known as Gird Trench, and as a preliminary to
a further assault on the village it was essential that this should be
cleared. Orders were issued that night for an attack at dawn, and the
help of a tank was asked for. With immense toil one was brought up in
the dark across the frightful waste of half-obliterated trenches and
shell-holes and water. For the ensuing action I will quote the report
of the 15th Corps.
“On the 25th September, the 64th Brigade, 21st Division’s
attack on Gird Trench was hung up and unable to make any
progress. A footing had been obtained in Gird Trench at N. 32 d
91, and our troops held the trench from N. 26 c 45 northwards.
Between these two points there remained approximately 1500
yards of trench very strongly held by the Germans and well
wired, the wire not having been cut. Arrangements were made
for a tank (female) to move up for an attack next morning. The
tank arrived at 6.30, followed by bombers. It started moving
south-eastward along the Gird Trench, firing its machine-guns.
As the trench gradually fell into our hands, strong-points were
made in it by two companies of infantry which were following
in rear for that purpose. No difficulty was experienced. The
enemy surrendered freely as the tank moved down the trench.
They were unable to escape, owing to our holding the trench at
the southern end at N. 32 d 91. By 8.30 A.M. the whole length
of the trench had been cleared, and the 15th D.L.I. moved over
the open and took over the captured trench. The infantry then
advanced to their final objective (Gueudecourt), where the tank
rendered very valuable assistance. The tank finally ran short
of petrol south-east of Gueudecourt. In the capture of Gird
Trench 8 officers and 362 other ranks were made prisoners, and
a great many Germans were killed. Our casualties only amounted
to 5. Nearly 1500 yards of trench were captured in less than
an hour. What would have proved a very difficult operation,
involving probably heavy losses, was taken with the greatest
ease entirely owing to the assistance rendered by the tank.”
It should be added that an aeroplane also lent a hand, flying low over
the trench and machine-gunning the defenders.
This admirable little demonstration of what a tank could do came at a
most opportune moment. The months of slaughter on the Somme were in
fact having their inevitable effect on the armies in France. Already
the best of the volunteers who enlisted in the first year of the war
were gone, and the new recruits were of a very different type. Again
and again battalions, brigades, whole divisions even, came out of the
line decimated and shaken from what was trumpeted at home as a cheap
and glorious success. A mile or two of trenches, a wood or a village,
had indeed been won, and with much glory. But at what a cost! Whether
or no these Pyrrhic victories were worth the sacrifice--and presumably
they were--the men on the spot, seeing only their small corner,
remembered nothing but the horror of it all. The Somme, together with
Gallipoli, and the third battle of Ypres, stand apart in the minds
of those who lived through them as long-drawn nightmares; and it was
the peculiar abomination of the first-named that it seemed but the
foretaste of an endless future. The war might go on for ever in this
fashion. There can be no doubt that the Higher Command itself viewed
with apprehension a prolonged continuance of these conditions, and
was prepared at last to welcome any suggestion or innovation which
promised to alleviate them. Hence the demand for the services of the
Heavy Section before, in fact, it was prepared to take the field.
The tanks came; and the little action just described, together with
other similar if less spectacular performances, went far to convert
doubters to the possibilities of the attack by armour. Gird Trench,
however insignificant in itself, was a singularly perfect example of
how the new weapon could help toward economy of life and effort. At a
conservative estimate the enemy had lost not only a strong position,
but also some 600 officers and men killed, wounded, or taken. Our
infantry casualties totalled five, and the tank crew who were directly
responsible for the success numbered only eight. Such figures in
themselves were convincing.
On the same morning eight tanks went over on the left with the
right wing of the 5th Army against Thiepval. The ground was all but
impossible, and most of them were ditched on or about the German front
line; but two got into Thiepval and gave valuable help to the infantry
at a time when the artillery support for once had failed.
III.
The Heavy Section had no more fighting for nearly two months. With
October the bad weather set in: the rain fell in torrents: when it did
not rain a heavy mist gave the sodden ground no chance of recovery;
and the overburdened roads went from bad to worse. While the armies
struggled in the mud and water on the slopes of the final ridge before
Bapaume, the tank companies were withdrawn to Acheux to refit.
By the end of October it was plain that a condition of stalemate had
been reached on the main battlefield. To relieve this it was decided
to make a flank attack along and north of the Ancre, where we had been
repulsed in July. The capture of the Thiepval height had improved the
prospect of a fresh attempt in this quarter. The northern edge of the
salient we had created now ran east and west along high ground south
of the river; and it was possible for our artillery to enfilade and
even take in reverse the immensely strong positions of Beaucourt and
Beaumont Hamel.
The attack was fixed for the 13th November. Originally, twenty tanks
were to have been used, but the weather was so bad that this number
was reduced to five--three to assist at St Pierre Divion, south of the
Ancre, while the other two endeavoured to reach Beaumont Hamel. By this
time the absolute necessity of good reconnaissance had been recognised;
and before the action, tank commanders were taken to observation-points
from which they could see something of the ground beyond the front
line. Landmarks were indicated to them, aeroplane photographs were
studied, and, on zero night, the tank routes were taped as far as
possible. But no foresight could avail against the weather. Gales blew,
the rain fell, and, on the night of the 12th-13th, came snow. The three
southern tanks were bogged in the mud as they moved up. The northern
pair found the tapes obliterated by the snow, but Captain Hotblack,
the Intelligence Officer, led one forward under heavy fire, and then
going back, brought up the second to a point where the infantry was
hung up. Both these tanks did good work before getting ditched, and
Hotblack received the D.S.O. Meanwhile the attack had succeeded beyond
expectation. St Pierre Divion and Beaumont Hamel were taken, although
once more an assault on Serre was repulsed. One battalion of the Naval
Division, led by Lieut.-Colonel Freyburg, actually pushed right up
the river valley to the outskirts of Beaucourt. Here it hung on all
day, far ahead of our main advance. The failure to capture a powerful
redoubt between Beaucourt and Beaumont Hamel prevented any adequate
support reaching the battalion, but Freyburg, who was wounded in all
four times, refused to withdraw. A Territorial unit contrived to get
in touch with him, and communication of a sort was maintained with the
rear along the river bank. But his position was as precarious as it
was valuable; and that night three tanks were brought up for another
attack on the redoubt. One was hit by a shell and disabled. The others
got within close range of the strong-point before getting ditched.
They were able to bring their guns to bear, and in a short time the
place surrendered, no fewer than 400 prisoners falling to the two tanks
alone. The subsequent infantry advance closed up the line and enabled
Freyburg to crown his exploit by capturing Beaucourt at the head of his
men.
A few days later the battles of the Somme came definitely to an
end. If the autumn advance had come up to expectations there was an
intention of continuing the offensive throughout the winter, but the
powers which modern weapons give to the defence, combined with the
October rains, had limited our successes and brought the army to a
pitch of exhaustion; and now a complete break-up of the weather put any
idea of further operations out of the question. The troops set about
making themselves as comfortable as possible in their new positions.
Shattered roads were remade and light railways laid down across the
waste behind the front line. Preparations began for a renewed onslaught
in the spring. With the rest, the companies of the Heavy Section
were to be very busy that winter. The increasing difficulties of the
attack, and their own demonstration of how those difficulties might
be overcome, had established their position as a valuable, if not yet
an indispensable, auxiliary. But they had fought their last battle as
individual units. The corps was growing; and they withdrew from the
line only to form the nucleus of the four battalions which were to be
raised in France.
IV.
An immense amount of nonsense was talked and written about the first
appearance of the tanks in the field. The newspapers, as perhaps was
to be expected, excelled themselves in absurdity. Any lie was good
enough for them. The war correspondents, in their safe and comfortable
château in the valley of the Ternoise, ransacked Scripture and
zoology for suitable similes. There is a story of those halfpenny
strategists, Messrs Gibbs and Beach Thomas,[7] tossing up a coin (no
doubt a halfpenny) to decide who should use the word Behemoth. All this
ignorant flapdoodle did an ill service to the new unit. Its exploits
in battle had been witnessed by few; but tens of thousands had seen
tanks lying derelict in the Somme mud or holding up traffic through
mechanical breakdowns on important thoroughfares; and exaggerated
encomiums in ill-informed newspaper articles only brought ridicule upon
men who had done wonders in circumstances inconceivable to the writers.
The Heavy Section, in its early days, is said to have been the victim
of more chaff (and not always good-natured) than any unit except the
London Scottish. People at home, who believe anything they read in
print and have the Press they deserve, naturally expected miracles of
machines which pushed down houses on battlefields, where, in fact, no
house had been standing for months.
No one disliked this sort of thing more than the men concerned. They
knew well enough where they had succeeded and where they had failed.
The necessary experience had been bought; and there were many lessons
to be learnt from it and carried into practice, so far as was possible,
before the next battle. It was proved that the Mark I. was designed
on sound lines, and needed only a few structural alterations to make
it equal to all reasonable demands until such time as it could be
superseded by an altogether superior type. The “Hydraulic Stabiliser”
or tail, for example, must be got rid of. Its essential worthlessness
was discovered quite early, when a tank came under shell-fire while
waiting for zero behind our front line. The whole crew being inside
for shelter, with the engine just ticking over, a projectile burst
under the stern and blew the tail away without doing any other damage:
amid the general uproar no one was aware of what had happened; and the
tank moved forward and was in action for some time before the loss
of this absurd appendage was discovered. Other faults to be remedied
were the position of the petrol-tanks, the overhead exhaust-outlet,
emitting conspicuous flame and sparks, the needlessly broad sponsons
(accessories in many cases of ditching), and the lack of any gear by
which a ditched tank could free itself under its own power. “Ditching,”
an unpleasant commonplace of tank warfare, can happen in many ways;
but in essentials this misfortune means one of two things. Either
the machine has got itself into such a position (_e.g._, tail down
in a wide and very deep trench) that although the tracks will grip
the surface the engine-power is insufficient to pull it out; or the
belly, with a dead weight of nearly 30 tons on top of it, is resting on
comparatively hard ground, while the tracks, happening on soft patches,
cut through without gripping at all. The tank, for example, is moving
parallel and close to the forward edge of a trench. The edge gives way
under the weight of the near track, which slides down until the sponson
on that side hits the rear wall of the trench. The fallen track is now
revolving uselessly in air or crumbling earth, the belly of the tank
is resting heavily on the parapet, and the efforts of the outer track,
still on firm ground, to overcome the consequent friction, only succeed
in embedding the sponson in the parados until the engine can no longer
force the machine forward. What was needed was something which would
give one or both tracks a more secure grip or leverage in such cases.
After the experiences on the Somme, two separate devices were adopted.
For permanent use over soft ground iron shoes or “spuds” were clamped
at intervals along the tracks; while in addition each tank carried
a pair of what were known as torpedo-booms. These were cigar-shaped
objects of wood and iron, about six feet long, to be clamped to each
track by chains when the tank became ditched. As the tracks revolved,
these booms in theory were pulled round underneath the tank until they
became jammed in the ground, when, the tracks being thus brought to a
standstill, the machine was able to climb out over them in the normal
way. In practice, although of great use on many occasions, these booms
were found to be too small and weak. In soft ground they often were
dragged under the whole length of the tank and up to the surface again
behind: in hard ground, the chains were apt to part under the strain. A
greatly superior development of this idea (to be described in its turn)
was tested and adopted after the battle of Messines.
I offer no apology for this digression on unditching. Throughout the
battles of the Somme, Arras, Messines, and Ypres, by day and by night,
during approach-marches and under fire in action, this unsavoury
process might fall at any moment to the lot of any crew. On at least
one occasion at Ypres a whole company of twelve tanks was ditched
hopelessly before it even reached the front line, and a few days
before, in the same dismal area, out of two companies of the same
battalion (my own) which went over at zero, only one tank returned
before the end of the day. One other had been blown to pieces, the
remaining twenty-one were ditched, temporarily or for ever, here and
there about our little sector of that water-logged battlefield. Most of
them had struggled somehow into action, and some were extricated from
bogs or shell-holes half a dozen times before their exhausted crews
gave up the struggle. At least another fifty from other battalions
were in similar case that evening. Ypres, of course, was exceptional,
and tanks should never have been used there; but until their proper
function was discovered at Cambrai, he was a fortunate commander who
could take his machine in and out of action anywhere without a case of
ditching on the way.
Reverting finally to the lessons of the Somme, it was felt by most
officers and men of the new unit that, well as they had done on many
occasions, more might have been accomplished. They suffered none of
the delusions which the Press was fostering at home. The lack of
foresight in some directions was obvious enough now. At the same time
it was realised that the tanks had been put to an unreasonable test.
They were constructed for fair ground and fair weather; they had been
granted neither. There had been insufficient time to train the crews.
On account of the secrecy maintained at the start, it was impossible
for infantry commanders and their men to become acquainted with tank
tactics; but this want of co-operation was not remedied, as it should
have been, before the later actions. Springing from the same source of
ignorance was the mischievous tendency to use tanks in driblets instead
of in masses--a tendency which the Tank Corps had to fight throughout
its existence.
It was proved that the preparations for a battle required an infinite
amount of work and forethought. There were contingencies to be
considered such as affected no other arm. Especially was this the
case with reconnaissance; for success or failure hung upon the tank
commanders’ familiarity, from thorough coaching beforehand, with the
ground they had to cover. Once in action, they could see very little,
while maps were almost useless in a devastated country, and each
officer instead had to carry in his mind the look of almost every
tree-stump and every mound of rubble.
If tanks lost their way, apart from other consequences, the infantry
were very apt to follow them and lose their own direction. Another
difficulty, springing in part from the small size of the unit and in
part from the bad practice of employing tanks in driblets, was that
subaltern tank officers often found themselves working alone or in
pairs with divisions or even with corps, and conferring on tactical
points with G.S.O.I.’s and Generals. They had not the experience or
authority needed to combat ill-advised demands, and as a result were
often set to perform impossible tasks.
If the Heavy Section was to remain, still more if it was to be
expanded, everything went to show the urgent need of reforming it as
a fully equipped and independent organisation like the Flying Corps,
whose requirements in many ways resembled its own. It must have its
responsible staff to decide finally all questions dealing purely with
tank warfare, its intelligence branch run on individual lines, its
technical officers, its signal service, its workshops and depots, its
transport and supply. Such a proposal was put forward after the first
Somme battles, and as a proof that the mistakes and disappointments of
that period were outweighed greatly on the credit side, the suggestion
was adopted at once. Before the end of September the expansion and
new establishment were authorised. Lieut.-Colonel Elles was given the
command in France; and the building of a thousand improved tanks was
put in hand without delay.
CHAPTER IV.
EXPANSION: THE BATTLES IN FRONT OF ARRAS.
I.
A big step forward had been taken; but its initial symptoms were
very modest in character. The headquarters of the Tank Corps (as the
companies had now become in fact if not in name) began life in a single
hut in the village of Beauquesne. The provisional establishment allowed
only for a Colonel Commanding (Colonel Elles), a Brigade Major, a
Staff Captain, a D.A.A. and Q.M.G., and an Intelligence Officer. The
corps was still known officially as the Heavy Section or Heavy Branch,
M.G.C., and continued to be so styled for another nine months; but
actually, the moment it became a self-contained organisation, with its
staff, its brigades and battalions, and its administrative powers, it
severed for good and all the paper ties which had connected it with its
foster-parent.
Unhappily, the official attitude toward this expansion was marked
throughout by that grudging spirit which the pedants in every
Government Department manifest when they have to adopt an innovation
against their will. There seemed to be a tacit understanding in
Whitehall that the budding enterprise must be kept in its place and
reminded continually of its youth and insecure status. It was not until
May 1917 that the commanding officer was given the rank of Brigadier,
although by that time he was commanding two tank brigades in the
field, and the headquarters of a third formed to receive the new
battalions from England. He had ten battalions under him when he became
a Major-General. Until he received that step his brigade commanders
were only colonels, so that, although in action they worked directly
with Army Corps, any infantry Brigadier was senior to them. Apart
from the slur on the corps and its officers, this deliberate omission
caused serious inconvenience. In its early days the Tank Corps needed
every ounce of authority it could get to help it through its inevitable
difficulties. Notwithstanding these, at the end of 1918 it had eighteen
battalions in France and seven more in England: it had created
immense workshops, schools, and depots in both countries: it had sent
detachments to Ireland and Egypt; and in the final months it had not
only led the infantry of three armies in almost every attack, but had
dictated in the most important respects how those attacks should be
conducted. Yet the officer directing this enormous force in the field
had the rank only of a divisional commander. This plainly was wrong
in principle. Had the Royal Air Force (let us say), whose position
was in many ways comparable, found itself in a similar predicament:
had it been cast brand-new during the war instead of developing from
a pre-war regular establishment with its machinery complete, it would
have advertised its disabilities in Parliament and in the Press, and
would have forced a terrified officialdom to invest its chief with some
fantastic title and costume invented by the ‘Daily Mail.’[8] The Tank
Corps, however, for all its youth and inexperience, has assimilated
at least one of the better traditions of the regular service: it does
not advertise. I do not suppose there are a thousand people outside
the Army who know anything about its work. As the tank itself has no
money-making future in peace-time, it can have no permanent interest
for newspaper proprietors. And for this relief, at least, much thanks.
The corps has done the better work because of it.
The antagonistic spirit to which I have adverted discovered another
fertile field for its intrigues in England. Expansion was in progress
there as well. There can be no difference of opinion as to the
unexpected common-sense which placed Colonel Elles, an experienced
soldier from a technical corps, in command in France; nor, unhappily,
can there be any as to the injustice (to put it on the lowest grounds)
of shelving Colonel Swinton at home. He also was an engineer, and
therefore peculiarly suitable for the command; but apart from that, if
any one man was responsible for the official adoption of the tank--the
solitary triumphant experiment which the war produced--it was he.
There was no so-called public pressure, engendered by the agitation
of cheap newspapers; for neither Press nor public knew anything worth
disclosing until the first machines were already at Thetford. It was
Colonel Swinton’s fertility of thought, the inspiration of his belief,
his influence and persistent advocacy, which did more than all else
to wear down the maddening barrier of departmental indifference. He
won at last some measure of support for his ideas: he organised the
new unit, and saw his hopes of it justified in the field; and then,
just as the embryo was expanding into full life and vigour, the old
influences made themselves felt once more. Somebody said (or so it
will be most charitable to suppose), “Hullo, here’s another of these
infernal sappers! This won’t do! The whole war is being run by R.E.’s
and gunners, as it is. We must get rid of him!” He was got rid of. It
was found (most opportunely) that the Committee of Imperial Defence
could do without his services no longer, and he returned to his duties
as Assistant-Secretary. An infantry Brigadier, who had performed a
very notable feat of arms in the first months of the war, but who knew
nothing about tanks, came down to Thetford to take over the command,
and gave an encouraging tone to the proceedings by declaring quite
openly, the moment he arrived, that he was come to put some discipline
into the corps, that he took no interest whatever in the tanks, and
that he did not want to see them.
In view of these and other examples of our methods and manners, the
rapid and enormous growth of the corps may seem surprising. To a great
degree it wrought its own salvation. But in fact the opposition came
mostly from those quarters at home where every reasonable being would
expect to find it, and could to that extent be disregarded as merely
symptomatic and inevitable; and the supporters of the enterprise were
far more influential. In France also there was an ever-increasing
body of opinion in its favour. And once it was taken up in earnest,
those qualities of energy and thoroughness which our race seems
always to reserve for times of crisis came fully into play. It is
indeed refreshing to turn from these petty irritations to the really
astonishing work which now was carried through in both countries. At
home, the camp at Thetford was abandoned. E and F Companies, or what
was left of them, with all their tanks and stores and baggage, were
transferred bodily to the other end of England. At Bovington, near
Wool in Dorsetshire, a hutted camp capable of holding as it stood half
a dozen infantry battalions had been taken over toward the end of
1916. By the first weeks of the new year five tank battalions and a
reinforcement depot were in process of formation there. On the great
moors which stretched away to the north there was ample room for
training; and once more rows of hangars and repair shops were springing
up, trenches were being dug and craters blown, while the inhabitants of
Wool were annoyed rather than mystified by the melodramatic precautions
attending the arrival of every trainload of tanks. Instructors appeared
like mushrooms: there were courses in tank-driving, maintenance,
gunnery, signalling, reconnaissance, bombing, and the care of pigeons.
Near Lulworth Cove, where trippers used to make pilgrimage before the
war, a battle-practice range came into being. A little later, while
Bovington itself was growing week by week, other camps were taken
over at Wareham and Swanage, until most of the military accommodation
in the Isle of Purbeck housed what once had been the Heavy Section.
And in the meantime, developments even more striking had been taking
place in France. From four rather forlorn little companies, living as
it were from hand to mouth, the corps sprang at a bound into a huge and
complicated organisation, with its own territory, works, and depots,
and every apparatus for carrying on its lethal industry. A large area,
lying between the river Ternoise and the direct Hesdin-St Pol road,
was allotted to it. To Bermicourt, a village almost in the centre of
this country, Colonel Elles removed his headquarters from Beauquesne
early in October ’16. Twenty-four acres near the river were taken for
central workshops and stores. In a few weeks, as well as the ubiquitous
hangars, immense steel and iron sheds had arisen, and continued to
grow in numbers and size until they covered six acres. Stalls for
tanks, like the old elephant stables of Carthage, lined one side of
the testing-ground. There were huts for a staff which grew to 1200
officers and men, cinema theatres, a rest-camp and hospital, a compound
holding 500 Chinese labourers, and, for a time, a reinforcement depot.
From Erin Station, eleven lines of rail, with 10,500 feet of sidings,
led into the main enclosure. A few hundred yards away was a driving
and mechanical school, with its own training-ground. And long before
the end of 1917 the original twenty-four acres of stores and workshops
were getting overcrowded. In addition to the vast accumulation of
equipment, ranging from engines and armour-plate down to split-pins and
motor-bicycle parts, there were always there two or three hundred tanks
in every stage of dismemberment or reconstruction. Every machine sent
out from England (perhaps 3000 in all) came from Le Havre to Erin to
be tested, equipped, and issued to units; and every machine salved on
the battlefield was returned there for repair. More ground, therefore,
was taken over in the area itself; a great driving school was formed
on the old front line at Wailly, near Arras; the whole reinforcement
depot moved out to Le Tréport; and a school of gunnery, capable before
long of taking three battalions at a time, came into being among the
sand-dunes and gimcrack villas of Merlimont, on the coast near Etaples.
In the Bermicourt area there was not a village now which did not house
some detail of the corps--M.T. Workshops, Salvage, Supply, and Signal
Companies, &c.--or was not reserved for billeting battalions as they
arrived from England or returned from the line to refit. It should
be needless to add that the headquarters in Bermicourt Château kept
pace with this expansion. In the beginning the staff was palpably
inadequate; before the end it was comparable in size to that of an army.
Taking it all in all, I doubt if there can be anything, even in the
exceptional records of this war, to equal for extent and variety the
growth of the technical, instructional, and supply branches of the
Tank Corps during the last two years. It was the natural habit of the
combatant units to complain loudly of all three; but to visit Erin at
any time, to see there the scores of tanks, the acres of vast workshops
and store-sheds, the miles of sidings, and the tons upon tons of gear
and equipment, and to reflect that every pound of this material had
come from England since the winter of ’16, was enough to make one pause
and wonder; and looking back now at the whole industry, raised in so
short a time from nothing at all, it appears, with all its obvious
shortcomings, a highly remarkable achievement of forethought and energy.
I have gone a little far ahead. The growth was rapid, but it was not
all accomplished at a blow; and it was the least known and advertised
aspect of the expansion. Side by side with the rise of Erin as a base,
the combatant branch was growing also. The old companies in France had
become battalions, and the latter were multiplying at a rate of one a
month.
About the time when E and F Companies were leaving Thetford for
Bovington, A, B, C, and D were withdrawn from Acheux to Bermicourt.
They were raised at once to their new status, under the same
alphabetical designations, and volunteers were called for from other
arms of the service. Originally each of these new battalions was
to have had 72 tanks; but partly on account of the difficulties of
production, partly for simplicity of tactical handling, this number
was by degrees whittled down to one-half. The eventual establishment
for a battalion was fixed at three companies of 12 tanks each, and a
Workshops Company; making a total of 36 tanks, and some 800 officers
and men, commanded by a Lieutenant-Colonel. Each combatant company
consisted of three fighting sections of 4 tanks, and one spare or
supply section. The Workshops Company, like the others, was commanded
by a Major, and was responsible for the upkeep of the tanks and for
all repairs which could be executed in the field. At a later date
these battalion workshops were abolished and merged into brigade
organisations, Engineer Officers, with a small staff, remaining with
the units. The latter, in theory (and to a large extent in fact), were
now capable of effecting their own minor repairs and maintenance.
There was an Equipment Officer to each battalion, and subsequently
three assistants for the companies. No less important was the
Reconnaissance branch. In addition to the Battalion R.O. (a Captain),
there were three company R.O.’s and three assistants, with a staff
of draughtsmen. In most of the battalions the standard of this
essential work, both in the office and in the field, was very high.
The Tank Corps was responsible for many innovations in this branch of
Intelligence, such as the more general use of layered maps, and of the
study of aeroplane photographs. The Germans, whose map-making, oddly
enough, was usually poor, were led to adopt the device of layering by
examples which they found in captured tanks.
Finally, each battalion started life with an imposing array of every
type of motor transport--light cars, box-cars, lorries, mobile repair
shops, motor-bicycles, &c. But this Utopian equipment was too good to
last. In France the transport was pooled; and over this fatal step, and
the appeals and recriminations evoked by it ever since, it is better
to be silent. General Grant has said that military history should
be truthful; but no good purpose can be served by dwelling on such
tragedies. They are common to the human race--or at any rate to the
human army.
With the nine battalions now in process of formation, four in France
and five at home, it was proposed to make up three brigades. Two
came at once into being: the 1st, consisting of C and D Battalions,
under Colonel C. D. A. Baker-Carr, D.S.O.; and the 2nd, of A and B
Battalions, under Colonel A. Courage, M.C. The 3rd Brigade H.Q.,
Colonel J. Hardress Lloyd, D.S.O., commanding, was formed soon after
to await the new arrivals. As the latter assembled in France the units
would be redistributed until there were three battalions in each
brigade.
Before finishing with the subject of expansion, certain auxiliary
services fall to be mentioned. The Tank Corps had its own signal
branch, including wireless and pigeons. The former was tried in tanks
especially fitted for the purpose, but was not strikingly successful.
Cable-laying machines were also used in the Ypres salient. Pigeons,
until the final advance, when the lofts could not keep up, proved
by far the most rapid and reliable means of communication during an
action. Two birds, when available, were carried in each tank; and
their behaviour in the most trying circumstances imaginable was truly
exemplary. I shall never forget the placid and almost _blasé_ air with
which a couple in my own tank continued to sip their water, and take
apparently an intelligent interest in the proceedings while, in a
sweating atmosphere of petrol fumes, high explosive, and decomposing
humanity, we were crashing over fallen tree-trunks along the
Poelcapelle road.
Supply-tanks were first used at the battle of Messines. These
were old Mark II.’s with their guns removed, and special sponsons
substituted--the equivalents, in fact, of the eighteenth-century
warships armed _en flûte_ and filled with stores. Each tank carried
300 gallons of petrol and 80 of water; track and engine-oil and grease
in proportion; and upwards of 10,000 rounds of S.A.A. and 6-pdr.
shell. This improvisation was found so invaluable, especially in
devastated areas where roads were few, that a little later regular
supply companies were formed, each of three sections, and attached to
brigades, the sections working with battalions. A further development
ensued when the infantry, profiting indirectly by this service, asked
for supply-tanks of their own. A number of gun-carriers, as well as
Mark II.’s, were used for this purpose in the autumn of 1918.
The gun-carriers deserve a word of notice. They were tanks built on the
tractor principle and designed to carry 60-pounder guns across country.
The gun was lifted up bodily, carriage and all, by long arms projecting
from the front of the machine, between the tracks; it was then carried
like a baby to its destination and there lowered to earth again. These
G.C. tanks, although driven by Tank Corps mechanics, came under the
orders of the Garrison Artillery. They were used for the first time
at Ypres on 31st July 1917. But that half-drowned battlefield, which
all but ruined the Tank Corps itself, was the beginning and the end of
the gun-carriers’ legitimate career. On fair ground they might have
proved valuable, but they were never tried again; and after a period of
desuetude they were consigned to the hack-work of supply.
The salvage companies formed yet another branch of the corps, and a
most hard-working and ill-requited one. It was their tedious, and
often perilous, duty to salve all tanks left completely derelict, from
whatever cause, behind our front line. More than once the personnel
were working for days on end under shell-fire, and they suffered a high
percentage of casualties. This was especially the case in the Ypres
salient in the dreadful winter of 1917-18, when there were close on 190
tanks lying rusting in the mud. Some had disappeared almost completely,
and round others coffer-dams had to be built to raise them from the
lagoons in which they lay half-submerged. Yet ninety were salved here
in ten months; and from the battalions, fresh from the fighting in this
God-forsaken area, came volunteers to help in the work! No words can
do justice to the difficulties which the salvers had to overcome in
that morass, or to the labour and ingenuity which overcame them. I can
speak with some authority on these amphibious conditions, for I left my
own tank there with two feet of water already above the floor, and all
the King’s coffer-dams and all the King’s men failed to get her out.
I have no figures to quote as to the numbers salved on later and less
inhuman battlefields, but the total must have run into hundreds. And
this devoted work, unrecognised as it was, had its unexpected reward.
When strikes at home were delaying production, it was the old rescued
tanks lying in scores at Erin that were furbished up and put into
commission again to bring battalions up to strength for Cambrai and the
big battles of August 1918.
II.
While expansion was in progress the lessons of the Somme with regard
to the capabilities of the tanks themselves were considered and put
to good purpose. In November ’16, at a conference of the Mechanical
Warfare Supply Department, Lieut.-Colonel Stern, the chief engineer,
dealt with the programme of future construction. There were then in
France seventy Mark I. tanks. Fifty Mark II.’s were to arrive by
January, and a similar number of Mark III.’s by the following month.
(These last, of course, never materialised.) From February to May
Mark IV.’s were to be produced at the rate of twenty a week; Mark V.’s
would be available in August; and a new light tank, the Medium A or
“Whippet,” by Christmas. We have already dealt with the Mark IV., and
the Mark V. and Whippets can be considered when eventually they did
make an appearance. For this programme was too optimistic: no Mark
IV.’s arrived until after the battle of Arras, and the Mark V. was not
ready in any numbers for another year.
In the spring of 1917, therefore, when the Tank Corps went into battle
for the first time in its new form, the situation was as follows: At
Bovington, Brigadier-General Gore Anley, D.S.O., with Colonel M. B.
Matthew Lannowe as G.S.O.I., superintended the training of the five new
battalions, until in March he went to the Administrative Headquarters
of the Heavy Branch in London, where two months later he was succeeded
by Major-General Sir John Capper, K.C.B., R.E. Brigadier-General W.
Glasgow, C.M.G., took over the command at Bovington. In February
or March the first Mark IV.’s arrived there for training purposes,
followed in April by an experimental Whippet. Meanwhile in France
Colonel Elles and his brigade commanders were organising and training
the new establishment, and the great shops at Erin were growing
appreciably every day. A highly interesting development, launched the
previous autumn from Thetford--namely, the Palestine detachment--was
nearing the day of trial in that inhospitable region, and will be dealt
with in the next chapter.
The general situation in France and Flanders was altered greatly by
the German withdrawal in March. During the winter minor operations had
cleared the enemy out of the positions north of the Ancre which he had
held so tenaciously and so long, and by the beginning of March we were
within 2000 yards of Bapaume on the Albert road. Between Bapaume and
Arras the Germans now occupied a very pronounced salient. A proposal
to drive in its northern flank with the help of two battalions of
tanks was cancelled because it was found impossible to provide the
latter at the time. Before anything further could be done the enemy
forestalled this and other plans of attack by an extensive and very
skilful retreat, reaching at one point a depth of twenty miles. The
pursuing armies, following up from Arras to Soissons, found themselves
confronted by the Hindenburg Line, whose existence was well known but
whose character had been hitherto a matter of conjecture. It is the
custom to depreciate this much-advertised defence system. Colonel
Buchan, allowing his natural hankering after prophecy to outrun his
usual discretion, observed rather rashly (in the beginning of 1918)
that “the marvellous new Siegfried line was not a fortress from which
he (the enemy) could sally, but a prison.” In view of the “sallies”
which followed hard upon this assertion, it would appear, with others
of its kind, to be susceptible of modification. In point of fact, the
Hindenburg Line was neither a fortress nor a prison: it simply was what
it professed to be, an extremely strong entrenched system designed for
an especial purpose which, on the whole, it adequately fulfilled.
Sir Douglas Haig, writing of the intended stroke which was frustrated
in part by the withdrawal of the enemy, says, “My object was to deal
him a blow which would force him to use up reserves.” South of the
Ancre such a blow was now out of the question: the pursuing armies
found themselves faced by this new defensive system, while behind them
there lay the whole devastated area of the Somme to complicate their
lines of supply. Much had to be done before an advance was possible
here. But the northern half of the plan, to drive the enemy farther
back from Arras and from off the Vimy Ridge, remained unaffected; and
it was decided to carry it through. Its main object was still to divert
the mass of German reserves away from the Soissons region, where the
French were to make the principal attack on the southern pivot of the
Hindenburg Line.
The battle of Arras, as it is called, was timed to open at dawn on the
9th April. Three armies were taking part, and Colonel Baker-Carr’s 1st
Tank Brigade was to co-operate with all three. Only 60 tanks, Marks I.
and II., were available, of which 8 were allotted to the 1st Army in
the attack on the Vimy Ridge, 40 to the 3rd Army astride the Scarpe,
and 12 to the 5th Army (which did not come into the battle until the
11th) on the right. As this operation had been long foreseen, the
reconnaissance officers of the 1st Brigade had begun their survey of
the area as early as January. Dumps were formed at Neuville St Vaast,
Roclincourt, Achicourt, and Beaurains. The three groups of tanks were
detrained respectively at Acq, Montenescourt, and Achiet-le-Grand.
These preliminary movements were as trying as they always are: the
trains were forty-eight hours late, the sponson trolleys gave endless
trouble by breaking away or overturning, and much extra work and
anxiety resulted from the loss of 20,000 gallons of petrol in a railway
accident. Some days before the battle, however, all the machines were
lying up in positions close to the front line, some of C Battalion
being concealed in the ditch of the citadel of Arras.
For tank operations the ground north of the Scarpe possessed every
possible disadvantage. No one who has seen the region of the old front
line about Ecurie and Neuville St Vaast in early spring can wonder that
Mark II. tanks, provided only with torpedo-booms for unditching, failed
to get far. The soil is heavy loam above chalk, inclined to be wet in
any season; and as it had been fought over since 1914, it was one great
maze of half-obliterated trenches and craters whose walls crumbled at a
touch. South of Arras conditions were slightly better. The ground was
hardly less cut up, but the surface was firmer. Much depended, however,
upon the weather. The early days of April were fine and clear, and the
soil, except in the marshy valley of the Scarpe, dried rapidly. But
on zero night, with that fatality which seemed to pursue our efforts
for so long, the wind shifted, the sky clouded over, and rain began to
fall. Before long it was snowing.
Zero was at 5.30 A.M. With every big offensive our artillery fire
had increased in intensity; and on this morning, after seven days’
preliminary bombardment, the opening barrage was more tremendous than
anything which had been seen on the Somme. Under its protection the
Canadians and the 12th Corps reached the crest of the Vimy with little
trouble. But the tanks were unable to follow. While the real struggle
was beginning in the rain and sleet around La Folie Farm and Hill
145, the eight tank crews were toiling with their ineffective gear to
extricate their machines from the hopeless ground on the slope below.
Not one of them got into action. To the right, however, in the Scarpe
Valley, the section working with the 6th Corps had done good work; and
south of the river, C Battalion had given another convincing example,
to those who had eyes to see, of the new methods which were subverting
the ancient principles of attack. The night had begun with a serious
disaster. The tanks started from the village of Achicourt. The little
river Crinchon, flowing into the Scarpe, had created patches of bog
which in places had become covered with a crust of what appeared to
be hard soil. The reconnaissance of the route had been perfunctory:
it led straight over one of these concealed traps; and the officer
responsible had not even tested the ground with his stick. The night
was intensely dark, the wind was gusty, and the rain falling heavily;
while in Achicourt, close by, a dump had been blown up, and was still
burning and drawing the enemy’s fire. Amid this uproar and confusion
six tanks drove one after the other into the bog, and were engulfed
beyond all immediate repair. This inexcusable calamity would have
entailed more serious consequences than it did but for the admirable
work of other tanks engaged in the same region. The German position
here was one of great strength. South of the elaborate system of
trenches around Tilloy-les-Mofflaines extended a formidable work,
upwards of half a mile long, known from its shape as the Harp. It
marked the junction of the northern end of the Hindenburg Line with the
old front system, and it rested partly on the height called Telegraph
Hill, also heavily fortified. “The Harp,” to quote Colonel Buchan,
“was such a place as in the early days of the Somme would have baffled
us for a month or more. It was stronger than Contalmaison or Pozières
or Guillemont. It was rushed by a batch of tanks, some of which stuck
fast in its entanglements, while others forced their way through to the
plain beyond. In a very short time there was no Harp, and the garrison
were on their way westward to the cages.” No one acquainted with the
deliberate progress of the Mark II. over bad ground would speak of it
as “rushing” anything; but, fast or slow, these old machines on this
occasion achieved a really notable success on a large scale. While some
had been dealing faithfully with the Harp, others to north and south
had cleared Tilloy and crawled up and over Telegraph Hill; and their
exertions were largely responsible for the capture by the 3rd Army of
the whole German second position south of the Scarpe, including two
miles of the Hindenburg Line, within four hours after zero.
The 5th Army attack was not due to begin until the 11th. But an
attempt, arranged at the last moment, was made the same morning
to break the line opposite Bullecourt with a company of tanks of
D Battalion. It suffered the fate of most enterprises so hastily
planned. A regular blizzard broke soon after dark: the tanks,
although they never lost their way, could not arrive in time; and
the Australians, who had been lying out all night on the railway
embankment south of Bullecourt, were withdrawn before daybreak. Had
the attack materialised, it would have possessed especial interest,
for it was designed on the principles advocated throughout by the
Tank Corps itself and now universally accepted. The tanks, massed on
a narrow front, were to have preceded the infantry with no artillery
preparation and no barrage until they actually reached the German
front line. In other words, a genuine surprise was aimed at. But the
fiasco caused by the snowstorm discouraged the 5th Army Staff. When the
attempt was repeated on the original date, April 11th, they reverted
to the usual methods--with lamentable results. The enemy, already on
the alert by reason of the battle farther north, was warned of the
attack by the barrage coming down at zero before the tanks had crossed
No Man’s Land. Field-guns, pushed far forward for anti-tank defence,
were ready to get on to their mark at once; while the tanks showed up
clearly on the snow the moment the dawn broke. The sections of the
company were scattered on a wide front, and one, in the centre, was
detailed to push through the Hindenburg Line without any infantry
support at all. There were eleven tanks in all, most of which, handled
with extreme gallantry, crossed the dreaded Hindenburg trenches and got
well into the fight. One, with all on board wounded and every round
spent, was hit and disabled on its way back. Another reached the edge
of Bullecourt village, came to a standstill there through gear trouble
which could not be remedied, and after holding out for some time
without seeing any of the infantry who should have been in support, was
only evacuated when the Germans brought a field-gun into the houses
and opened fire. A third, less fortunate, received a shell in the
petrol-tanks on the edge of the enemy’s wire, and went up instantly in
flames, only three of the crew escaping. A fourth was hit twice within
a minute, the first shell coming in through the cab, decapitating the
driver and then bursting inside. In all, nine tanks were known to have
been disabled by shell-fire, although one of them returned later with
a hole in its roof. Of the fate of the remaining two nothing was ever
known with certainty. They disappeared into the blue. Major W. H. L.
Watson, D.C.M., who commanded the company, gives the following account
of their loss: “Our aeroplanes had seen two tanks crawling over the
open country beyond the Hindenburg trenches to Riencourt, followed
by four or five hundred cheering Australians. Through Riencourt
they swept, and on to the large village of Hendecourt, five miles
beyond the trenches. They entered the village, still followed by the
Australians....”[9] No further definite news of them was ever received.
Tanks and infantry alike were swallowed up and lost in the smoke of
the battle. At the end of the day the Germans still held Riencourt;
and Hendecourt, far behind, with all its gallant but unsupported
assailants, was retaken at once. But the feat was a startling one, and
by itself it makes the Australians’ complaint, that they were “let
down” by the tanks, seem, to say the least of it, ungenerous. This
charge, which Colonial troops are but too ready to fling at every one
except themselves, was further confuted by the whole record and losses
of D Battalion in the attack. Almost the whole company got into action:
every one of the eleven tanks was disabled or lost; and 50 per cent
of the personnel were killed, wounded, or missing. The attack was a
costly failure, for while hardly a yard of ground was won, the infantry
casualties totalled several thousand, and an entire company of tanks
was destroyed; but the responsibility rested, not with the latter, but
with whosoever insisted on their employment in a manner continually
condemned by every officer in the Tank Corps itself. No one outside
that corps understood the proper functions of the machines, or had
even taken to heart the lessons of the Somme. The German position at
Bullecourt, protecting as it did the vital junction at Quéant of the
main Hindenburg Line with the Drocourt Switch, was immensely strong.
It had an outer belt of wire 25 feet broad, machine-gun emplacements
of ferro-concrete 125 yards apart along both the main and support
lines, a continuous tunnel, stretching for miles, beneath the latter,
and numerous semi-independent strong-points. The tanks had proved
that even this was no obstacle to them; but if they were used at
all, they should have been used in greater numbers and in mass, with
infantry trained beforehand, and supported by a barrage designed not
to warn, but to aid in surprising, the enemy. Far more just than the
Australians’ complaints was Colonel Elles’s remark after the battle:
“This is the best thing tanks have done yet.”[10]
On the same morning, C Battalion was in action again in front of Arras.
Here the Germans still held the villages of Fampoux and Monchy, with
the Hindenburg trenches south of Telegraph Hill. In the centre of this
position, south-east of Arras, between the Scarpe and the Cambrai
road, there rises a very conspicuous height known to fame as Orange
Hill. It commands a view behind the whole length of the Vimy Ridge,
and, in consequence, overlooked our new battery positions and lines
of approach on that side. On the eastern end of the hill, beyond a
slight dip in the crest, stood the village of Monchy-le-Preux, once a
pleasant cluster of trees and red-tiled roofs, but now, since our heavy
howitzers had been at work on it, no more than a mass of rubble and
splintered stumps. It is a famous village, not only for the fighting
which has centred about it, but also for the remarkable myth which it
perpetuates. The attack launched on the 3rd Army front on April 11th
had Monchy for its main objective; and before telling the true story
of its capture, it is interesting to note how the latter is usually
represented. In Sir Douglas Haig’s despatch the event is described as
follows: “Two English infantry brigades, acting in co-operation with
cavalry, attacked Monchy-le-Preux at 5 A.M., and after hard fighting,
_in which tanks arrived at an opportune moment_, carried the position.”
The italics, of course, are my own. Colonel Buchan, always too faithful
to his brief, goes one better. He does not mention tanks at all. He
does, however, mention the cavalry. “Next day, the 11th,” he says,
“Monchy was carried, with the assistance of a detachment of cavalry,
but not without heavy losses.” Now, in the first place, as thousands of
people know what really happened at Monchy, these repeated references
to the mounted arm almost compel one to paraphrase the plaintiff in
Whistler _v._ Ruskin, and ask, “Why drag in the cavalry?” The skeletons
of General Bulkeley-Johnson’s men and horses still litter Orange
Hill[11] to testify that the tactics of Balaclava, Salisbury Plain,
and Amiens are in no sense suitable to modern warfare. Secondly, this
distortion of the facts has done a grave injustice to a newer and less
socially popular corps. There is a still more pertinent question which
might be asked: “Why leave out the tanks?” For what actually happened
at Monchy-le-Preux, put very briefly, was this.
On the evening of 10th April there were in the neighbourhood of
Feuchy Chapel, on the Cambrai road at the foot of Orange Hill, the
headquarters of one of the infantry brigades due to attack Monchy
next morning, a brigade of cavalry, and six tanks of C Battalion,
who were to lead the assault. Our line then ran beyond the crest of
the hill, within five hundred yards of Monchy itself. Zero had been
fixed for 5 A.M. After dark four tanks (the other two having developed
mechanical trouble) moved forward. One soon became badly ditched; but
the remaining three climbed the slope during the black early hours of
the 11th, and at the advertised time of zero passed through the line
of half-frozen outposts lying in shell-holes across the hill. But no
barrage came down, nor was there any sign of the supporting infantry.
Although no notification whatever had reached the tank commanders
or even their company headquarters, which was close to that of the
infantry brigade at Feuchy Chapel, zero, after being altered twice,
had been postponed finally for two hours! In the meantime dawn was
breaking; and for the tanks to loiter about the snow-covered ground of
No Man’s Land, on the summit of the hill, would have been to invite
destruction. After waiting a short time, the tank commanders therefore
decided to go on alone, trusting to the infantry to overtake them. As
day came, the trio, still entirely unsupported, entered Monchy. They
proceeded methodically to clear the whole village, cruising about the
ruins and driving out before them, after some stiff fighting, all
of the garrison who had not gone to earth in dug-outs or cellars.
Following up the fugitives, the tanks presently emerged through the
last demolished houses on the far side. They were now on the reverse
slope of the hill; and their triumphant crews could see, on the falling
ground along the Scarpe Valley, the enemy’s supports hurrying forward,
and even the smoke of the light trains bringing up his supplies.
In the meantime, however, the dispossessed garrison of Monchy, having
been cursed, exhorted, and reinforced, and realising that no infantry
was following the tanks, began to work back round the outskirts of the
village to north and south. It reoccupied the western edge, collected
odd parties who were cowering in dug-outs, and remanned its abandoned
machine-guns. This manœuvre, besides interposing a considerable force
between the tanks and our still silent lines, helped also to bring
about the great cavalry fiasco. Bulkeley-Johnson’s brigade, which had
lost its commander the day before, was standing by its horses near
Feuchy Chapel, when it was discovered by one of the German aeroplanes
which usually came over about daybreak. The aeroplane dropped a few
coloured lights and departed. Shortly after, shells began to fall
among the horsemen; whereupon, instead of withdrawing to the rear or
flank, they mounted and rode forward up the hill. The returned German
machine-gunners in the enclosures west of Monchy were astonished and
delighted, a little later, to perceive the whole brigade appear on the
summit[12] and trot down upon them in a formation impossible to miss.
The result was a mere massacre. Hundreds of men and horses dropped in a
few minutes; and the remainder, turning about, fled for shelter again
behind the crest.[13]
All this time the three tanks were still isolated in the village.
Discovering that the Germans had got round behind them, they started
back through the ruins to clear the way once more and to look for their
own infantry. It was nearly seven o’clock; _for an hour and a half_,
in broad daylight, they had maintained their lone battle actually
within Monchy-le-Preux, needing only a couple of platoons to take over
what they had won. And now it was too late. At seven, as they reached
the near side of the village again and began to disperse the enemy
gathering there for the second time, our delayed attack opened: the
barrage came down with a crash upon Monchy; and, one after the other,
all three tanks were hit and disabled by our own shells!
It is difficult to write patiently about the manner in which this
affair was wilfully misrepresented. It may literally be true to say
that our infantry carried Monchy “after hard fighting”; for when at
length they advanced, the Germans had reoccupied the place in force,
and the tanks, through our own negligence, were disabled. Yet even
this statement is a mere juggling with words. And as for the operation
reports which misled the compilers of the official despatch at G.H.Q.
into describing the single-handed victory of the tanks as an “arrival”
at “an opportune moment,” and which presumably burked all reference
to the blunders of the staffs concerned, no adequate comment seems
possible. The distortion of the facts may be left to speak for itself.
Circumstances rather similar, although not attended by such unhappy
results, marked a second operation undertaken by C Battalion that
morning. Four tanks started with the infantry at the proper time
from Neuville Vitasse to attack that portion of the Hindenburg Line
which the enemy still held from below Telegraph Hill to the village
of Heninel, on the Cojeul river. Working down the trenches, followed
by bombing parties, the tanks killed many of the enemy, drove the
remainder underground, and helped to secure the front system at a very
moderate cost. Having reached the lateral limit of their objective at
Heninel itself, the four, still together, turned north-east through
the village, and, moving up the north bank of the Cojeul, reached
Wancourt, a larger place about a mile in rear. But the infantry was
unable to follow. The tanks entered Wancourt alone, and carried on
there for a long time, amid intermittent falls of snow, just such a
rambling fight as their fellows had waged a few hours before in Monchy.
They signalled repeatedly to the infantry to come on, but in vain; and
by themselves they could secure no permanent hold on the village. At
length, as their supplies of petrol were running low, they effected
a successful withdrawal. This was in the afternoon, for they were in
action altogether for eight or nine hours. In such execrable weather
the whole performance was most creditable, and deserved better support
than it received.
So far as the British armies were concerned, the battle of Arras might
now have been allowed to die a natural death. With the capture of the
Vimy Ridge, Orange Hill, and the Siegfried Line to the south, our
immediate limited objectives had been secured, and it was plain that
the larger success hoped for was beyond our powers. It had been laid
down, as a condition antecedent to any serious attempt at breaking
through, that not only the Hindenburg or Siegfried Line, but also the
Drocourt-Quéant Switch beyond, should be carried within forty-eight
hours. That period had elapsed, and we had not touched the Switch
except at Bullecourt, which was only an outwork to the junction
at Quéant. The enemy was getting up his reserves and beginning to
counter-attack. But it was necessary to hold these reserves on our
front, to aid the French offensive in Champagne; and in consequence
the battle was continued far beyond the limits necessary to round off
our initial victory. It was continued, in fact, for another month, and
produced some of the most sanguinary fighting of the whole war. The
tanks took part in several actions, notably at the Roeux Chemical Works
on the 23rd, when they received the thanks of the corps and divisional
commanders with whose units they were working. Finally, they went in
again at Bullecourt on 8th May, when the infantry failed to support
them, and they suffered heavy losses to no purpose.
The two battalions were now completely crippled. They had fought in
nearly a dozen separate actions in a month. The losses in experienced
personnel had been severe, and could not easily be replaced. As for
tanks, which mattered less, since Mark II.’s would never again be used
as fighting machines, C Battalion had none left at all, and D only
two or three. The shattered brigade, therefore, was withdrawn to the
Bermicourt area in the middle of May. There it rested and trained,
received reinforcements, drew Mark IV.’s from Erin, and underwent that
reshuffling of battalions which preceded its next appearance in the
field in the Ypres Salient.
III.
The Arras battles marked a great step forward in the history of the
Tanks Corps. Not only had it placed a brigade of two battalions in
the field, but its own tactical ideas had begun insensibly to leaven
the old-established theories of attack. The capture of the Harp, the
wasted heroism at Hendecourt and Monchy, even the first Bullecourt
fiasco on 10th April--all pointed the same way. It had been shown,
more by local accidents than by design, that the classical methods
of artillery preparation could be replaced by a more effective
substitute; and, conversely, that the long preliminary bombardment was
highly prejudicial to the use of tanks. It was proved once more that
trenches, unless of exceptional width, were no obstacle at all. Another
lesson to be drawn was the necessity of devising a more effective
unditching gear for use in badly broken or boggy ground. The old
moral of co-operation with other arms was rubbed in again and again.
The senseless complaint that the tanks “let down” the infantry would
never have been uttered if the latter had taken the obvious course of
trying to learn something about the former’s difficulties and methods,
and had grasped the fact that they never were intended for use in
such conditions as the guns and weather between them had produced on
the Arras front as well as on the Somme. This point was the more
important because a gratifying feature of the operations had been the
small percentage of mechanical breakdowns--a proof that officers and
men were profiting rapidly by experience.
By the loss of the two tanks at Hendecourt--the first which the enemy
had captured--a great fault in the Marks I. and II. was disclosed to
him. This was the penetration of the armour by his “K” bullets. Many
casualties had been incurred in this way: in the attack on the Roeux
Chemical Works on 23rd May, five tanks out of eleven had the majority
of their crews disabled by armour-piercing bullet wounds. The Germans
now ordered every infantryman to carry a clip of this ammunition,
while several hundreds of rounds were issued to each machine-gun team.
But happily this discovery came too late to do any harm. The next
tank action was fought by Mark IV.’s, whose improved armour was proof
against the “K” bullets, which at very short range only splintered its
inner facings.
CHAPTER V.
THE PALESTINE DETACHMENT.
I.
While the tanks of the 1st Brigade were fighting in mud and snow at
Arras, climatic problems of a very different type confronted a little
detachment of the Heavy Section nearer the Equator. After the Somme it
was decided to send a company of twelve tanks to Egypt to assist in
the advance on Syria.[14] Major Nutt, of E Company, who had been in
Egypt before with the armoured cars, was given the command. E Company
also supplied most of the personnel. The total combatant strength was
22 officers and 226 other ranks; while there was a workshop section
provided with two 120-h.p. Holt tractors, a number of sponson trolleys
and workshop trailers, two lorries, and the necessary complement
of spare parts. The detachment, in spite of its diminutive size,
would have to be self-supporting. It left Thetford in December 1916,
the personnel sailing from Devonport, and the tanks and workshops
from Avonmouth a week later. An extraordinary and inexcusable error
signalised the embarkation. Instead of twelve Mark II.’s, fresh from
the makers, eight old training machines, which had been in use for
months and were due to proceed to the new camp in Dorset, were shipped
at Avonmouth, while the Egyptian detachment’s tanks were on their way
to Bovington! Before the Admiralty could be informed of the mistake,
tons of cargo, including heavy guns, had been lowered on top of the
changelings in the ship, and then permission to unload the latter was
refused. The company, therefore, on its arrival in Egypt in January,
found itself with only two-thirds of its establishment of tanks, and
those not even new. Some of them, indeed, were nearly worn out, and all
were dirty; and the Thetford mud, baked hard by a month in a ship’s
hold close to the engine-room, had to be chipped out of the tracks with
chisels. It was a week or more before some of the machines could be
moved at all.
The secrecy which, in theory, shrouded their coming was so fallacious
that within six weeks photographs of them were found on a captured
Bedouin. This in itself was a small matter; but it was a pity that the
demonstrations carried out on the desert at Gilban, which advertised
to all and sundry the fact of the tanks’ arrival, were not devoted
to a better purpose than the satisfaction of the natural curiosity
of General officers and their staffs. No infantry took part in
these displays. Only after the second battle of Gaza were combined
rehearsals by the two arms instituted as a regular feature of training.
Nevertheless, the army in Egypt seems to have realised far sooner
than the army in France that without co-operation founded on mutual
familiarity with each others’ tactics and limitations, tanks and
infantry would never work together to the best advantage. In Egypt also
there was from the start less of the jealousy and obstruction which
hampered the heavy branch nearer home. The isolation of the detachment
put it to some extent out of reach of meddling interference, and
enabled it to solve its peculiar problems in its own way.
When the detachment arrived Sir Archibald Murray was already across
the Sinai desert and had reached the Egyptian frontier. While the
railway was being pushed up behind him along the coast to El Arish
and Rafa, the Turkish Army commanded by the German General von
Kressenstein withdrew to a prepared position in front of Gaza. This
position we attacked on 26th March, but a dense sea-fog at dawn upset
the time-table, and after suffering 4000 casualties, such ground as we
had gained was abandoned under pressure of heavy counter-attacks and
a threat against our flank by reinforcements from Beersheba. The tank
detachment, rushed up at a few hours’ notice on Egyptian 30-ton trucks
to take part in these operations, was delayed at El Arish, and it
detrained at Khan Yunus, fifteen miles south-west of Gaza, only to find
the battle over. At Khan Yunus it remained for ten days. On 6th April
the tanks trekked for eight miles across soft sand to Deir-el-Belah,
nearer to the line, preparatory to the second assault on the Gaza
position.
Gaza, a city of great age, acquainted with numerous battles and sieges,
stands amid vast fig-groves about two miles from the sea-shore, on the
old coast-road from Egypt to Syria. The Turkish position, defended
now by five infantry divisions, one cavalry division, and numerous
batteries--in all, perhaps 30,000 men--was one of great natural
strength, as we had discovered in March. Since our first attack miles
of new trenches had been dug and the whole front was very heavily
wired. It stretched from Sheikh Hassan, among the sand-dunes on the
coast, by El Arish Redoubt and Samson’s Ridge, to the Cairo road two
miles south of Gaza, and thence south-east along a series of hills to
the Atawineh Ridge. Within this line was the strongly fortified Ali
Muntar Ridge, immediately in front of Gaza. Detachments of cavalry and
infantry at Hereira, sixteen miles from the coast, protected the left
flank. The hills, seamed with gullies and old water-courses, where
infantry and machine-guns found perfect cover, were admirably adapted
to defence, and the trenches, under German supervision, had been
skilfully sited.
Sir Archibald Murray had four Territorial infantry divisions, the 52nd,
53rd, 54th, and 74th (dismounted Yeomanry), two mounted divisions, and
the Camel Corps. His line of communications was a single railway track
running for 150 miles across the Sinai Desert. Everything the army
needed, even water, came by this line out of Egypt.
The plan of the second attack on Gaza fell into two phases, divided
by an interval of forty-eight hours. In the first phase, while a
desert column attended to the Turkish left at Hereira, three infantry
divisions and the tank detachment were to carry the Sheikh Abbas and
Mansura Ridges, east of the Cairo road. The attack was fixed for
dawn on April 17th. After dusk on the 15th, the eight tanks trekked
northward again from Deir-el-Belah, and before daybreak had reached
their final lying-up positions along a dry water-course called the
Wadi Ghuzze, which ran parallel to our front line. By this time, after
three months’ experience in Egypt and Syria, all steps possible under
the circumstances had been taken to cope with the novel conditions
attending tank operations over sand. It was found, for example, that
the ordinary process of soaking the track links and rollers in oil
produced in the desert a perfect grinding mixture which wore out very
rapidly the driving sprockets. All such lubrication, therefore, was
abandoned. The tracks were run absolutely dry, and with satisfactory
results; for although the sprocket wheels were of the early soft-steel
type, they seem to have endured longer under these arid conditions than
in the mud of European battlefields. While the mud stuck everywhere,
and brought with it grit and stones which induced friction, sand merely
ran out of the tracks like water. From every point of view, indeed,
once this and a few other modifications of treatment and mechanism had
been introduced, the tanks showed a surprising aptitude for desert
warfare. Ditching was almost unknown: the sand ran away from under
the belly of the machine, while the tracks, with their broad bearing
surface, compressed it and got a grip; and for similar reasons the
steepest sand-dunes and hills were climbed with ease and at any angle.
The chief troubles were the heat and the difficulty of obtaining
water, and these were felt by every other arm, although, at least as
regards the former, not so severely. On account of the heat no movement
of tanks, save in battle or some other exceptional circumstance, took
place after eight o’clock in the morning.
Six tanks were detailed for the first phase of the battle. Four, if
required, were to assist the 52nd Division in the capture of the
Mansura Ridge. These advanced behind the assaulting infantry up the
Wadi el Nukhabir, a gully with high banks affording perfect cover which
ran, like a huge communication trench, downward from the ridge to the
Wadi Ghuzze. The tanks were not needed, however, for the enemy, taken
by surprise owing to the absence of any artillery preparation beyond
the ordinary counter-battery work, fled in confusion from the ridge,
which was in possession of the 157th Brigade soon after six o’clock.
Meanwhile, on the right, the other two tanks had led the troops of
the 54th Division toward Sheikh Abbas Ridge. Here also the Turks were
surprised, but they put up a stouter resistance than their fellows on
Mansura. The tanks, lacking such a covered approach as the big gully
on the left provided, came under observation soon after dawn, before
they had reached the enemy’s trenches, and one soon received a direct
hit. Two of the crew were killed, and the officer lost an eye from a
splinter. The hostile guns now concentrated on the derelict machine,
which, after it had been abandoned, was hit again and again, set on
fire and destroyed. The second tank, however, was able to carry out its
task of clearing the trenches to the north and north-west of the ridge,
giving the infantry valuable help. When the position was consolidated
the tank returned and rallied in the Wadi el Nukhabir, having covered
in all some 15,000 yards from the time it crossed the Wadi Ghuzze to
its return. The crew, who had been in the tank for fourteen hours, were
completely exhausted. In such conditions of heat as they suffered,
their gallantry and endurance were remarkable.
The second phase of the battle, which opened at 5.30 A.M. on the 19th,
was designed to capture the final positions covering Gaza--namely,
El Arish Redoubt and Samson’s Ridge, between the sea and the Cairo
road, and the Ali Muntar Ridge with its foot-hills to the south and
south-east of the city. From left to right the divisions and tanks
employed were as follows: 53rd Division (two tanks), 52nd (four tanks),
54th (one tank). To the right of the 54th, mounted divisions were to
carry out subsidiary operations as before against the Turkish left. The
French battleship _Réquin_ and two British monitors assisted from the
sea.
The forty-eight hours’ interval between our attacks, however
unavoidable, was unfortunate. The Turks, to some extent demoralised on
the 17th, had time to recover themselves again, and their main position
on Ali Muntar was one of exceptional strength. This ridge, ten or more
miles in length, is an attenuated spine of sandy hills, covered with
cactus scrub, which runs parallel to the coast just east of Gaza. It
forms roughly a right angle with the Mansura heights farther to the
east. Its loftiest crest, 265 feet above the sea, looks down on the
city from south of the Beersheba road. From this point the spine falls
away southward, by successive narrow hillocks known to us as Outpost
Hill, Lees Hill, Queen’s Hill, Kurd Hill, and so on, to the valley
of the Wadi Ghuzze. Two thousand yards west of the ridge, and also
parallel to it, is the Cairo road, beyond which Samson’s Ridge rises
fairly steeply to a height of 200 feet before descending to the low
sea-cliffs at Sheikh Ajlin. From Samson’s Ridge the Turkish trenches
ran north-east by El Arish Redoubt up the coast to Sheikh Hassan. These
seaward trenches were the objectives of the 53rd Division on the left,
with whose operations we will deal first.
[Illustration: SKETCH MAP TO ILLUSTRATE THE 2nd & 3rd BATTLES OF GAZA.]
For the whole of this battle I will paraphrase or quote textually the
official report on operations drawn up by Major O. A. Forsyth-Major,
second in command of the tank detachment, who writes as follows of the
events on the 53rd Division’s front. (Italics and interpolations in
brackets are my own.)
“Of the two tanks allotted to this division, one broke a track
soon after going into action and remained _hors de combat_ for
the ensuing operations. The other tank, the ‘Tiger,’ therefore
undertook the advance alone, and proceeded (in front of the
infantry) across the sand-dunes to Samson Ridge, where it
captured the redoubts, awaited the infantry’s arrival, and
thence advanced to attack El Arish Redoubt, being all this
time under concentrated enemy machine-gun fire. Having reached
this second objective, the tank was unable to swing, and the
officer in command, receiving no support whatsoever from the
infantry, which advanced no farther, owing to the changed
tactical situation occurring in the centre of the general
attack, returned over the sand-dunes _in reverse_ under shell
and machine-gun fire till it reached a point near Regent’s
Park (upwards of 5000 yards S.W. of El Arish), having fired
_27,000 rounds_ of ammunition during this action. All the
crew, including the officer, were wounded, and all, except
the officer, who took the driver’s place, were in a state of
complete collapse as a result of six hours’ continuous strain
under heavy fire.”
Further advance on this flank had been postponed owing to the failure
in the centre, where the 52nd Division, with four tanks, was to advance
from Mansura Ridge against Outpost Hill, the strong-point known as
the Labyrinth, and Ali Muntar itself. The tanks were ready, and their
routes taped to avoid the gullies which abounded, when, at the last
moment, the G.O.C. 52nd Division cancelled their orders. They were now
told to move from Mansura Ridge to the foot of Kurd Hill, 3000 yards to
the westward, and there await further orders. “It was pointed out to
the G.S.O.I.,” says the report, “that such a move in complete darkness
over unknown country might result in the tanks disappearing into the
deep gullies which intersected the suggested route, and that even if
the tanks reached Kurd Hill, it was highly impracticable to attack
positions which had never been observed in daylight and over ground
which had not been reconnoitred by the tank personnel.” The G.S.O.I.
was obdurate, however, and at 9 P.M. the four tanks started. In the
pitchy darkness which prevailed the cross-country route was considered
too risky, and accordingly they moved by the Wadi Nukhabir and the
Wadi Ghuzze--in other words, round three sides of a square. They did
not reach Kurd Hill until 2 A.M., zero being at 6.30. As the officers
were entirely ignorant as to what they were expected to do four hours
later, they had the temerity to arouse the G.O.C. 155th Brigade from
his sleep, but as he felt disinclined to discuss matters at that early
hour, they were told that all necessary instructions would be issued at
5.30 A.M. At six o’clock no instructions had been received: a subaltern
came from the brigade, however, to point out the route to the infantry
starting-point. Without waiting any longer, the tanks moved forward to
this line, reaching it just as the barrage fell at zero and the enemy
began to reply. No further orders of any kind had arrived, and the
second in command of the detachment spent the next hour galloping about
under fire, collecting information from the infantry, and by these
haphazard means determining what the tanks were expected to do. Two of
them, it appeared, were to remain in reserve at Kurd Hill. Of the other
pair, one was to help in the assault on Lees and Outpost Hills. This
tank, however, fell into a gully whose sides collapsed, and did not get
into action. The remaining machine, having been assigned an objective
on Ali Muntar, was recalled to Outpost Hill owing to the breakdown of
the tank on its left. It climbed the hill, killed a number of Turks in
the trenches there, and was still waiting for the infantry when it was
disabled by a direct hit. The infantry being unable to advance, one of
the reserve tanks was summoned; but although, after repeated attempts
and murderous losses, the crest at length was gained, it could not be
held; and our line eventually fell back to its original position on
Queen’s Hill. The first tank, lying derelict in the Turkish trenches,
had already been abandoned by its crew. The second returned in safety
to its companion in reserve.
[Illustration:
_By permission of_ Major O. A. FORSYTH-MAJOR.
Tank on Outpost Hill, Gaza.]
The report gives the following account of the loss of the remaining
tank, in action with the 54th Division on the right:--
“To the tank operating on this front had been assigned the
capture of the large redoubt north-west of Khirbet Sihan
(north of the Sheikh Abbas Ridge on the Beersheba road). As
instructions to this effect had only reached the tank commander
during the previous night, he was likewise confronted with
the task of attacking an unfamiliar objective over unfamiliar
ground. However, this tank finally reached the redoubt in
question and captured its Turkish garrison. Our infantry
then arrived and consolidated the new position. The tank had
no sooner swung round to return to its rallying-point at
Abbas, when a shell struck one of its tracks, whereupon it
was subjected to a systematic bombardment. The enemy then
counter-attacked and captured the British infantry and tank.
The commander and several members of the crew had meanwhile
been severely wounded. The officer and one other rank
subsequently died of wounds in a Turkish hospital.”
Except for a modified success on the left, the attack, although pressed
with extreme gallantry, had definitely failed. Sir Archibald Murray
wished to renew it the following morning, but was dissuaded from making
the attempt. With no superiority of numbers in the beginning, we had
lost 12,000 men: every one was exhausted: we were short of water; and
the Ali Muntar position, notwithstanding a bombardment by heavy guns of
every calibre, including those of the _Réquin_ and the 11-inch pieces
on the monitors, seemed little damaged, and plainly was impregnable to
a frontal assault with the means at our disposal. The army, therefore,
settled down on the ground it occupied at the close of the fighting.
For the next six months no further attempt was made to capture Gaza.
The tank detachment, after withdrawing across the Wadi Ghuzze to some
fig-groves west of Sheikh Nebhan, returned eventually to its old
quarters near Deir-el-Belah railhead. Its proportionate losses had
been heavy. Twenty-eight officers and men were killed, wounded, or
missing--40 per cent of the total engaged. Three tanks out of eight
were permanently disabled or lost. The report which I have used so
freely already concludes with some general observations on the work of
tanks in the battle. This work was fully appreciated by the infantry,
who “generously attributed their own success to the opportunities
created by the tanks.” The three divisional commanders also expressed
their admiration. That some of the fleeting openings made by the tanks
were not promptly seized “was less due to lack of initiative on the
part of infantry leaders than to the wholly unexpected intensity of the
enemy’s well-directed fire.” At the same time, further co-operative
training was shown to be very necessary. Reference, of course, is made
to the faulty staff work through which, on 19th April, the centre
section was left without any instructions after its original orders had
been cancelled at the eleventh hour. It is pointed out also (although
this perhaps was unavoidable) that the task allotted to the tanks was
far too ambitious for their numbers. The eight operated on a five-mile
front, where thirty or forty would not have been too many. The
successful assembly prior to zero was held to prove that “tanks which
are properly looked after by competent crews need not necessarily be
placed in forward positions,” as they can be trusted (accidents apart)
to accomplish up to time final approach-marches of considerable length.
And this brings us to what were, perhaps, the most notable features
of the operations--the actual distances covered by these obsolete and
worn-out machines and the absence of any mechanical breakdowns. In both
respects the work of the little detachment compares very favourably
indeed with that performed by the larger units in France. Some of
the tanks travelled forty miles and fought two actions between the
time they left Deir-el-Belah on the 15th and their final withdrawal
behind the Wadi Ghuzze five days later; and every machine which left
England got into action, or was ready to do so, on zero morning. Such
efficiency is a high testimonial to the labours of the commanding
officer and his combatant and engineering personnel.
II.
It will be convenient, at the expense of strict chronological sequence,
to carry the story of the Palestine detachment to its conclusion
in one chapter. Six months supervened between the second and third
battles of Gaza. During this period our dispositions were readjusted,
reinforcements arrived (including French, Italian, Indian, and West
Indian details), and Sir Archibald Murray having returned home, Sir
Edmund Allenby came from the 3rd Army in France to take over the
command. The surviving tanks, meanwhile, were overhauled and provided
with some especial roller-sprockets, constructed in the workshops of
the Egyptian State Railways. Requests for more and newer tanks had been
sent to England; but the only reinforcement received consisted of three
Mark IV.’s. One or more others of this type, together with a supply
of much-needed spare parts for the original Mark I.’s, were lost in a
torpedoed transport.
Towards the end of the autumn preparations for a renewed attempt on
Gaza had reached completion. Our line in front of the city still ran
where the second battle had left it--from Sheikh Ajlin, on the coast,
by Samson’s Ridge and the Mansura and Abbas Ridges, down to the Wadi
Ghuzze, and thence to the new railhead at Shellal on the right. The
Turkish defences on Ali Muntar had been strengthened still further; and
now that our increased forces permitted us to choose, it was decided
to avoid the hazards of another frontal assault. Instead, while the
enemy’s centre was kept employed with demonstrations, the main attacks
were to develop between Hereira and Beersheba and on the western flank,
from Gaza to the sea. The whole area of operations extended over forty
miles. “The Australian Corps and desert column were responsible for
the operations from Beersheba north-westwards to Hereira. Numerous
mounted and dismounted divisions were entrusted with the frontage from
and around Hereira towards Gaza, while a composite force of French,
Italian, and West Indian troops were assigned the task of executing
minor raids near Outpost Hill. The operations around Gaza were
entrusted to the 21st Army Corps, which began to make the necessary
preparations for a general assault on the defences between Umbrella
Hill (north of Samson’s Ridge) and the sea.”[15] This was to be the
main attack, with its left resting on the coast and its right on the
Cairo road. In the second phase of the last battle our only permanent
success had been won on this flank; and our extreme left at Sheikh
Ajlin was due west of Gaza. The general line of the assault therefore
was north-eastward, with the idea of so far enveloping the city as to
threaten its communications from the north. The distance from the Cairo
road to the sea was less than 5000 yards; and the initial penetration
aimed at was moderate--two miles up the coast on the extreme left, and
elsewhere an average of a mile. For this narrow frontage and depth of
attack four infantry brigades were available (the whole 54th Division
and one brigade of the 52nd), assisted by an Indian cavalry division,
the 54th Divisional Artillery, a machine-gun company, and the tank
detachment of eight machines. (The presence of a number of anti-tank
guns of 1¹⁄₂-inch calibre about Green and Outpost Hills led to the tank
operations being confined to the left sector.) The Navy again was to
co-operate from the sea. The whole area over which this advance was to
take place was a wilderness of sand-dunes, covered here and there with
coarse grass and cactus, and rising in places to a height of 150 feet.
There had been ample time on this occasion for reconnaissance and
other preliminaries. All tank commanders and N.C.O.’s surveyed the
enemy’s position both from the land and from a drifter off the coast.
In addition to combined rehearsals by tanks and infantry already
carried out during the summer, “officers and other ranks of the tank
detachment and the various infantry brigades with whom they were to
work were attached to each other for ten days in order personally to
get to know each other and study the characteristics of the other’s
particular arm.” _O si sic omnes!_ An adequate supply of large-scale
maps and aeroplane photographs was provided by the 21st Corps “I,”
together with a barrage table and map for every tank commander. Each
tank was to carry two pigeons, to be released at pre-arranged points;
and also a ton of R.E. supplies and ammunition for the infantry. The
whole question of supply was a serious one, as the only roads behind
our line in this coastal area were constructed by the simple process
of laying down wire-netting on the sand, which provided a surface
suitable for marching infantry or even light cars, but of no use for
heavy vehicles. The detachment workshops rendered a signal service by
improvising a number of tractor trucks out of old track-plates, driving
sprockets, and iron girders. The necessary dumps of oil and ammunition
were then formed near Sheikh Ajlin, lorries and tractors conveying the
material thither after dark by way of the beach. Finally, as the attack
itself was due to start in the night-time, the tanks were variously
camouflaged to suit the conditions amid which they might expect to find
themselves at dawn. Two were daubed with different colours, and another
pair were painted white and splashed with sand, while the remaining
four were disguised with imitation cactus.
As little as possible had been left to chance; and I have enumerated
the main features of this preparatory work both on account of its
thoroughness and forethought, and because it is a characteristic
example of the preliminaries to a tank action. Before such an action
there are always a hundred odd things of this kind to be seen to; and
in this case, unlike some others nearer home, they were seen to. The
labour expended over them was fully justified in the results.
The coming attack was divided into four phases, known on the map as
the Blue, Red, Green, and Yellow--a polychromatic scale which was to
proceed in succession from the south. The first or Blue phase was
concerned with the capture of Umbrella Hill, and was to start an hour
before midnight on 1st November. This was a distinct operation, to
be accomplished by the 156th Brigade without the help of tanks. At
3 o’clock in the morning a second zero would launch the second and
subsequent phases, constituting the main attack, the final or Yellow
phase pushing our left flank two miles up the coast to Sheikh Hassan,
north-west of Gaza. The tanks were allotted as follows: one with the
156th Brigade on the right, one with the 163rd in the centre, and four
with the 161st and 162nd on the left. Two in reserve were to follow up
1000 yards in rear and replace any disabled machines.
The detachment trekked from Deir-el-Belah to Sheikh Ajlin on the night
of 22nd October. On the last day of the month routes were taped to the
assembly positions selected for the battle. The following evening, as
the roar of the first zero broke out on the right, the tanks moved
forward under a full moon and reached these positions at 1.30 A.M. At
2.15 the six detailed to lead crept away again, and, passing through
the infantry starting line, drew up a couple of hundred yards ahead
in No Man’s Land. All were in position half an hour before the second
zero. In the meantime, under cover of a heavy barrage, Umbrella Hill
had been carried and the Blue phase was over. The enemy, anticipating
a general attack, at first retaliated by shelling violently the whole
of our front line; and the tanks experienced an unpleasant half-hour
while moving toward their assembly posts. None, fortunately, were
hit. As we made no further movement, the Turkish gunners presently
concentrated their fire on the captured hill, and about 2 o’clock,
misled by the continued quiet, ceased altogether. An hour later they
were disillusioned when our main barrage crashed down upon their whole
line, and tanks and infantry went forward under its cover.
A thick mist had risen, which, with the smoke of the barrage,
completely obscured the moon, upon whose light we had been counting.
The tanks, however, advancing on compass-bearings, successfully
reached their first objectives within three minutes, well ahead of the
infantry. In the prevailing gloom some of the latter lost direction
almost at once; and a tank officer, observing from a point called
Windy Post, on our front line, collected some hundreds of men of one
battalion and directed them to their objective. The first Turkish line,
nevertheless, was carried without difficulty, the attack coming as a
complete surprise. Behind the creeping barrage the tanks and infantry
pressed on; and although the two brigades in the centre met with stiff
opposition on the second line, and lost ground before a succession of
counter-attacks, on both flanks, and especially on the all-important
left, everything went more or less according to programme. By 6 o’clock
the 162nd Brigade had consolidated its final objective at Sheikh
Hassan. On the right El Arish Redoubt had at last been captured, and
our troops were on the edge of the fig-groves which shelter Gaza to the
south-west.
The tanks had done all, and more than all, that was expected of them.
On the right two had helped in the taking of El Arish. It was still
dark when they pushed on into the maze of trenches beyond, and both
became ditched, one eventually being disabled by a shell. The crews
took out their machine-guns and joined the infantry. Numbers 3 and
4, next on the left, working with the 161st Brigade, attacked and
carried with the latter the Rafa Redoubt and the trenches to the
north-west. Owing to the mist they had great difficulty in reaching
their further objectives, and finding that the infantry had been unable
to advance beyond the redoubt, they returned to the rallying-point,
having deposited their spare ammunition and R.E. stores. Number 5
broke a track at Beach Post, its first objective, and was unable to
assist in the next phase. On the extreme left Number 6 had a varied
and exciting career. To quote from the report, it “captured Sea Post
(close to the beach), moved along the enemy’s trench line, crushing the
wire as far as Beach Post, turned north and attacked Cricket Redoubt,
then proceeded to Gun Hill and Tortoise Hill, both of which positions
it subjected to 6-pounder and machine-gun fire, and finally reached
Sheikh Hassan, where it deposited its load of R.E. stores. Thence
it descended to the beach and endeavoured to attack A5 (a Turkish
strong-point on the coast beyond our farthest objective), but in
scaling the cliff broke a track. The crew removed all machine-guns,
rendered the engine useless, removed the 6-pounder wedges, and retired
to Sheikh Hassan, where they reported to the infantry commander.” As
the abandoned tank was several hundred yards in advance of our front,
the enemy was able during the ensuing night to creep up and place a
charge beneath it, the explosion of which, in addition to effecting
other damage, bent the crank-shaft. When, after the retreat of the
Turkish Army a few days later, it was possible to move the machine,
it was found necessary to remove the engine and tow the hull back to
Deir-el-Belah.
In the meantime the reserve tanks, Numbers 7 and 8, had come into
action. At 4 A.M. they received orders to support the infantry on
the right, beyond El Arish redoubt. Both tanks were loaded with R.E.
material, and, unfortunately, were carrying empty sandbags on the
roof. Number 7 was set on fire from this cause as it reached its first
objective, east of the captured redoubt. While it was attempting to
return to shelter, the tracks jumped and broke the switches, and the
tank was left ablaze between the lines. Number 8 also caught fire. It
was now broad daylight, and the tank was in view of the enemy, who
proceeded to shell it; but being screened to some extent by vegetation,
with which its own camouflage blended, it was never hit.
By 8 o’clock, three tanks had rallied at Sheikh Ajlin, and a fourth
returned three hours later. During the battle some machines had been
in action for five hours, and had covered upwards of 10,000 yards; but
the casualties in personnel were extraordinarily light, only one man
being killed and two wounded. At this trifling cost the tank detachment
had helped materially to place our left flank in such a position that
the Turkish Army around Gaza was seriously endangered. On the right,
progress had been made also, and the double threat was enough. Within a
few days the enemy evacuated the city and the position he had held so
long, and retreated toward Jaffa and Jerusalem.
With the third battle of Gaza the work of the tanks in Palestine came
to a fitting end. Although most of the machines were soon prepared for
action again, all were manifestly worn out, and it was felt that they
would be of little use in the limestone hills of Judah, amid which
the army was now advancing. On the other hand, the need was felt for
some light and swift machine to help the mounted columns in the desert
area; and to this end Major Nutt and the second in command were sent
to France early in 1918 to ask for a detachment of the new Medium A’s,
or Whippets, which were then lying idle. The arrival of this mission
at Bermicourt, however, coincided with the great German offensive on
21st March. In the strain consequent upon that blow, and the others
which followed it, not a Whippet could be spared. The two officers
returned to Syria, and after further consideration it was decided to
disband the detachment. The tanks were handed in to the ordnance depot
at Alexandria, where probably they still remain, while the personnel
returned to England.
I have gone at some length into these oriental adventures for various
reasons. One of the chief, perhaps, was the pleasure to be gained in
working from a narrative so lucid and well arranged as the official
“Report on Operations,” &c., which I have used with such freedom. This
may not be a good reason for discursiveness, but after exhausting
struggles with the loose jumble of irrelevancies and misstatements
which constitute the normal unit history, much may be forgiven. And,
indeed, the Palestine detachment has other and far better claims to a
resurrection from the obscurity in which its accomplishments have lain
hidden. There is no need to labour those claims again here. They speak
for themselves in the energy and courage, the foresight, adaptability,
and fertility of invention which overcame all the obstacles that a
strange country and climate could add to an initial poverty of means.
CHAPTER VI.
MESSINES.
During the second half of May there was much coming and going of units
in the Bermicourt area. The remnants of C and D Battalions returned
there to refit. A and B, forming the 2nd Brigade, drew 76 Mark IV.
tanks, and left for the Belgian frontier and the forthcoming attack
on the Messines Ridge. Two new battalions, F and G, arrived from
England. The 3rd Brigade was now formed of C and F, G replacing the
former in the 1st Brigade. Preparatory to this increase in the corp’s
fighting strength, Colonel Elles was raised to the exalted rank of
Brigadier-General.
The battle of Messines, and the part taken in it by the 2nd Brigade,
can be dealt with very cursorily. It was the opening stage of our
attack in Flanders, which followed on the collapse of the French
effort in Champagne and our own failure to break the Drocourt-Quéant
line. The new offensive, long premeditated, was planned on a large
scale and inspired by very sanguine ideas. It was hoped to drive the
enemy off the whole coast-line as far as the Dutch frontier, and then,
by forcing the evacuation of Lille, to open the way for an advance
on Brussels and Antwerp. The preliminary operations fell into three
stages. The monotonous Flemish plain is diversified, between St Omer
and Menin, by a line of hills shaped like a note of interrogation lying
on its back. Starting at Cassel, a very conspicuous isolated height,
these hills run due eastward to Kemmel, over the Belgian border, and
thence curve round Ypres to the north. The enemy held the whole of
this curve, which, from the village of Wytschaete, 250 feet above the
sea, falls gradually away to nothing beyond the forest of Houthoulst.
Our first object was to dispossess him of the Wytschaete or Messines
Ridge, which overlooks the whole Ypres salient. The second stage would
be the capture after an interval of the rest of the curve, known as
the Passchendaele Ridge. This, it was estimated, would be effected in
three or four days. The moment the ridge was ours, the third stage
was to open with the landing of a force of all arms, including even
tanks, at Middelkerke, between Nieuport and Ostend, to get behind the
enemy’s forces along the Yser, and so facilitate an advance on that
water-logged front. No one can say how far this ambitious scheme would
have prospered if the weather had remained fair. As it fell out, the
first stage alone was carried through successfully. Wytschaete and
Messines were taken in a few hours, but owing to the rain it took
us three months instead of three days to reach Passchendaele; and
long before that the amphibious enterprise at Middelkerke, the most
interesting and hazardous feature of the whole plan, had perforce been
cancelled. I shall give some account of its elaborate machinery later
on.
Sir Herbert Plumer and the 2nd Army had been facing the Messines
Ridge for two years, and plans for its capture had been developed at
leisure. The surface soil in the neighbourhood lay upon a substratum
of clay, very suitable for tunnelling; and for upwards of twelve
months we had been driving mine-shafts beneath the German trenches.
The ridge was enclosed in a small salient, with the chord of the arc,
about six miles long, represented by the enemy’s third defence system,
known as the Oostaverne Line. This was to be our final objective.
The battle was to be finished in one day. Considering the lengthy
and precise preparations for it, the moral effect of the explosion
of twenty huge mines, and the powerful artillery fire which was to
be concentrated on the small area within the salient, it will be
apparent that there was no very urgent need for tanks. The state of
the ground, moreover, already bad, would not be improved by the seven
days’ preliminary bombardment; and if rain fell it would soon become
impassable. Messines, in fact, was not a tank battle at all. It was one
of those rare occasions when a section or two, to deal with obstinate
strong-points, would have been as useful as the entire brigade which
ultimately went into action.
Warning of possible operations in the Ypres salient had been received
at Bermicourt early in the year. The Intelligence branch of the corps
began a survey of the whole area in March; and the following month,
when the 2nd Brigade was detailed to assist in the attack at Messines,
the R.O.’s of A and B Battalions went forward to reconnoitre the
southern sector. Ample information was available, for the 2nd Army knew
all that there was to be known about the German position. It had also
constructed one of the familiar large-scale models of the ridge and the
country beyond; but although such representations are always worth a
visit, it is doubtful if they are of much value from a tank commander’s
standpoint. They bear no real resemblance to the actual ground to be
traversed, and the view from a tank is so limited that the larger
details of a landscape are of small use in getting bearings.
Between the 23rd and 27th May the tanks of the two battalions were
detrained at Ouderdom and Clapham Junction (near Dranoutre). They
lay up before the battle in the neighbourhood of the railheads--B
Battalion’s machines in a wood, and those of A in timber and canvas
shelters built to represent huts. These assembly positions were within
four miles of the line. The usual precautions were taken to conceal the
fact of the tanks’ arrival, the tracks left by their movements (which
show up very clearly in aeroplane photographs) being obliterated by
harrows. This was the first appearance of Mark IV.’s in the field; and
another novelty was the use of old Mark II.’s for supply purposes.
Twelve were attached to the brigade, carrying between them one complete
fill of petrol, oil, grease, and ammunition for all the 76 fighting
tanks.
The attack was to take place at dawn on 7th June. Three corps were
taking part--from left to right, the 10th, 9th, and 2nd. Eventually
64 tanks were allotted to them--40 to attack the first objective,
the German second line beyond the crest of the ridge, and 24 more to
help in the final rush for the Oostaverne trenches. On 24th May the
preliminary bombardment opened. The weather was hot and dry: there had
been no rain for a fortnight; and now, day after day, the ridge was
smothered in dust-clouds thrown up by the bursting shells. The gun-fire
slackened on the last day, 6th May; but the enemy became nervous
after dark and began to shell the back areas. He used a large amount
of gas, which caused much discomfort to the tank crews on the final
approach-march to the front line, for that invaluable device, the small
box-respirator, is more than usually inconvenient when worn inside a
tank. Later in the night a heavy thunderstorm broke; but by 2.30 A.M.
the sky was clear once more.
At 3.10, on the very edge of dawn, the German front line between Hill
60 and Messines went up into the air with an indescribable shock
and noise, as the nineteen huge mines exploded. Simultaneously the
barrage fell through the dust-clouds upon the still-moving earth.
With so tremendous a preparation, the first stage of the attack
went like clockwork. Messines was carried by 7 A.M., and Wytschaete
before midday. The tanks were seldom needed, and indeed were unable
in most cases to keep up with the very rapid advance. One, however,
by a combination of luck and skilful driving, was able to lead the
Australian and New Zealand troops of the 2nd Corps the whole way to
the second objective, a distance of two miles, in an hour and forty
minutes. Another, the “Wytschaete Express,” convoyed the Ulster
Division into that village; and a third lent very timely help at
Fanny’s Farm, beyond Messines, where the infantry was held up for
a time. In the meanwhile, the 24 reserve tanks had moved up to our
original front line, and in the afternoon climbed the ridge to lead
the assault on the final objective. The Oostaverne Line was little
damaged, by comparison with the shattered first and second systems,
and might have caused us serious trouble. The tanks, however, reached
the trenches ahead of the infantry, and so demoralised the defenders
that the whole position was taken at a light cost. During its
consolidation, the surviving machines patrolled beyond it; and this
dangerous operation, which often exposes tanks to direct artillery
fire which they can neither avoid nor counter, led on this occasion to
one very gallant and useful piece of work. Well east of Oostaverne,
between that village and the Ypres-Menin railway, stood Joye Farm, at
the head of a marshy little valley down which crawled a stream called
the Wambeek. Late in the afternoon two of the patrolling tanks (both
males of A Battalion) became ditched near the farm, actually in front
of our outpost line. All efforts to extricate them before night having
failed, it was proposed to withdraw the crews. The Wambeek valley,
however, offered the enemy cover in which to mass his troops for a
counter-attack; and as the tanks would be of material assistance in
such an event, the men eventually were ordered to stand by them during
the night and resume unditching at dawn. At 4 A.M., therefore, work was
started again. One tank was got out, and at once moved forward toward
the Ypres-Menin railway, where a counter-attack was in progress, but
broke a track while attempting to cross the metals. At 6.30 the Germans
were seen to be gathering along the Wambeek. Each tank could bring one
6-pounder to bear on the valley, and the majority of their crews took
the machine-guns outside into shell-holes. The infantry near at hand
were asked for support and supplied with ammunition, of which their
Lewis-gun teams were deficient. The enemy’s attack was now developing;
but although for five hours he made repeated attempts to issue from
the valley, in every case he was repulsed with heavy losses, inflicted
largely by the 6-pounder and machine-gun fire of the two tank crews. At
11.30 our barrage opened again and finally dispersed the assailants.
In this battle the two tank battalions lost 3 officers and 16 men
killed or died of wounds, and 26 officers and 73 men wounded or
missing. Eleven tanks were disabled by direct hits; 48 were ditched,
and 2 were hit after ditching. There were nineteen recorded cases in
which they helped the infantry. The Mark IV.’s, with their lighter
sponsons and other improvements, were shown to be far handier than the
old type of machine. Apart from the obvious conclusions that tanks
need not have been used at all in the first phase of the attack, and
that the ground was thoroughly unsuitable for any combined effort on
their part, the chief lesson to be drawn from Messines was one already
taken to heart--the necessity, namely, of providing a more efficient
unditching apparatus for use in such pulverised _terrain_. Many
casualties would have been avoided, and many more tanks would have got
into action and returned that night, if the long unditching spar issued
shortly after had been in use during the battle.
The question of the advisability of using tanks at Messines raises
another which it may be of interest to consider before we close this
chapter. “The third battle of Ypres,” says Colonel Buchan,[16] “was
the residuum left to Sir Douglas Haig of the great plan of a Flanders
offensive which he had conceived the previous winter. Events which he
could not control had postponed it till too late in the summer.” Here,
as elsewhere, the writer implies that the dilemma in which we found
ourselves was caused wholly by the failure of the French advance on
Laon. Manifestly, the work of the Allied armies was interdependent;
but the principle of assuming at all costs the perfection of our own
dispositions can be carried too far. There was in any case a bold
alternative to the Ypres offensive, which actually was proposed and
might well have been adopted, even before the postponement of the
latter compromised its prospects. This alternative was a tank attack on
a large scale against the central portion of the Hindenburg Line--to
take place after Messines. In other words, the battle of Cambrai was
to be fought in the early summer, on the same lines as eventually were
adopted in the late autumn. In the Arras battles the Mark I. tanks were
used for the last time, and as none really were needed at Messines,
the improved Mark IV.’s and the experienced personnel lost there might
have been preserved for a greater occasion. The enemy’s attention was
drawn northward by the 2nd Army’s victory. He began at once to transfer
reserves to meet the obvious corollary of an attack from Ypres; and
to foster this belief by various stratagems was no more difficult in
June than in November. Meanwhile, let us suppose the four original
tank battalions, reinforced in May by F and G, to be preparing at
Bermicourt and Wailly for the secret blow far to the south. By the end
of June, when the three brigades began to assemble in the Salient, it
would have been possible to arm them with 100 tanks apiece--300 in all.
(216 fighting machines were actually in Belgium for the battle of July
31st.) Our communications across the devastated Somme area were then so
far complete (or could have been made so) as to permit of a rapid and
secret concentration on that front, and the plan of attack adopted with
such startling results on November 20th might have been anticipated in
almost every detail, with this great additional advantage--twelve or
fifteen fresh divisions, instead of six tired ones, could have followed
the tanks. The ground was perfect, virtually untouched by war, and not
likely to be affected seriously by rain. The enemy was unprepared.
And of the possible obstacles, the fabulous Hindenburg trenches, whose
rear systems were not even completed by midsummer, were the least to be
feared.
Such was the scheme put forward and strongly urged by the supporters
of the new weapon. If it did not seem to offer so glittering a reward
as a victorious advance along the coast, its prospects of success were
immeasurably higher. It would possess the elements for which tanks
were designed--surprise and normal country. Apart from the ordinary
difficulties confronting an attack out of the Salient, where the enemy
was fully prepared for one, the effect of bad weather and gun-fire
upon the ruined soil reduced every ambitious military operation there
to the nature of a gamble. It is interesting to note that quite early
in the year, after the reconnaissance made by the Heavy Section of the
whole area, the ground north of Messines was declared utterly unfit
for tanks; and far less rain than actually fell in August would have
ruined our offensive. (As it happened, June and July, about when it
was proposed to fight the alternative tank battle, were brilliantly
fine.) Nor were the strategic prospects of a blow at Cambrai to be
under-estimated. A success, of which there was every probability, would
have threatened directly the great line of supply, running southward
through Maubeuge, by which the German armies in Champagne were fed and
clothed and armed. Such a threat was the object of the November attack,
and of the second battle of Cambrai ten months later, when at length it
was carried through to a practical conclusion.
This excursion into strategy and speculation may seem out of place in a
book of this nature. But one of my main objects in writing is to show
how a belated appreciation of the correct use of tanks in battle came
to overset all the theories stereotyped by years of stationary warfare,
and how the tactical beliefs held by the Tank Corps itself were
ultimately accepted as gospel by the Army as a whole. Already there are
signs of backsliding, and in a few years we shall be told that the
war was won by cavalry. But regarding Cambrai as the great conversion
(if only “for the duration”), it is both interesting and pertinent to
discuss the earlier proposal, although it came to nothing at the time,
and was only exhumed later as a sort of counsel of desperation. In the
spring of 1917 there was little hope for it. The Belgian coast-line
worked like a magnet, and there were infantry and guns in plenty to be
drawn thither. The main argument against the attack farther south was,
however, that too few tanks were available. Yet 300 at least could have
been found, and only 370 went in eventually at Cambrai. No doubt there
were other and better reasons. Whatever they were, they prevailed: our
activities continued to shift northward, and soon men and guns and
tanks were floundering in the morasses of the Salient.
CHAPTER VII.
YPRES: THE PRELIMINARIES.
I.
From now onward my own experiences with the Tank Corps in France will
take up a large part of the narrative. I came out from England as a
tank commander in G Battalion toward the end of May 1917. Only the
personnel were on the boat, as by this time the tanks were shipped
across in batches as they were completed, new battalions on their
arrival drawing their quota from the park at Erin. F Battalion had
preceded G by a week, these two units being the first to leave of those
raised at home under the new establishment.
The month of June, notable for brilliant weather, we spent partly in
the Bermicourt area, where my own company billeted in satisfactory
isolation in the village of Pierremont, and partly at Wailly, where
each company went for a week’s driving practice. The combatant
companies in the Heavy Branch were then numbered consecutively
throughout the corps, and not by their battalions; so that G, as the
seventh of the latter in alphabetical order, consisted of 19, 20, and
21 Companies--the last-named being my own. At Pierremont we led a
very placid existence for a few weeks. We route-marched and drilled a
little, toyed with Lewis guns, and played cricket: we suffered, not
over gladly, the presence in our mess of two unshaven and lugubrious
members of the Y.M.C.A. (which occasionally errs in selecting its
personnel) whom we knew only as “Watch” and “Pray”; and eventually,
with the rest of the battalion, we marched over to Erin, about four
miles distant, to draw thirty-six Mark IV. tanks. We drove our own
twelve back to a park already established in the village. At this time,
however, I had no tank to command. There were in my section three
rather senior lieutenants, hailing from the prehistoric Thetford age,
who naturally secured a tank apiece. The majority of the subalterns
in G, including myself, had been commissioned from the ranks on the
same day some six months earlier, and joined the battalion together,
and their seniority necessarily was determined by the alphabet. In
consequence of this law the fourth tank in the section fell to my
friend and contemporary Brassington (killed a year later by Monument
Wood, outside Bapaume), since “Bra” comes before “Bro.” On such
accidents of orthography, in the Army, may one’s future depend! I was
left for the time being in command of the fifth or reserve crew.
In the meanwhile Messines had been fought. We heard the guns from
Pierremont, and, a little later, learnt that we should soon move up
to the Salient ourselves to take part in the forthcoming development
of the offensive there. I remember Torbett, the company commander,
returning one evening about this time from some conference, bringing
with him a large-scale map of the country over which the battalion was
expected to operate. Few or none of us had seen the Salient then; and
on this sheet, carefully layered and thick with symmetrical villages
and roads, it looked quite attractive and very ordinary. I date from
that event an instinctive mistrust of maps depicting strange country
in war-time. I believe it would have helped us greatly in this war to
have had maps drawn especially to represent, so far as was possible,
the actual condition of the ground on most battlefields. This should
not have been difficult: primarily it would mean inventing a series
of entirely new conventional signs for mud and shelled areas and
obliterated villages and roads, to take the place of the normal
peace-time symbols of the cartographer, supplemented only by obscure
legends which nobody reads. I have experimented with such a map myself.
The ordinary production, showing every house and hedgerow and by-way
in (let us say) Poelcapelle or Pozières, which simply had ceased to
exist, was peculiarly misleading; and, so strong is habit, the more
accustomed one was to handling maps before the war (an eccentricity not
common, it is true, in the regular Army) the more misleading it became.
Looking now at any sheet professing to represent the Pilkem Ridge and
the Steenbeek Valley, and recalling what that atrocious neighbourhood
really looked like, it is a marvel to me that we ever found our
way about it at all. I am quite certain that in many cases loss of
direction, or misstatements as to position in action--errors which were
only too common--were due not to ordinary bad map-reading, although
that also was prevalent enough, but to excusable inability on the part
of an officer to reconcile the printed sheet with the actual appearance
of the country: a difficulty that might have been mitigated in part by
the use of some more appropriate system of cartography.
Toward the end of June the 1st Tank Brigade, consisting now of G and D
Battalions, received definite movement orders; and a few days later an
advance party of G, which I accompanied, moved by lorry to the Salient
to prepare a camp. We reached our destination at Oosthoek Wood, beyond
Poperinghe, about 3 o’clock of a blazing July afternoon, at the exact
moment when a German aeroplane was attacking one of our observation
balloons which hung immediately overhead. There was a hideous racket
of futile rifle and machine-gun fire: along the whole line of balloons
stretching northward observers were descending in parachutes; and two
dissolving spirals of black smoke above the trees showed where a couple
of the fragile gasbags had already been destroyed. As we tumbled out of
our lorries, wondering what all the pandemonium was about, the German
pilot was in the act of diving down upon his third victim, right above
us. The two observers were still floating uncomfortably earthward,
and the mechanics on the trolley below, at the edge of the wood, were
working frenziedly to lower the balloon, when the latter burst into
flames, shrivelled up like tissue-paper, and sank gently in a rain of
charred fragments beneath its own streamer of smoke. The aeroplane,
satisfied with a creditable afternoon’s work, circled round and climbed
toward the lines, pursued, long after it was out of range, by useless
and indiscriminate small-arm fire and the equally ineffective “Archie.”
This was not the only untoward occurrence which had disturbed Oosthoek
that day. It appeared that during the morning the whole wood, which
was full of troops, had been shelled, notably in that part where the
1st and 3rd Tank Brigades proposed to have their camps. As these
attentions were guessed correctly to be only the precursors of more, it
was decided on the spot to send the personnel of both brigades to some
area farther removed from the line. The tanks, however, would have to
remain at Oosthoek. Our advance party, therefore, after spending the
night in the wood with the Reconnaissance Officers of the battalion,
who had been established there for a week, moved back next morning to
the vicinity of Lovie Château, the headquarters of the 5th Army, where
the camps of the 1st Brigade Headquarters and D Battalion already were
in process of erection.
Some account of the neighbourhood and general situation will aid the
story at this point. Oosthoek Wood, the centre of our activities for
the next four months, is a large and straggling assemblage of trees
extending in all over several hundred acres, and lying in the middle of
a triangle whose points are Poperinghe to the south-west, Vlamertinghe
to the south-east, and Elverdinghe to the north-east. The centre of
the wood was within four miles of the nearest point of the line, at
Boesinghe on the canal, and about the same distance from Ypres. It was
bisected by a timbered military road (a splendid piece of work, capable
of taking three lorries abreast) which ran from the direction of Lovie
Château across the triangle to Vlamertinghe. Beside this road a double
line of rails had been laid from Peselhoek railhead to a new and very
conspicuous detraining ramp built at the entrance to the wood for the
use of our brigade. Half a mile farther north a second ramp served the
3rd Brigade. (The 2nd Brigade was already in the area, having remained
at Ouderdom since the battle of Messines.) A series of other woods
diversified the country between Oosthoek and Lovie Château. The latter
building, standing in beautiful grounds, was about seven miles from the
line--uncommonly far forward, nevertheless, for an army headquarters.
It was, indeed, in front of the 18th Corps Headquarters, close by. The
whole of this low-lying and uninteresting region was under cultivation
as far as Oosthoek itself; and there were people living in the farms
on the western outskirts of that wood. The battered and unpleasant
town of Poperinghe, although shelled intermittently and bombed at
one time almost every night, was of course full of squalid shops and
extortionate shopkeepers, most of them women. To carry on for three
or four years a retail business under fire, within five miles of the
enemy, implies a certain enthusiasm for gain; but perhaps the ordeal
justified the imposition of high prices; and the ordinary Englishman’s
passion for buying rubbish is a direct invitation to it. The
restaurants and tea-shops in the town--“Skindle’s,” “Cyril’s,” and the
rest--swarmed all day with garrulous officers, and should have formed
useful media of information for the Germans. As for the depressed and
slatternly creatures in the farms nearer to the line, it was generally
taken for granted that they were spies. The usual stories flew about
of lamps flashing by night and cattle manœuvring suspiciously by day;
and rumour was always shooting somebody. And if there was espionage,
as there must have been, it had a mass of miscellaneous material to
sift and report on. The whole country was crowded with troops. In the
Salient alone there were two armies in one army area, Sir Hubert Gough
having brought four corps from in front of Cambrai to take post on the
2nd Army’s left. To his left again the 1st French Army had taken over
from the Belgians the line between Boesinghe and Noordschoote; while
Rawlinson’s 4th Army had come in on the sea-coast in readiness for
that flanking operation which never materialised. There could be no
attempt to keep this huge concentration a secret, or at any rate there
was none. Such a thing was not thought of in those days. Everything
went forward deliberately on old-established lines, in full view of the
enemy, who were in doubt only (and that not for long) as to the actual
day of attack.
The decision to employ three brigades of tanks, or the whole of the
Heavy Branch, had been come to in May, notwithstanding the adverse
reports on the ground submitted by the Corps Reconnaissance Staff.
From the first introduction of tanks in the field, the conditions with
which they had to contend had gone from bad to worse. Ypres was the
climax. The tanks were sent by scores, and then by hundreds, to drown
ineffectually in a morass, and the very existence of the corps was
imperilled by this misusage. The whole countryside was water-logged:
reclaimed from the sea, for even Ypres once had been a port, its
usefulness and habitability depended in normal times upon an intricate
system of drainage, for whose upkeep the farmers were responsible, and
for the neglect of which they were heavily fined. This drainage had
now been destroyed, or had fallen into desuetude and decay, over the
whole area about the front lines. During our reconnaissances in July
the deplorable results were not at first very apparent. The weather
was fine, and the surface soil dry and crumbling: we walked, so far
as it was safe, over what seemed to be solid earth covered with the
usual coarse grass and weeds; and then, from observation-points in
well-constructed trenches, peered out through our binoculars upon a
barren and dun-coloured landscape, void of any sign of human life,
its dreary skyline broken only by a few jagged stumps of trees. From
this desolation clouds of dust shot up where our shells were falling.
It was much the same as any other battlefield, to all appearance. But
even then the duckboards under foot in the trenches were squelching
upon water; and a few hours’ rain dissolved the fallacious crust into
a bottomless and evil-smelling paste of liquid mud. And rain was the
least offender. It was our own bombardment which finished the work of
ruin, pulverised the ground beyond repair, destroyed what drainage
there was left, and brought the water welling up within the shell-holes
as fast as they were formed. Long before any prolonged downpour had
fallen, indeed after the hottest spells of weather, the little white
discs on the aeroplane photographs were multiplying daily from end to
end of the field of operations.
II.
The actual detraining of the tanks of G Battalion at Oosthoek Wood
was accomplished without any serious hitch. It took place, of course,
after dark, and spread over three successive nights, each company
requiring a complete train. The workshops had already travelled up by
road. My company was the first to arrive; and the Brigadier and staff,
the Colonel and the company commander, Gordon, the company R.O., and
myself, were at the ramp to meet it. We stood about there in the dark
in some anxiety, for a night or two earlier a train of C Battalion’s
had been shelled as it drew in to the northern railhead. There had been
stories of signal rockets going up in the neighbourhood as the train
pulled in. The new white wooden ramps must have shown up clearly on
aeroplane photographs, and no one had thought of camouflaging them.
This night, happily, was exceptionally quiet; only a few heavy shells
whistled far overhead on their way into Poperinghe. It was very dark,
but fine, with a brilliant display of stars. It was also, I remember,
uncommonly cold for July. The train drew in about eleven o’clock,
creeping up so quietly that the dark bulk of the first tank, shrouded
in tarpaulin sheets, was towering above the ramp before I knew anything
about it. We had a party ready at hand for the business of chocking up,
and these men fell to work at once while the tank crews unlashed and
cleared away the sheets and started their engines. “Chocking up,” by
the way, was a process in use to save the springs of the earlier K.T.
trucks, heavy T-shaped baulks of timber being wedged under the ends of
each truck to carry the weight of the tank as it moved off. A later
type of K.T. carried its own chocks in the form of screw-jacks beneath
the buffers.
Everything went well until the eleventh tank refused to start up.
Eventually it had to be towed off. In the meantime, Gordon and I had
been leading the others to their allotted hiding-places in the wood.
Parking tanks (especially Mark IV.’s) among timber at night is always a
noisy and trying operation, resembling in sound and destructiveness the
gambols of a herd of inebriated elephants. The tank-driver, unaided,
can see nothing whatever, and has to be guided by the flashings of an
electric torch, with which refinements of signalling are difficult and
generally misunderstood. The trees, which appeared to be harmless and
nicely spaced in the daytime, become indued with a malignant spirit and
(apparently) have changed their positions since last seen. It was as
black as a coal-pocket in Oosthoek Wood that night; and for an hour or
so it rang with curses and exhortations and the crash and rending of
ill-treated timber as tank after tank tried to swing this way or that
and pushed down a young tree or two in the act. However, soon after one
o’clock we had them all in, herded together more or less in sections,
and the first arrivals were already camouflaged. Although the foliage
was fairly thick, and probably would have formed an adequate screen,
we were running no risks. The camouflage nets were suspended from the
trees a few feet above the tanks, the sides being drawn down at a slant
and pegged to the ground. All this was exhausting work in the pitchy
darkness, and very trying to the temper. At the same time a party was
obliterating the tracks we had made between the ramp and the wood. By
three o’clock the work was done, and we lay down in and under the tanks
to sleep for a few hours. Lorries were due to arrive at six to take all
the personnel, except a guard, back to the camp at Lovie Château.
It was very cold, and personally I hardly slept at all. About five
o’clock every one was aroused very effectually by the arrival of a
high-velocity shell, which burst under the nose of a tank, made a small
hole in another, blew half a camouflage net to tatters, and flung a
haversack into a tree. We were still collecting our wits, and a few
dishevelled figures were crawling out of sponson doors, when a second
shell burst twenty yards beyond the first; and with that every tank
disgorged its occupants in a hurry and all of us dived for shelter.
There were various old pits and trenches in the wood, and within these
we crouched for a short time, while the shells continued to arrive
punctually at half-minute intervals. All of them except the first one
fortunately burst beyond the tanks, although near enough for fragments
to fly among the latter and over our heads. As the wood manifestly
was no place for repose at the moment, we were ordered to leave it;
and having collected the scattered parties (a proceeding interrupted
periodically by the whistle of another approaching shell), we retired
in some disorder upon the military road, near the ramp, where a party
of negro labourers was watching the bombardment with marked uneasiness.
The methodical gun, however, made no attempt to traverse or elevate:
it continued to plant its projectiles around the same spot for another
ten minutes, and then fell silent. Our only casualty was X. (as we
will call him), who ran into a tank in the pardonable excitement of
the moment, cut his forehead, and was removed within half an hour to
the C.C.S. on the Elverdinghe road. There was no further shelling of
the wood that morning. We had every opportunity of establishing this
fact, as, owing to some muddle over the lorries, they were four hours
late. Tired, hungry, and dirty, feeling acutely that no one loved us,
we sat by that accursed military road until midday, when at length the
transport appeared and carried us back to the new camp at Lovie.
During the two ensuing nights 19 and 20 Companies detrained in peace
and were followed shortly after by D Battalion. F Battalion having
also joined C, the 1st and 3rd Brigades were now concentrated near
to one another, mustering between them (including supply and signal
machines) nearly 170 tanks. Every day the crews of the four battalions
marched down from Lovie Château to their work in the wood, returning
after tea. By this time the Germans had acquired the habit of shelling
Oosthoek in a rather desultory fashion every day. In the centre of
the wood, where a number of camps and hutments clustered about some
cross-roads, casualties became so frequent that the whole of the troops
in the neighbourhood were withdrawn: the baths, canteens, and Church
Army huts were closed down; and only a few details remained to dig
themselves in and hope for the best. At our end the nuisance was less
pronounced, although quite troublesome enough. In addition to our old
friend the high-velocity gun, which, situated apparently somewhere
near Langemarck, favoured us with its attentions almost every day,
other pieces of ordnance took a hand occasionally; but in the 1st
Brigade neither men nor tanks were ever hit. As the latter were packed
together like herrings, one or two heavy projectiles among them might
have done a lot of damage. The 3rd Brigade, less fortunate, suffered
several casualties, five men being killed and five wounded in one
morning. We used to debit this unpleasantness to the growing account
of Sergeant Phillips. This gentleman (whose actual regiment, a Welsh
one, I have forgotten), having been captured in a raid, proceeded to
give to the enemy every atom of information in his possession. Most of
it was fairly accurate. Among other things, he disclosed the presence
and approximate numbers of the tanks hidden in Oosthoek Wood. This
piece of treachery having come to the knowledge of our Intelligence
Corps, a summary of the disclosures, together with a prophecy as to the
offender’s probable destiny if ever he returned to England, was ordered
to be read out every week on parade throughout the Army. Now that the
war is over, and the prisoners are returned, I have often wondered what
really has happened to Sergeant Phillips. As he appeared to be a man of
some intelligence, he probably has remained in Germany.
As soon as G Battalion was settled down at Lovie Château,
reconnaissance of the area by tank commanders and N.C.O.’s was begun.
Our part in the forthcoming attack had been decided upon a month
before. We were working with General Maxse’s 18th Corps on the left
centre of the 5th Army front. General Elles was opposed to the use of
tanks anywhere north of the Wieltje road; but the corps commander asked
urgently for two companies, and guaranteed that his engineers would, if
necessary, get them to the crossing of the Steenbeek at St Julien. The
action of the tanks, nevertheless, was to be subsidiary to the infantry
assault, as the battle was being conducted on the stereotyped lines
which had failed so often before. 19 and 21 Companies of my battalion
were detailed to the 18th Corps, 20 Company remaining in corps reserve.
D Battalion, for the time being, was in army reserve. The object
of the first day’s attack was the capture of the enemy’s first and
second systems on the Pilkem Ridge, and the securing of the Steenbeek
crossings. This was to be followed on the second day by a push for the
third system and the Passchendaele Ridge beyond; after which it was
hoped to break through in the direction of Thourout simultaneously
with an offensive by the 4th Army on the coast and the landing at
Middelkerke. Our advanced headquarters party of Reconnaissance Officers
had already worked out routes to the front line, and collected much
valuable information about the ground beyond. The first serious
obstacle to tank operations north of Ypres was the famous canal. This
forbidding and ill-omened waterway, lined on both sides by blasted and
withered poplars, haunted by cemeteries, and sunk within high banks
honeycombed with terraces of dug-outs, was crossed between Brielen and
La Brique by a series of earthen causeways. Over one of these, known
as Marengo, a few hundred yards north of the dismal region called
the Dead End of Ypres, the tanks were to pass. The prospect was not
inviting, as the whole canal was shelled on and off every day and
night, especially in the neighbourhood of the causeways; and a single
tank disabled on Marengo would hold up all behind it. There was no
alternative crossing, all the others being engaged for the passage of
artillery and supplies. Beyond the canal a maze of old and new trenches
and wire climbed a gentle slope to the only eminence, if such it can
be called, within the original salient, on the summit of which, about
2000 yards from the front line, the ruins of Frascati Farm lay hidden
among some fine trees. From the farther edge of this timber nothing
but a line of high camouflage netting, strung on poles, interrupted
the view across the slight depression where the front lines ran to the
Pilkem Ridge and the ragged outline of Kitchener’s Wood behind the
second German system. So long as one’s body and legs are covered, one
can look over a parapet with comparative equanimity; but it seemed to
me always a strange thing to stand upright, and entirely unprotected,
behind this fictitious screen of netting, and watch through its meshes
the whole extent of the enemy’s trenches over an area of several miles,
with our shells bursting in clouds of dust about them. The front lines
themselves, on the marshy ground of the hollow below, were on an
average three or four hundred yards apart. Along No Man’s Land, just
in front of and parallel to our trenches, ran an unhappy thoroughfare
called Admiral’s Road, down which, for two years and a half, neither
admirals nor common folk (except the nightly patrols) had ever stepped.
The German front-line trenches took in a number of farms--Mousetrap,
Hampshire, Canadian, Krupp, and others; but these were only names upon
the map. Even the remnants of the buildings had vanished utterly long
before: there was not a brick remaining to mark the sites; nothing
was left but foul water and mud and a few pollarded willows that
somehow had survived the annihilating pestilence of high explosives.
These Flemish farmsteads were surrounded almost invariably by moats
and pools, and the water had now overlapped its ruined confines and
inundated acres of ground on every side. And behind this barrier,
along the crest of the Pilkem Ridge, another series of obliterated and
water-logged farms--Juliet, Oblong, Racecourse, Below--formed outposts
to the second German system. Nor was this the end of these amphibious
obstacles. Beyond the ridge lay what once had been the Steenbeek--a
sluggish stream crawling between muddy banks, ten or fifteen feet in
width and three or four in depth; now a strip of quagmire, believed to
be impassable for tanks except at the ruined bridge of St Julien--an
obvious defile marked down and taped to a yard by the German batteries.
Nor, again, was this all. It was indeed only the beginning. East of the
Steenbeek, Von Armin, commanding the 4th German Army, had extemporised
for defence in a different manner a third series of farmhouses (in
front of his third line), by filling their ruins with reinforced
concrete. Similar strong-points on a smaller scale, known generically
as “pill-boxes,” were dotted thickly about the Pilkem Ridge; but it
was in the area behind, out of our observation, that this type of
pocket-fortress reached its climax of strength and ingenuity. Here also
were the main-battery positions. The enemy had come to realise, after
Arras and Messines, that any front line could be made untenable by a
heavy bombardment, and that even the second line should be regarded
chiefly as a means of delaying and disorganising the assault. The third
line, covered by a forward system of strong-points, was the main zone
of resistance, behind which, in comparative security, reserves could be
massed for a counter-attack. Adapted, by the “pill-box” system, to the
abnormal conditions of the Salient (where deep dug-outs, and in some
places adequate trenches even, were out of the question), this was the
first application of the principle of an elastic “defence in depth,” as
opposed to the rigid obstacle of such fortifications as the Hindenburg
Line. Resistance hardened automatically as the attack progressed. The
field batteries were kept well back. The scheme depended for success
upon the quality of the defending infantry and machine-gunners, who
must be equal to the task of holding isolated posts unsupported for
a period long enough to disorganise and weary the assailants, and
allow the counter-preparations to mature. Upon this personal factor,
under the influence of tanks, the method broke down during our final
offensive a year later; but at the end of 1917 the German _moral_ was
still high, and in the Salient the tanks had few chances of undermining
it.
Such, then, was the position the two companies of G Battalion had to
assist the infantry to capture. On our left the 14th Corps and General
Anthoine’s Frenchmen were attacking without tanks up the Ypres-Staden
railway, and toward the dismal Forest of Houthoulst. South of our
sector the 2nd and 3rd Tank Brigades were operating with the 2nd and
19th Corps respectively against Frezenberg and the frightful region
beyond Hooge. Here the conditions were similar to those with which we
should have to contend: if possible, even worse. The approach-marches
of these brigades were complicated, not only by the canal, but also by
two streams, called the Kemmel Beek and the Lombart Beek, over which
five causeways had to be built. This work, as well as the construction
of splinter-proof shelters, the filling in of smaller dykes and
craters, the bridging of innumerable trenches, and every other form of
engineering device necessary, was performed by the 184th Tunnelling
Company, attached to the Heavy Branch for the operations. One section
of this company worked with each brigade, and all rendered invaluable
service.
III.
The third battle of Ypres was unique in the history of the Tank Corps
in the facilities afforded for preliminary reconnaissance. A natural
prejudice impels me to the conclusion that in this department, as in
all the rest, the work of my own battalion was more thorough than
that of most others; and undoubtedly some of the older units were
inclined to think that because they had been in action on the Somme
they knew everything about tank warfare. This was much as if the
cavalry should believe Pinkie Cleugh to be the last word on mounted
tactics--as sometimes it appears that they do. For much had been done
and more learnt since Flers and Courcelette. In any case, all of us had
exceptional opportunities for preparation in the Salient. It was a pity
they were squandered on so unprofitable a battlefield. The 2nd Brigade
had been in the area since Messines, and the Reconnaissance Officers
of the other two had lived in Oosthoek Wood for a fortnight before the
personnel arrived. By the time section and tank commanders were free
to begin their individual surveys, a great mass of information had
already been gathered and sorted out. Aeroplane photographs had been
collected, special maps prepared, landmarks identified, and routes to
the front line decided upon. And still there was ample time for every
crew to become familiar (so far as was possible from a distance) with
the deplorable country over which it would have to fight. For three
weeks parties of officers, N.C.O.’s, and men of G Battalion went daily
up the line. To begin with, each tank commander walked with his drivers
two or three times over the penultimate approach route from Oosthoek
Wood to Frascati Farm beyond the canal--a distance, by the circuitous
way chosen, of about 10,000 yards. It was divided into two stages. It
led by a narrow and winding by-way from the military road to Hospital
Farm, on the northern edge of the wood, and thence along a track,
known to the whole British Army as Rum Road, to a point north-west of
Brielen village, where there was an enclosure surrounded by trees and
overgrown hedges, which we called Halfway House. Here the tanks of 19
and 21 Companies were to spend X-day, or the day but one before the
battle. During X-Y night they were to move forward again along Rum
Road, past Murat Farm, across Marengo Causeway, and so to Frascati,
lying up throughout Y-day under the trees there. The remaining stage of
the approach-march to the front line at Forward Cottage was a mile in
length. As it was impossible to walk over this in daylight, it was to
be taped by the R.O.’s on the final evening.
The next preparatory step was the reconnaissance of the ground beyond
the German lines. Parties of us would go by lorry to Reigersberg
Château, a dismal modern building, greatly shattered, standing behind a
high wall among trees a mile north-west of Ypres on the Brielen road.
The whole of this region was thick with heavy guns, and there was a
peculiarly obnoxious battery of 8-inch howitzers, hidden behind a hedge
on the roadside opposite the château, which invariably fired with an
ear-splitting blast of sound at the moment when one was standing by the
lorry a dozen yards in front of the muzzles. As the Germans indulged
in a good deal of retaliation in the neighbourhood, Reigersberg was no
place to linger about. A section commander and an R.O. of F Battalion
were blown to pieces one morning by a heavy shell which burst at their
feet in the château grounds; and the gunners who lived there suffered
casualties every day. Leaving this lugubrious mansion with some haste,
therefore, we used to push forward on foot to another unhealthy spot,
Bridge 4 over the canal. This was a timber structure for infantry
and field-guns, built over the wreck of a sunken steamboat. It was
constantly shelled, and I suppose at that time was hit on an average
at least once a day; while if high explosive was not coming over, one
could always expect a few bursts of heavy shrapnel above one’s head.
Owing to the causeways which blocked the canal lower down, the water
here was stagnant and choked with weeds; but in fine weather, if
the German guns were quiet, men usually were bathing in it; and, as
somebody remarked, “it really became more like the Serpentine every
day.” Beyond Bridge 4 we entered the annihilated region of the real
Salient. Along the high canal bank, with its terraces of sand-bagged
dug-outs, named and numbered like suburban thoroughfares, stood the
wreckage of a line of magnificent trees, the counterpart of that on the
west bank. Half of these were mere splintered trunks or lay entirely
prostrate, and those still erect were gashed and torn. They rose
mournfully above the frightful welter of shell-holes and trenches,
the litter of timber and rubbish, the rusted entanglements, and the
patches of marsh lined with unhappy pollards, which sloped up gently
to Frascati and the remains of La Brique. Our route from the bridge
usually took us in one of two directions across this wasted land.
Either we descended at once into trenches and made our way to various
points in the reserve or support lines from which we could obtain a
fair view of the Pilkem Ridge, or we walked above ground with some
disquietude of spirit through Frascati and La Brique to Wilson’s Post,
a concrete observation-point on the forward slope beyond. This journey
never was an unmixed joy. We had to pass through the garden of the last
house (or, to be accurate, what had been the garden of what had been
the last house) in La Brique. At one time the ruins of this building
had been used as a machine-gun post. The Germans, having become aware
of this, shelled it heavily, and the guns were withdrawn. The derelict
house, however, was still an occasional target, and was yet another
point where no sensible man lingered. Wilson’s Post, a quarter of a
mile in front, was a small two-storied tower embedded literally to
its eyelids in the earth, its cranium concealed in willows and other
shrubs. It was approached from La Brique by an unfinished trench about
the depth of a roadside gutter. In the bottom storey, illuminated by a
candle, an orderly sat over a telephone; in the upper chamber--about
five feet square and reached by a ladder--a telescope peered through
two shallow slits on the ground-level and swept from an angle the whole
front over which my battalion was to attack. Sitting on a little bench
with one’s feet dangling over the trap-door, one could see the brown
slope of the Pilkem Ridge, seamed with lighter-coloured lines which
marked the enemy’s trenches, the foliage of Kitchener’s Wood appearing
over the crest, and, away to the left, the debris of the estaminet
called Boche Castle and a few clumps of skeleton trees which, on that
obliterated countryside, served us for landmarks--English Trees,
Marsouin Trees, Hurst Park, and that solitary but useful vegetable
known to us as Lone Tree. (The fate of English Trees, marking the site
of a vanished farm, was followed by us with peculiar interest, and odds
were laid on or against their survival. Originally they were eleven
in number, but our preliminary bombardment thinned their ranks, and
the eclipse of one or another was sedulously recorded, and the vital
information circulated throughout the battalion. About half a dozen, I
think, all considerably the worse for wear, survived the ordeal, and
may be standing yet.) Far beyond these outposts we could see the hazy
woods about Pilkem and Langemarck and Poelcapelle. We were provided
with sketches professing to depict all these features, and even such
details as Langemarck Church and the Institute (whatever that might
be) at Passchendaele; but no two of us could ever agree in identifying
these remote buildings. Of far greater merit was a panorama, taking
in our entire front, drawn from Wilson’s Post by an R.E. officer
named Brennan. This was of real service to us. One singular object, I
remember, situated prominently on the ridge-top in front of Kitchener’s
Wood, puzzled us till the end. It was square in outline and of the size
of a small cottage, only no cottage could be standing there and none
was marked on the map. The map, on the contrary, misled apparently by a
light railway which aeroplane photographs showed running out to it from
the wood, marked it as an ammunition dump! This palpably was absurd,
and was the result of some one making a guess without looking at the
ground. Only a lunatic would erect a dump ten or twelve feet high a
thousand yards from the front line and in full view of the enemy. I saw
this mystery at close quarters for the first time on the afternoon of
1st August, when I was trudging homeward through the mud and rain with
the remains of my crew, and then discovered it to be a large concrete
machine-gun fort, covered with sheets of brown camouflage netting. It
had been hit more than once, probably by the 9.2 shells with which we
bombarded the enemy’s second line; but these huge projectiles had only
cracked the walls. The effect of the concussion inside, however, must
have been terrible. A dead German, with wide-open blue eyes staring
out of a grey face, was lying on his back half out of the entrance,
and no doubt there were others within. I was in no mood for grisly
investigations, and even my crew were too scared and exhausted to
indulge the ruling passion for souvenirs.
Among the other attractions of La Brique and its salubrious
neighbourhood were a couple of trees fitted with iron rungs and used
as occasional o.p.’s, and a third dummy stump made of steel, inside
which the observer insinuated himself. I never ascended the tallest
tree, eighty feet high, and never had the least desire to do so;
but I clambered once up the shorter one, which stood at the head of
the ditch leading to Wilson’s Post. I did not think that the view
obtained therefrom was worth the trouble and anxiety involved. On
another occasion a fellow tank commander, Merchant, and myself were
reconnoitring together from this point. He was up the tree and I was
sitting at the foot of it, asking, like the lady in the poem, “Can you
see anything, Sister Anne?” and wishing he would make haste. He might
have replied, after Bairnsfather’s hero, “They must have seen _me_!”
For immediately after we both heard a familiar whistling crescendo, a
sound whose disturbing quality time cannot stale nor custom wither--the
shriek of an approaching shell. Merchant came down that tree like an
acrobat; and our simultaneous arrival in the ditch coincided with
that of the shell a few yards away. In point of fact, the wretched
last house in La Brique, already adverted to, was again the object of
unmerited suspicion. A succession of projectiles fell about it and
about us, for the shooting was not very good, while we crouched on
all-fours in the unfinished trench, and bobbed up like marionettes
after each explosion to see how big a margin had been granted us. As
this did not appear too generous, we withdrew presently to Wilson’s
Post, and there, a few minutes later, it began to rain gas-shells.
Heaven knows what the Germans saw or thought they saw. Probably the
whole business was mere caprice. There was no one but ourselves moving
above ground for miles around, and we had been very circumspect,
keeping under cover and refraining from flapping large maps about in
the open after the fashion of some of these reconnoitring parties.
Happily, the demonstration was short-lived. When it subsided we hurried
back without undue ceremony through La Brique to Bridge 4, Reigersberg,
and the waiting lorry.
While Reigersberg itself was no sanatorium, the village of Brielen,
through which our transport had to pass on these excursions, became
toward the end of July even more unpopular. Situate on one of the main
thoroughfares into Ypres, with cross-roads running through it from
Vlamertinghe to the canal, it was an obvious target, and under the
continual impact of high-explosive shell it decayed very rapidly. In
the autumn of 1916 it was still inhabited: by the following spring
it was a mere avenue of empty ruins; and when I left the Salient in
October ’17, most of the debris even had been carted away as road
ballast. And during our reconnaissances it was no uncommon thing to
wait anxiously for an hour in the grounds of Reigersberg Château, with
one eye upon the sand-bagged cellars there, watching the fragments of
Brielen, two or three hundred yards up the road, ascending gracefully,
at regular and frequent intervals, into the air.
It may be said that this sort of thing was child’s play to the
conditions endured in the line itself. And so, in one sense,
undoubtedly it was. A walk to Frascati or St Jean and back was, on the
face of it, preferable to a week’s residence in either of those places.
Yet I think that every one who knew the Salient in the summer of 1917
will agree that its most disagreeable feature, during what would be
called inactive periods, was this persistent shelling of back areas. On
any other front one felt moderately safe two miles behind the line, but
never at Ypres. For troops in support there was no real peace east of
Poperinghe. While the front trenches might be wrapped in quiet, shells
would be falling all day in Brielen or Vlamertinghe or even in Oosthoek
Wood. And the reason was obvious. The Salient was very narrow as well
as very pronounced. As a purely military position it was absurd. A gun
of quite moderate calibre, emplaced on either flank, could have fired
right across the chord of the arc. At Boesinghe the enemy actually
was north-west of Ypres: in front of Wytschaete, before the battle of
Messines, he was south-west of it; and between these two points the
distance was only seven miles. From the centre of a line drawn from
one to the other, the Salient projected about four miles. Even after
Messines the line of investment still ran through half a circle, and
commanded, from the concentric Pilkem Ridge, almost all the ground up
to the canal. Within this enclosure, only half the size of the city of
Paris, the country was flat, marshy, and intersected by minor streams
and dykes; while the obstacle of the canal caused all the main roads
from the west, down which our men and supplies must march, to converge
on the crossings at Ypres itself. On these roads, therefore, on the
points where they were cut by lateral thoroughfares, and especially
on the point of convergence, the hostile fire naturally was directed.
And there were a thousand other targets for less concentrated effort.
Troops swarmed everywhere from Ypres to the Belgian frontier; and in
the forward area, in addition to the camps of infantry and gunners,
there were hosts of engineers and labour men digging gun-pits, laying
roads and railways, putting up horse lines and dumps and water systems.
Light and heavy trains moved up and down all day. The Germans were
perfectly aware of this activity; and it was an unlucky battery that
could not score a hit or two in the course of twenty-four hours’
speculative shooting over so congested a countryside.
IV.
Our camp of bell-tents in the copse at Lovie Château, where we spent
our nights, was outside the normal area of this unpleasantness.
Poperinghe, of course, two miles to the south, was shelled for half an
hour or so every morning, often in the evening, and occasionally at
odd hours during the day. The shells passed almost over our camp; and
while one was dressing or preparing to turn in for the night one used
to hear the whistle overhead and then the distant crash and echo in the
unfortunate town. And once we were genuinely entertained by a crisis
nearer at hand. An enterprising 15-inch gun, probably travelling in
luxury on a train, took a few pot-shots at the 5th Army Headquarters in
the château itself. When one or two of these colossal projectiles burst
in the aerodrome across the road, the army became alarmed, assumed
hurriedly the unfamiliar steel helmet, and presently departed, bag
and baggage, for Proven. The Germans, well informed as usual, learnt
almost at once of this translation: the 15-inch gun was turned on the
new refuge; and the Higher Command, choosing the most comfortable
of two evils, came back to Lovie again, greatly to the annoyance of
the Flying Corps, who in the meantime had occupied the château. The
humour of this episode will be apparent to every one who has seen
the vast paraphernalia accompanying a British army headquarters in
the field--the scores of offices, the hosts of B.G.G.S.’s, G.S.O.’s,
A.P.M.’s, clerks, orderlies, and interpreters, the attached French
missions and Belgian missions, and missions from Liberia and Paraguay
and the Great Cham, the numberless boxes of maps and crockery and
returns and red-tape--all of which had to be conveyed in an armada of
cars and lorries from Lovie to Proven and back from Proven to Lovie
again within a fortnight. If three domestic removals are as bad as a
fire, two moves of an army headquarters can be compared only to an
earthquake. After the second hegira, the enemy, feeling no doubt that
a continuance of this barbarous treatment (if it ever came to light)
would bring down upon him the just execration of the civilised world,
diverted his gun to more appropriate targets, and fell back upon an
accepted method of irritating such exalted quarters--namely, bombing.
Bombing, indeed, was a very serious plague throughout the area that
summer; and the subject raises an unpleasant question on which a few
words must be said, both on general grounds and because it affected
the tank units in a peculiar degree. There can be no two opinions as
to who held command of the air (to use the cant phrase) in the Ypres
sector in 1917. Our photographic and gun-spotting machines continued
to perform their dangerous and thankless tasks with unfailing skill
and courage, as they have throughout the war; but their work required
experience, its results could be checked, and it was therefore in the
hands of the best type of officer. The so-called scouts or fighting
machines, unfortunately, came in a different category. In this branch
the Germans appeared to have things very much their own way. During the
Somme battles the losses in the Flying Corps were extremely heavy, and
fell naturally upon the class of pilot which could least be spared.
Afterwards, with the continual growth of the corps, there began that
wholesale raking-in of officers from the highways and byways, and
from the very junior ranks of garage and bicycle-shop assistants--a
policy which has steadily undermined the efficiency and credit of the
force. The pay was high, and the opportunities for shirking unpleasant
duties exceptional. It is not for nothing that the present R.A.F. is
called the Hot Air Force, and has acquired a reputation in the Army
sufficient to damn any organisation that is not exploited continually
for commercial reasons by a wealthy newspaper syndicate. This is not a
mere question of envy or rumour: the facts of the decline are patent
and well known; and to clinch them one has only to recall to mind
the type of flying officer (dressed like an attendant at a cinema
theatre, and usually behaving as such) who swarmed in the London bars
and in the clubs in France, and who afterwards swarmed in Germany.
Half the subalterns to be seen did not wear even the observer’s
single wing--and, to hazard a guess for once, had no desire to wear
it. All cannot have belonged to the equipment branch. I am sorry if
remarks of this kind seem to do injustice to many gallant and capable
pilots. At the close of the war there were, I believe, something
like 30,000 officers in the R.A.F. A third of these may have been,
and probably were, thoroughly efficient; but there remained a heavy
balance of the untrustworthy; and it was for the hard work and devoted
sacrifices of the minority that this discreditable residue received
especial privileges and honours, and was allowed a general licence
of behaviour exceeded only by that of colonial troops, who at least
had the excuse of brilliant service in the field. The evil itself
was fully recognised in the corps, and it is high time some protest
was uttered against the unscrupulous nonsense which has flooded our
newspapers for the past few years. The point, however, that I wish to
bring out at the moment is that the results of employing bad material
for tasks requiring a peculiar degree of nerve and a strong sense of
responsibility were seriously felt for the first time at Ypres in 1917.
The old Somme fighters were dead or captured; and now the back areas of
the Salient were infested day and night by German bombing squadrons.
The Germans, presumably, picked their aviators as they picked their
machine-gunners. They did not lose their heads after a costly battle
and rush to commission thousands of Berlin counter-jumpers, who
might be excellent in the ranks but were useless as officers. The
difficulties of countering night attacks by aeroplanes were obvious;
but it was humiliating as well as unpleasant to have a dozen enemy
machines sailing over the lines two or three times a day, bombing camps
and towns, destroying balloons, driving off the slow and helpless
gun-spotters and photographers (and their escorts), and obtaining
into the bargain much valuable information. During four months in the
area, while this infliction was occurring almost every day, I saw only
one German aeroplane brought down behind our own lines; and this was
destroyed, above two of our aerodromes, by a couple of French pilots.
Possibly our own squadrons were simultaneously bombing Roullers or
Menin. One hopes they were. But every aerodrome was crowded with
fighting machines, which used to perform tricks overhead when all was
quiet, but made no apparent attempt to cut off the enemy’s raiders. One
corps commander informed the squadron attached to him that if he did
not see it do more useful work, he would make every pilot fly for two
additional hours a day.
I have written enough, perhaps too much, on this unsavoury topic. And
it may be asked--What has all this recrimination to do with tanks? It
has, in point of fact, a great deal to do with them. Tank warfare can
be assisted or hindered to a marked degree by aeroplane co-operation
or the lack of it. A man or a tank, or even a column of troops, can
often elude observation from above merely by remaining still. It is
movement which betrays. Infantry, moreover, can always take cover
rapidly; but it is impossible to camouflage a tank in the open in a
few seconds. In consequence it is inadvisable to move tanks during
daylight near the front line, if any of the enemy’s aeroplanes are
likely to be about. In the Salient they were always about; and things
had got to this pitch--that although we were hidden in a wood, with
clearings close at hand where we could have tested our machines secure
from direct observation, _during the whole month of July no tank was
permitted to move a yard except by night_. At any hour of the day some
German aeroplane, unmolested except by “Archies,” which were more
dangerous to us below than to the pilot, might come flying low over
Oosthoek. In my own case, a fortnight before the battle I took over
a new tank just arrived from Erin by night, and driven into the wood
by another crew. I had no opportunity of testing it under way until
we actually moved off on our approach-march to Halfway House on the
evening of 29th July. As was to be expected of a brand-new machine, one
or two mechanical parts were then found to require slight adjustments.
A slipping clutch, which would have been discovered and remedied in a
few minutes during a preliminary trial, gave considerable trouble, and
held up all the tanks behind me for some time.
Secondly, contact aeroplanes can be of the greatest use in battle
by reporting the situation of tanks, of which battalion and company
commanders can have little or no knowledge. Infantry send back runners;
but tanks, except for their pigeons, reserved (when available at all)
for use at definite objectives, have no means as yet of communicating
their whereabouts or condition once they have crossed the front line.
In view of this, arrangements were made with the Flying Corps for tanks
to carry certain permanent marks which would attract the attention of
contact-pilots. Every machine had its number painted in large black
characters on a white ground on top of the cab, and carried in addition
a square of white cloth to be tied on the roof when ditched. The duty
of a contact-pilot, as everybody knows, is to fly at a sufficiently
low altitude to discover the position of his own infantry, and a tank,
even without any distinguishing marks, is more conspicuous than a row
of mud-plastered human figures. But no reliable information, so far
as my battalion was concerned, ever came through from this source: in
fact, I do not think the position of a single tank was reported. Most
of them, of course, were ditched during a large part of the day, and
possibly the other tank commanders acted as I did. When I found myself
hopelessly bogged on the Pilkem Ridge, the last thing I dreamt of doing
was to hang out my conspicuous square of cloth. I was at some pains
even to obliterate with mud the number on my cab. I was convinced that
if any aeroplanes flew low above me, in all probability they would
be Germans. And in fact many ditched tanks, lying well behind our
infantry, were attacked by the enemy’s pilots, who machine-gunned the
crews as they struggled with booms and shovels to get under way again.
The foregoing may seem rather a lengthy and unnecessary digression, but
it is a poor book which one cannot write in one’s own way. And war,
after all, cannot be made or described (as some think) in water-tight
compartments. Each arm is dependent upon the rest, and sees much of
their work. And a fairly long and varied experience has driven home
to most civilian soldiers like myself certain conclusions regarding
the various branches of the British Army in Europe. The cavalry, since
1914-15 (when they fought on foot) have been utterly useless, in part
because they will not see things as they are; the Flying Corps, since
1916, has declined steadily in quality and value; but throughout, for
the infantry, the gunners, and the engineers, on the whole no praise
can be too high.
CHAPTER VIII.
YPRES: THE 31ST JULY.
I.
All spare officers and crews had taken part in the reconnaissance of
the Salient, for they might be called upon at any moment. And, as it
happened, one of the original tank commanders in my section fell ill
about the middle of July, whereupon I stepped into the vacancy.
His tank was also _hors de combat_ with a broken-down engine. It being
impossible to repair it in the time available a new machine, with two
or three others required by the brigade, was on its way from Erin to
replace it, and this I was to take over on its arrival. The night it
detrained, therefore, I accompanied Kessel, my section commander, to
the Oosthoek ramp. The event was marked by one startling occurrence.
Earlier in the evening the Germans had been industriously shelling the
far end of the wood with shrapnel; but everything was quiet when the
tank train pulled in soon after ten o’clock. It was a very dark night.
Before eleven, however, my new tank was parked up and camouflaged in
the wood to the north of the military road. The rest of the company’s
tanks were a quarter of a mile away, on the south side. Lorries had
come up to take the men back to Lovie Château, and we were standing by
them, waiting for a few laggards, when a very large ammunition dump
near Hospital Farm, half a mile to the northward, was hit and exploded.
It was, I suppose, one of the biggest dumps in the Salient--a
towering accumulation of every size and type of shell, together with
thousands of cases of S.A.A., rockets, grenades, Very lights, and
other inflammatory stuff--and even from where we stood the effect of
its destruction was prodigious and alarming. A great red glare blazed
up suddenly above the trees, broadened, and grew higher; volumes of
blood-shot smoke, streaked with rockets, covered half the sky; and
presently, through the pop-pop-pop of exploding rifle ammunition and
the louder detonations of shells, we could hear the crackle of burning
timber as the neighbouring trees themselves caught fire. In this lay
a serious menace to the tanks, for the wood, although straggling,
was continuous. It was not long before we could see the distant
flames through the trees in front of us. In the meantime, preceded
by magnificent eruptions of fire and sparks, there had burst two
terrific explosions, whose concussions shook the ground, hit us like
blows, and flung fragments of white-hot metal on to the military road.
Happily, what little wind there was blew away from us, and the fire
made no appreciable gain in our direction; and after standing by until
midnight, prepared to drive the tanks out of the wood if necessary, we
decided that we might go home. It was surprising that the Germans (so
far at least as one could judge amid the prevailing uproar) refrained
from stimulating things in general by a little judicious shelling. The
glare of the great conflagration, which lit up the whole Salient, must
have been visible from Courtrai. It was still blazing and exploding
as we left; and two hours later, at Lovie Château, four miles away, I
heard another series of crashing detonations.
The following morning I marched my crew down to the new tank. I decided
naturally to take with me my own men, with whom by now I was well
acquainted, in preference to the strange drivers and gunners whose
officer I had replaced. The latter, I think, were as disappointed as my
own crew was pleased by this translation; for throughout the battalion
the spirit in the ranks was admirable. Most of the N.C.O.’s and a large
proportion of the men came from the original F Company of the Heavy
Branch, and very few of them (in my crew, for example, none at all)
had ever seen a shell burst until they came to the Salient; and while
it is true that soldiers often look forward to their first battle with
a confidence born simply of ignorance, and deteriorate in _moral_ as
their experience of horrors increases, the personnel of the Tank Corps
maintained to the end a conspicuously high standard. And to go into
action in a tank, as I hope to show, is not the bed of roses some rash
people used to think it. I put this consistent excellence down in part
to the class of man which the corps attracted.
There was plenty of work to be done when I took over G 46, whose more
intimate name--transferred from her disabled predecessor, and none of
my choosing--was “Gina.” (The tanks and each battalion were christened
with names beginning with the initial letter of their unit. Thus we
were all “G’s.” “Gina,” appropriately enough, was a female; but in
fact it seems natural to speak of all tanks as feminine, as if they
were ships.) I have said already that no movement was permitted in
Oosthoek Wood, and that in consequence it was impossible to test the
transmission of my new command. Engines could be run quietly, however;
and my first driver, a boy named Johnstone from the Armstrong College
at Newcastle, who was one of those fortunate beings with a _flair_ for
anything mechanical, tinkered away affectionately at the magneto and
other parts until the engine of G 46 ran like a dream. Throughout her
short military career it gave no trouble of any kind until the water
on the Pilkem Ridge got into the clutch and put the whole thing out of
action at once and for ever.
Most of the novelties in the Mark IV. have been described already; but
I have omitted so far any account of the new unditching gear tested by
us for the first time at Wailly, and now to be used with a vengeance
in the Salient. In place of the two short torpedo spars, each tank
was now fitted with a single squared boom, about twelve feet long
and strengthened with steel. It was a most heart-breaking affair to
man-handle, for it weighed nine hundredweight; but for its particular
work it was highly efficient. A pair of longitudinal rails lifted it
clear of all obstructions on the roof, and when not in use it lay at
right angles across these just above the spud-box fitted on the stern
of the tank, its ends projecting a couple of feet on each side of the
latter. Originally, the boom was lashed in place; but afterwards clips
were provided to secure it to the rails. When required for unditching,
it was attached to the track-plates on either side in the same manner
as the old spars, by a pair of chains and clamps. This attachment
could be effected by a couple of men standing behind the tank, usually
the most sheltered spot. On its completion the heavy boom was carried
forward along the rails as the tracks revolved, slid down on to them
in front of the cab, and was then pulled under the tank, where its
great length and stiff resistance transversely to the direction of
the latter’s movement enabled the machine to climb out of almost any
position. This boom was tested first in the sodden area of Messines,
after that battle; and it was in use with all heavy tanks to the end
of the war. Its only disadvantage--an inevitable one--was its weight.
Added to that of thirty or forty iron spuds or shoes, it completed an
extra load of a couple of tons; and on occasions when the heavier Mark
IV. males became badly ditched it was found that the engine was not
powerful enough to overcome this handicap. I have seen a boom on a tank
lying at a rather acute angle refuse to move at all. But for all normal
cases of ditching it was invaluable.
In those days tank equipment was devised and issued on a lavish scale.
One took over with the machine a vast assortment of instruments
calculated to soften the asperities of a very cramped and uncomfortable
mode of warfare, and calling to mind the fittings of H.M.S.
_Mantelpiece_. If we had no zoetropes, excellent carriage clocks,
mounted in heavy brass, were the perquisites in more senses than one
of every tank commander. The number of these clocks destroyed by
shell-fire was so abnormal in the Salient that after that deplorable
campaign the issue was stopped, it being felt that the residue of
timepieces in stock would serve a more useful purpose and lead a safer
life in the numerous offices of Central Stores and Workshops at Erin. A
haversack full of splints, shell-dressings, iodine, and other sinister
medical comforts, quite passable binoculars, electric hand-lamps,
signalling shutters, six periscopes, and an ingenious device like a
pair of pantomime braces fitted with batteries, switches, and red and
green lights, to be used in guiding tanks at night, were also among
the treasures thrust upon us in a very open-handed manner. But this
halcyon age did not endure for long. Vulgar considerations of waste
and expenditure supervened. Before the end the whereabouts of every
spanner and split-pin became a cause of acute worry to us all. It
should be unnecessary to add that this era of suspicion brought with
it a veritable spate of new Army Forms--T.K. 5’s and T.Q. 17’s and so
on--continually superseding each other and never by any chance filled
in correctly. We were already in possession of immense log-books,
atrocities known as battle history sheets, and pigeon-message forms.
A fully-equipped tank, in short, was a combination of a battleship,
an ironmonger’s shop, an optician’s, a chemist’s, a grocer’s, and a
Government office. We only wanted a typewriter to round off the outfit.
[Illustration: _Third Battle of Ypres, Aug.-Nov. 1917._]
I do not remember the exact date on which I took over G 46 and her
belongings; but it must have been between the 15th and 20th of July.
The battle, fixed originally for the 25th, had already been put back
three days. The final postponement, to the 31st, was made known only
at the last moment. In these circumstances there was not too much time
for all that had to be done. The whole tank required to be washed
down and scrubbed, for she came straight from the workshops in a
filthy condition. The six Lewis guns had to be cleaned, and the 276
drums filled with ammunition. Track-plates, spuds, camouflage nets,
petrol, oil, and grease had to be procured from the advanced stores
and dump beside the ramp. At the same time further reconnaissance
was carried out, and we all went to see the large-scale model of our
sector of the attack which the 18th Corps had built out of sand and
brick-rubble in the centre of the wood. I cannot honestly say that this
ingenious curiosity was of much help to us. Here, however, some sort
of liaison was effected with the infantry with whom we were to work.
Meanwhile, back in camp at Lovie Château there were conferences with
Reconnaissance officers and discussions with company commanders after
dinner. Aeroplane photographs were studied, and special tank charts
composed. (Every tank commander, so far as was possible, made his own
chart on a scale of ¹⁄₅₀₀₀.) Then there was the question of supply to
be considered. All crews took into action two days’ ordinary rations
in addition to the emergency ration; but this food was supplemented
by a few delicacies considered suitable to the festive occasion. Thus
most of us carried also oranges, lemons, chocolates, and biscuits, one
water-bottle filled with rum, and a bottle of whisky. Personally, I
took two bottles of whisky, and was extremely thankful that I did.
Turning to the operations themselves, the 18th Corps was attacking
on a front of two divisions: the 51st Division on the left and the
39th on the right. The two companies of G Battalion were allotted as
follows: 19 Company, with my own section--No. 10--of 21 Company (16
tanks in all) was to advance in two waves with the 39th Division. The
two remaining sections of 21 Company (8 tanks) worked in a single wave
with the 51st Division. The task of these troops was to carry the
German first and second systems on the Pilkem Ridge and then secure
the crossings of the Steenbeek. The positions of these crossings,
at or near St Julien on the 39th Divisional front, determined the
distribution of the tanks, it being the business of the second wave on
the right to endeavour to get over the stream and help the infantry of
the 118th Brigade to consolidate on the far side. My section, in the
first wave, received the following orders:--
“After crossing the German front line, No. 10 Section will
split up. The left-hand pair, G 45 and G 46, pass to the north
of Kultur Farm and take the northern end of Kitchener’s Wood,
giving special attention to Boche Castle and strong-point;
then proceed round the wood and mop up in conjunction with
the infantry until the barrage at line S lifts at zero plus
4.1, when they will advance with the infantry, giving special
attention to Regina Cross. The right-hand pair, G 47 and G 48,
passing to the south of Kultur Farm, will take the southern
end of Kitchener’s Wood, and on the lifting of the barrage on
line S at zero plus 4.1, will devote their attention to the
strong-point at Alberta, and push forward at the discretion of
the commander towards Hugel Hollow.
“As soon as the infantry are consolidated on the Steenbeek
Line, tanks will rally at C 11 d 20.90 (north of Alberta).”
I despair of making any one unfamiliar with the Salient understand
what lay behind these clear and apparently simple instructions. Some
of the difficulties before us will be described in the context. I will
remark here, however, that every tank had to cross the enemy’s front
line by a single narrow gap between two flooded areas which marked the
sites of Hampshire and Canadian Farms--themselves utterly demolished.
We were warned that this front system was likely to become a serious
obstacle. Lying in a hollow, always wet, it was to be subjected to a
terrific barrage, which would destroy it completely, break down the
revetments and all such firm surfaces as parapets and parados provided,
and, in short, reduce the whole line to a grisly conglomeration of
mounds of mud and pools of water. And once across, things would become
even worse. For sixteen days before the attack the whole Pilkem
Ridge was blasted by heavy-calibre shells. The amount of artillery
we had concentrated in the Salient was unprecedented. Three thousand
guns, I believe, were in position on that restricted front. Round
about Brielen, Vlamertinghe, and the château called Les Trois Tours,
batteries of 6-inch, 8-inch, 9.2-inch howitzers, and 60-pounder guns
lined every hedge: down both sides of one narrow track that I remember
one passed them every few yards; and when the preliminary bombardment
was at its height it was sheer torture to be in the neighbourhood. As a
result, everywhere behind the German line the water was welling up and
spreading until the whole surface was a mere crust that would dissolve
at a touch. The final barrage at zero, which as usual was to fall at
dawn, would finish the work. The enemy’s second line, along the crest,
was to be deluged with 9.2’s; while 15-inch railway guns had been
shelling for some days the strong-point at Boche Castle, for which my
own tank was to make. Imagine a country like the Lincolnshire flats, or
the valley of the Kentish Stour, or any other piece of reclaimed and
water-logged land in England, subjected, at the end of three years’
systematic annihilation by high explosives, to this three weeks’ wild
crescendo of destruction, and some idea may be gathered of what the
area behind the hostile front had become even before the downpour on
the 31st, and after added the ultimate touches of disintegration and
horror and misery.
[Illustration: Kitchener’s Wood and German Second Line. Photo taken
July 3, 1917, showing position of Tanks G 45 and 46.]
The probable conditions awaiting us were known to all; but none of
our conjectures equalled the reality. Before the battle we were
more concerned over what proved in the event a comparatively minor
evil--the difficulty we should experience in finding our way to our
various objectives. The view from inside a tank, as one cannot repeat
too often, is restricted and misleading. Once we had crossed our
front line, the few miserable tree-clumps which we had studied from a
distance might appear very different near at hand. They might have been
destroyed, or we might fail to see them at all. The one unmistakable
landmark, Kitchener’s Wood--a plantation, still in fair condition, some
700 yards in length--was actually out of sight until we had climbed out
of some dead ground at the foot of the ridge; and with the dust and
smoke of the battle the first hour after dawn was certain to be dark
and confusing. As our compasses were thoroughly unreliable, there was
a danger of losing direction at the very start. A few tanks, indeed,
quite excusably did so. And throughout the day, all over a battlefield
whose utter bewildering sameness no words can express, there was much
groping and guessing and general uncertainty. One of G Battalion’s
tanks wandered right across two corps’ fronts. But on the whole our
lengthy and sedulous coaching was very triumphantly vindicated: routes
were maintained and objectives reached with surprising accuracy and
punctuality. Delays in most cases were due to the appalling state of
the ground, some tanks having to be unditched two or three times before
they got into action at all.
II.
If the belief still lingers that the British soldier, keen and willing
as he is, always goes into battle (as the Ollivier Cabinet once went
to war) with a light heart, it must be due to too much reading, in
trashy books and journals, of the productions of half-educated persons
with a bias against truth. For very few men, of whatever race, can
even approach the front line in these scientific days with any real
equanimity of spirit. The processes by which one can be hurt are too
many and various, and impend too nearly to permit of it. No healthy
being likes the idea of being killed or mutilated. A common sense of
subordination and comradeship, the fear of being thought afraid, and
the power of habit, take one further than all the high-flown cant about
glory and the joy of battle. And indeed if we all went into battle
with a light heart there would be no merit in the thing: such tokens
as medals and ribbons would lose what small significance they still
possess; and we should be more (or less) than human.
It is during the days immediately before a long-expected action
that men show in their several ways that they are, on the contrary,
very human indeed. The strain which perhaps for weeks has been
there is suddenly increased. Nerves begin to wear, tempers to rise,
uncomfortable moods to supervene. Only the very young and inexperienced
sometimes are superior to this failing. I know that most of us in the
camp by Lovie Château grew rather irritable and contentious toward
the end of our period of waiting. The depressing influence which
seemed always to brood over the Salient, and the feeling that we were
embarking upon a novel and gigantic gamble, were enough to account
for it. The weather had been uncertain, and about the 24th rain
fell heavily. The camp, pitched in a wood amid choking undergrowth,
became steamily moist, smelly, and unhealthy. Every two or three
hours during every night the enemy’s aeroplanes came over and bombed
the neighbourhood thoroughly. There was the usual futile racket
and excitement, with searchlights wavering, shrapnel sparkling and
descending on our heads, and tracer bullets soaring up in streams in
every direction but the right one. This became so much a habit that we
grew accustomed to it; and we used to lie in bed amid the uproar and
wonder sleepily if it were better to put our steel helmets over our
faces or our stomachs. The tank park in Oosthoek Wood suffered from the
same persecution, to which there seemed to be no adequate reply. So
far as I remember, we were lucky enough to escape casualties from this
cause; but other people were not so fortunate. I recall one ghastly
incident of this period, because my crew was on guard fifty yards away
when it happened, and might well have been involved in the disaster.
A battalion of Northumberland Fusiliers, coming out of the line one
evening, bivouacked beside the military road close to our tanks.
They had réveillé at three o’clock in the morning, preparatory to
marching off to rest billets, and at that dangerous hour very foolishly
lit candles and waved lanterns about in the wood. The usual German
aeroplane was at hand. It dropped two heavy bombs very neatly into the
bivouac, and in an instant killed or wounded over a hundred men.
The effect of these powerful bombs, provided with light fuses which
detonated at a touch, was terrible; and it would be thought that any
one who once had seen the victims of a raid would be circumspect for
ever after. Yet troops, even after considerable experience, were often
extraordinarily stupid in this matter of hostile aircraft. Another
north-country battalion--Tynesiders, I believe--was in camp near
Elverdinghe about this time. Two or three German aeroplanes flew low
over the camp in broad daylight. Instead of keeping out of sight, the
whole battalion rushed out to see the raiders. The latter might have
overlooked the camouflaged tents and huts, but the sudden appearance
of a mass of white upturned faces caught their attention at once, with
the inevitable result. A few bombs were released, and the crowd of
spectators became a shambles. The Tynesiders lost 140 men in as many
seconds.
Toward the end of July the shelling of Oosthoek and other likely
places also increased in volume. The enemy was perfectly aware of the
imminence of the attack, and also, as it appeared, of the original date
and the first postponement; and the back areas suffered in consequence.
The red dust floated over Ypres all day. Poperinghe received increased
attention, and was bombed heavily into the bargain. The canal became
more than ordinarily unpleasant. But the German artillerists, in
addition to persecuting these obvious targets, had a system of
plastering with shells certain empty areas which appeared to offer no
attractions to a gunner. This wasteful method gathered in no doubt
a few stray victims, but at a disproportionate cost in ammunition.
The forward region, about Frascati and La Brique, was perhaps more
naturally a favourite one for this blind “area” shooting, for field
batteries were hidden among the willows; and the enemy’s increasing
suspicion of this neighbourhood caused us a good deal of annoyance
during our final journeys on reconnaissance. I remember how Kessel,
Merchant, and I, having been up the line one morning, were sitting
under a hedge near Frascati, eating bully sandwiches and discussing
(of all things) the fourth dimension, when we found ourselves the
unworthy centre of one of these displays of hate. To us it seemed
purposeless and uncalled for to a degree. There was no working party
in the neighbourhood; no one, indeed, was in sight anywhere, and the
batteries, some distance away, were not firing. But high-velocity
shells arrived in streams, and when we were back, very thankfully, at
the canal, the dust-clouds were still rising busily in the desert waste
between us and the farm.
During these last days our preparations in Oosthoek Wood were
completed. The fighting tanks were ready for action. The
supply-tanks--two per company--were filled up with petrol, oil, and
ammunition; limbered waggons drawn by mules were attached to us to work
between Frascati and the base, and we had also one wireless and one
cable-laying tank. Oranges, chocolates, and whisky had been collected.
We had received barrage maps and time-tables, and had visited the
headquarters of the various infantry units with whom we were to work.
Merchant and myself, with G 45 and G 46, were co-operating with a
battalion of the Rifle Brigade. This had moved up to a bivouac on the
edge of Oosthoek, and I walked over one morning to discuss the attack
with the Colonel and his officers. They were very anxious about some
alleged wire in front of the Steenbeek, which I undertook to crush for
them if I ever got so far. In the event I got nowhere near it, and I
was of little or no use to these infantry. I am afraid that not many
of the officers I met that morning were left after the battle, for the
117th Brigade, to which the battalion belonged, suffered cruelly on the
31st.
III.
During the night of the 24th-25th July the tanks of 21 Company (less
No. 10 Section) moved from Oosthoek Wood to Halfway House. On the
24th I had been working late with my men on G 46, making the final
preparations for our own departure the following evening, and as we
left the wood about seven o’clock we met the eight crews marching in
to their tanks. Their move was attended by one disaster. The night
was exceedingly dark, rain had been falling, and the surface of the
narrow winding track which I have described as leading through the
wood to Hospital Farm had become greasy and treacherous. A male tank,
swinging too far to avoid a tree, slid off the cambered road into the
wide moat which surrounded the farm. The water rose a foot above the
floor boards, instantly putting the engine out of action. As nothing
could be done that night, the tank (whose roof was barely level with
the road) was camouflaged and left, the crew bivouacking close at hand.
The remainder pushed on, and after being harassed by some shelling
which fortunately did no harm, parked up under the bushes at Halfway
House. Owing to the postponement of the attack for another three days,
the sunken tank, having been towed ashore the next night with infinite
difficulty, was got running again in time to rejoin the company before
the latter moved on to Frascati.
About five o’clock on the afternoon of the 25th I was having tea with
Kessel, Merchant, and some others under the lee of a tank. We were due
to start our own move at nine that evening. Having already consumed
our own tea ration, we were drinking an extraordinary mud-coloured
beverage infused from one of those compressed concoctions, strongly
resembling tobacco, which friends and relations used to send out as
being especially suitable for active service. Possibly the sinister
influence of this drug was accountable in part for the fact that none
of us were looking forward to the forthcoming approach-march with
the proper military enthusiasm. It was true that the day was humid
and depressing; that the wood was squelchy underfoot and smelt like
a badly-kept mausoleum hurriedly washed in petrol; and that some of
21 Company, having returned in lorries from Halfway House for a few
hours’ rest at Lovie, had brought discouraging reports of the route
and the general conditions nearer to the line. Brisk shelling was in
progress. The tanks of another battalion, uncomfortably embedded among
heavy howitzers under the trees of Les Trois Tours, had come in for the
enemy’s counter-battery work and had passed an extremely unpleasant
night. I will not speak for the rest of us, but I know that I, for one,
was greatly relieved when our tea was interrupted by the arrival of a
runner with the order cancelling our move. Owing to the effects of the
rain, the attack had been put off once more until the last day of the
month. In the long-run it is obvious wisdom to get thankless duties
over and done with as soon as possible; and the Army’s inveterate habit
of issuing eleventh-hour instructions is better indulged in advancing
than in postponing battles; but at the time one does not always reason
so philosophically. Also one feels a little more like the gay and
careless warrior of the newspapers at certain junctures than at others.
Somehow we had not felt either gay or careless that afternoon. And now
we could go back to bed like Christians or reprieved criminals, and
spend a further three days of grace revising once more our testamentary
dispositions (if any) in comparative safety and comfort.
A thoughtful act on the part of the Intelligence Branch marked this
interval and helped to amuse us. I have spoken already of the sketches
of church towers and other remote landmarks with which we had been
provided. There was now issued to each tank commander, with every
circumstance of urgency, a minute drawing about the size of a blue
Mauritius postage-stamp, depicting the tower and spire of Hooglede
Church. No one knew where Hooglede was, or had ever heard of it. It was
generally believed to be near Brussels. Research on the map eventually
discovered it to be a village north-west of Roullers, some nine miles
beyond our farthest objective for the first day. As a sign of optimism
in high quarters this valedictory gift was appreciated; but, being
under no delusions ourselves as to the difficulties before us, we felt
that there was small hope of our visiting the place in the immediate
future. In the event, of course, after three months’ hard fighting the
British Army was still six miles away from Hooglede, and did not reach
it for another year.
Yet, curiously enough, as it happened, there seemed for a few hours a
possibility of Hooglede and many other distant villages coming quickly
into the scheme of things. For one effect of the last postponement
of our attack was to mislead the enemy to a certain extent. Still
anticipating it on the 28th, he withdrew his troops the night before
from 3000 yards of his front line on the canal opposite Boesinghe.
The Guards and French immediately crossed the canal, occupied the
abandoned trenches, and during the night constructed seventeen bridges.
Subsequent attempts to eject them were repulsed. This affair started
a fine crop of rumours about a more pronounced retreat along the
whole front. But the Germans had no intention whatever of retreating.
The evacuation of the canal trenches either was a blunder or had
been designed as a trap, and evidently was regretted. Our movements,
therefore, were carried out as arranged; and on the evening of the
28th, about dusk, the tanks of 19 Company and my own section began
their approach-march to Halfway House.
No one ever troubles to inquire how tanks are brought up to a
battlefield. They are there, miraculously, at zero, and that is
enough. Approach-marches are usually described in a few words, and
their details taken for granted. Yet they can be, and often are, the
most exhausting and nerve-racking feature of tank operations. They
have to be undertaken at night. Lights must be shown very sparingly,
if at all, even inside the tanks. The glow of a cigarette, or a white
handkerchief or map, are often all that an officer can use to direct
his driver. The early stages of a march are made commonly over roads
and tracks, both for help in guidance and to avoid leaving spoors which
hostile aeroplanes could observe or photograph; and the breakdown of
one machine on a bridge or in some street or defile may hold up all
the others behind it, to say nothing of any traffic on the route.
Notwithstanding the greatest care in constructing time-tables, no trek
is complete that does not involve meeting and consequent trouble with
transport. Light railways, timber-tracks, bridges, ground-lines,
pipe-lines, air-lines--all these must suffer, in spite of precautions.
The rate of progress will be maddeningly slow. Although even a Mark IV.
could move at a fair speed under normal conditions, it is impossible
to maintain anything like this when moving a dozen or two by night
into battle. There will be frequent halts to let those behind close
up. It is almost certain that somebody will become ditched, or break
a fan-belt, or get on fire, or fall into trouble of some kind. Such
accidents, trifling in a peaceful daylight trek, become agonising amid
the circumstances of an approach-march by night, when repairs have
to be effected in the dark, and when prolonged delay may be fatal.
In many cases all ranks will have been working most of the preceding
day. They will be up all night. Probably they will work again during
part of the next day, and will be moving once more throughout a second
night. They are lucky if they can obtain any genuine rest during the
few hours allotted for that purpose. Those hours are sure to be spent
in the forward battery area, liable to be shelled or gassed at any
time, and always intolerably noisy. And as the tanks approach the front
line there is an increasing likelihood of their coming under shell-fire
which they can neither dodge nor counter. An infantry column so caught
can at least scatter or take cover; but the tank crews remain boxed
up in their crawling machines, committed to a definite route which
may lead into the heart of the trouble, seeing and hearing little or
nothing, but imagining much, and with none of the stimulants of action
to sustain them. Probably their officers are compelled still to walk
outside as guides. Add finally to all this the inevitable strain and
anxiety involved in the general situation; the actual physical labour
attending all work connected with tanks; the extreme heat endured for
hours by the crews; and it will be apparent that the latter are not
exactly fresh when the time comes to go into action.
Justice has never been done to this side of tank warfare, or to
the Corps’ achievements in respect of it. Before every one of the
hundred actions in which tanks have taken part, some such ordeal as
I have described, with variations for better or worse according to
circumstances, has been undergone. Excluding the very early days,
when everything was against the new unit, the occasions on which the
great majority of every section or company detailed (often at the
last moment) for action did not arrive at the front line in time were
extremely rare. Far more often than not every machine arrived in time.
The climax of this efficiency was reached in the last battle before
Amiens, on the 8th August 1918, when out of 435 tanks collected hastily
from all over France, 430 started in front of the infantry at zero.
But even the infantry never fully appreciated, because they were never
made to understand, the amount of sheer labour and persistence put
forth on their behalf. They called for tanks from somewhere at three or
four hours’ notice--and the tanks came. And that, after all, was what
chiefly mattered.
Our trek to Halfway House was accomplished with only one serious
hitch. On account of the accident to the tank at Hospital Farm, we
were to avoid that place by taking a parallel track through the wood
which increased slightly the length of the route. My section was to
lead. About an hour before we started something went wrong with the
differential of Merchant’s tank, and he did not leave with the rest.
When, about nine o’clock in the evening, the other two tanks of No. 10
pulled out from the trees south of the military road and swung on to
the timbered thoroughfare, G 46 was waiting on the north side to fall
in behind. 19 Company followed after me. Spectators from the infantry
bivouacs now springing up again in the wood lined the roadside to watch
the long line of tanks moving off in the dusk, but all wheeled traffic
had been stopped or diverted for an hour. Before that period was up
all the fifteen tanks had left the road, and were proceeding northward
along the lane under the trees. The night was misty but clear, and
lighted brilliantly with stars; but there was no moon, and in the wood
it was very dark. To guide my driver as I walked in front of G 46, I
had a half-folded map thrust under the belt and cross-strap on my back.
It must have been nearly midnight when I cleared the wood at the point
called Dirty Bucket Corner, and swung to the right along a road leading
eventually to Vlamertinghe. In the open one could see very clearly. The
leading tank (M’Elroy’s) of 19 Company should have been close behind
me, but there was no sign of it or any other. Entirely unknown to me,
a singular accident had happened. A few hundred yards farther back in
the wood we had crossed a broad-gauge military railroad. As M’Elroy’s
machine was actually astride the metals a light engine came down them
at a fair speed, struck the tank broadside on, pushed it into a hedge,
and was itself derailed. The tank was uninjured, except for a bent
plate on the sponson, but several of the crew were cut about, and
all were badly shaken. M’Elroy himself, being outside, was unhurt. A
considerable delay ensued, the light engine having to be towed out of
the way, or back on to the line; and the tank was left by the roadside
while a spare crew was sent for. In the meantime, knowing nothing of
all this, No. 10 Section had carried on. It was not for another hour
that 19 Company overtook me again. We had then left the Vlamertinghe
road, and were on Rum Road itself, nearing our destination. The
clutch on G 46, for reasons already explained, had not been tested,
and was slipping badly; and I had to halt for ten minutes or so while
it was adjusted, thus letting several of the following tanks pass
me. This was our last delay. Alden and Brassington, in front of me,
already were parking up their tanks at Halfway House, where the rest
of 21 Company’s machines had been lying for three days; and here I
soon joined them. Everything was quiet in the neighbourhood, except
for the eternal uproar of our own artillery; but we learnt from the
guard that Les Trois Tours, whose trees we could see dimly, had been
shelled again that evening. It was at this juncture that we were
astonished by the arrival of Merchant’s tank, which we had left in
Oosthoek Wood with its differential casing removed. The repairs had
been effected very rapidly, and the tank had then covered the whole
route on fourth speed, actually overtaking us in little more than an
hour. The enclosure at Halfway House was rectangular, and to enter
it we had to cross a wide ditch, choked with ferocious brambles, and
break through a towering hedge. My section was to lie up under some
long neglected fruit trees and another hedge on the far side; and a
good deal of manœuvring--infuriating work in the dark with the Mark IV.
secondary gears--was required before we were satisfactorily hidden.
Camouflage nets had then to be strung up to the trees, pegged down, and
supplemented by foliage. All ranks, as fast as their tanks were secured
for the night, helped to efface our tracks through the hedge and across
the enclosure. The work was finished about 2 A.M., and, leaving two
men per crew and one officer per section with the tanks, the rest of
us trailed thankfully back to the beginning of Rum Road, where lorries
were waiting to carry us to Lovie for a final rest in camp. Such
arrangements for one’s comfort, it may be noted, were peculiar in my
experience to this operation alone. They were made possible by the
length of the route, and could be applied only to this short initial
stage. Usually they are out of the question.
The ensuing evening, that of the 29th, we returned by lorry to Halfway
House at dusk. The dangerous part of the journey, including the
crossing of the canal, had now to be accomplished. Rain had fallen
again, the sky was clouded, and the night promised to be a black
one. It was indeed already very dark when 21 Company pulled out of
the enclosure. A section of 19 Company followed, and then my own. My
exasperating clutch, although it had been tightened up during the
day, proved to be still refractory. I was obliged to halt again after
a while to make a further adjustment; and as the operation was not
a lengthy one, I asked the tank commander behind me (Lynch, who was
killed thirty-six hours later) to wait, as I wished to maintain my
position in the column. We were off again, in fact, very shortly after.
But at this stage every one was becoming anxious and irritable, and
the stoppage brought exalted personages raving about G 46, clamouring
for it to proceed. As it happened, haste would have helped nobody,
for about this time serious disaster overtook the section in front.
Our route left Rum Road a quarter of a mile from the canal, and took
thence a narrow track leading direct to Marengo Causeway. This track
was bounded by a dense hedge, with trees, on one hand, and by a deep
ditch on the other: its surface was greasy after the rain, and the two
leading tanks of 19 Company slid off into the ditch. They still blocked
the track, and until they were got out no one could advance. I soon
caught up this paralysed advance-guard, where crews were labouring
with booms and shovels, and officers were peering at their watches
and whispering anxiously. Henriques, the Reconnaissance Officer of
19 Company, came to me muttering that “things were very serious.” As
indeed they were, for the nights at the end of July are short: it was
already nearly one o’clock; and it was essential for us all to reach
the shelter of the trees at Frascati before morning. If dawn found any
tanks in the open east of the canal, all sorts of calamities would
have ensued. The whole offensive would have been jeopardised, as our
presence so far forward must have advertised its immediate onfall to
the enemy, to say nothing of the consequences to ourselves. Added
to these apprehensions for the morrow, there fell the present fear
that at any moment the Germans might begin to shell the canal and
its approaches. Their gunners had been very quiet so far that night;
but if they chose to indulge in their favourite pastime while our
fifteen tanks were held up in a line, a couple of hundred yards from
the Causeway, the results probably would be highly unpleasant. Very
fortunately, nothing happened, and the difficulty was overcome. The
ditched tanks got themselves out, and we crawled one by one on to
Marengo Causeway, which 21 Company had crossed safely half an hour
before. Here again our luck held: at this most critical point in the
whole route not a shell fell to disturb us, and the whole column,
passing over without mishap, entered the dismal wilderness of old
trenches, wire, smashed trees, and shell-holes on the farther side.
From here onwards our route had been taped by the R.O.’s, and but for
this assistance half of the tanks must have ditched themselves or lost
their way. The broken ground, which had looked nasty enough by day,
became appalling in the pitchy darkness; and I recall this final stage
of the journey as a long black nightmare of fatigue and apprehension.
There was no track, and in many places even the tape had vanished,
displaced or buried by the leading tanks. Over the communication
trenches still in use narrow wooden bridges had been built, and these
required skilful negotiation. As I walked in front of G 46, knowing
that all my driver could see of me was the faint white patch on my
back, I was continually falling into shell-holes, tripping over debris,
or getting hung up in wire; and with the tank lumbering blindly along a
few feet behind me, these accidents put me in infinite terror of being
run over. At least one tank commander, Alden, had in fact a very narrow
escape from death or injury that night through becoming entangled in
a mass of wire. His tank cleared him by inches while he was still
struggling to get free, and then the track caught the wire and pulled
him helplessly after. He was being carried on to the roof when the
driver somehow discovered what had happened and pulled up.
The enemy now began to interfere, to add to our discomfort, by
bombarding the whole neighbourhood fairly heavily with gas-shells.
There was a battery of 4.5 howitzers firing in the open close to our
route, and possibly this was his target. Very fortunately we had been
issued with a special type of box-respirator, in which the goggles and
mouth-mask were separate, and thus were still able, at a risk to our
eyes, to see our way--more or less. With the ordinary fixed eye-pieces
it would have been next to impossible to see anything at all. As it
was, we were merely extraordinarily uncomfortable and anxious. The
Germans threw over little or no lachrymatory gas and no mustard-oil,
which then was just coming into fashion; but we could not be certain
about the latter, as it has no smell; and it was the reverse of
pleasant to have to stumble along in the dark with our eyes exposed to
what might have been doses of this atrocious decoction. All around us,
for about half an hour, there sounded the soft detonations peculiar to
gas-shells. And in the middle of the bombardment, either through this
or some other agency, a pile of cordite charges by the howitzer battery
caught fire and flared brilliantly for a few minutes. I was passing in
front of the guns at the time, and I could see that one of them had
been hit, and was lying out of action with a broken wheel; while at the
others the gunners still toiled in the glare like black automatons.
Behind them the unhappy shattered trees along the canal bank were
illuminated eerily, and in front of me a line of tanks was visible
dipping and rolling over the shell-holes. I was afraid that this brief
conflagration would draw some heavy retaliation from the enemy, but he
contented himself with gas; and while the fire lasted it was of service
to us in lighting up our route. Even the gas-shelling presently ceased;
and with no further adventures beyond periodical stumbles and searches
for the tape, we found ourselves at length under the black shadow of
the Frascati trees. We were only just in time. Dawn was breaking as the
last tank drew in; and we had taken nearly seven hours to cover 5000
yards.
IV.
Frascati Farm stood just east of the road which ran, parallel to the
canal, from Pilkem through La Brique to Ypres. The trees about the
farm, their scars then concealed in part by heavy foliage, came down
to the roadside; and to the right of them, as one approached from the
causeways, a gap in a hedge gave entrance to a shell-pitted field. Our
tanks, having been led through this gap, now lay parked up, nose to
tail, against some immense overgrown bushes which lined the southern
edge of the timber. The camouflage nets, joined together, stretched
over the whole long line. As day broke we could see some very new
shell-holes in the field; and we learnt that the place had been
shelled that night while 21 Company was moving in. One officer had
been hit in the leg, but insisted on staying with his tank and taking
it into action--a piece of plucky quixotry which kept him in hospital
afterwards for many months.
We spent that day, the 30th, in attempts to get sleep or at least rest
under the tanks and camouflage netting. The weather was nondescript and
depressing--a lowering sky threatened rain, but none fell. Throughout
the day German aeroplanes came and went with impunity above us, and
periodically shells whistled over the trees and burst in black plumes
of earth beyond the hedge along the far side of our field, between us
and Ypres. None, happily, fell any nearer. Of Ypres itself, on the low
ground about a mile away, the higher ruins, dominated by the ragged
tower of the Cloth Hall, were just visible above the hedge top. The
town was being shelled continually, so that at times quite a haze of
the familiar red-brick dust floated over it. The uproar of our own
artillery seemed less intense, perhaps because we were now in front of
the most advanced field-guns.
During those hours of waiting the incident I remember most clearly was
a discussion we had at lunch-time on the subject of English country
places we had known. It seems now an odd thing to have been sitting
there, in that forlorn region, our backs against a tank, peering
through the camouflage netting at the shells bursting in Ypres, and
comparing the peaceful beauties of Sussex and Cornwall and the Eastern
shires. Of the little company of us gathered there, Kessel was a
Cornish man whose work was in the north; Merchant was an East Anglian
from India; Brassington came from the valley of the Eden; and Alden and
myself were by way of being Cockneys of French extraction or interests.
Between us we had seen a fair part of England, and there was a peculiar
fascination, in the circumstances, in recalling pleasant holidays and
journeys achieved in those remote days when soldiering was the last of
all human professions we ever expected to adopt. All of us, I think, as
very normal unheroic people, would have given a good deal then to be
back in our own country.
A little later, toward tea-time, Major Fernie, then commanding 19
Company, appeared on the scene to wish us good luck and issue final
instructions. Company headquarters during the battle were to be
established in the dug-out at Hill Top Farm, a pile of rubble and
sandbags about a fragment of wall which stood up like a huge tooth
midway between Frascati and the front line. Throughout the expansion
of the Tank Corps the company has remained the unit of battle; the
battalion is virtually a brigade, and advanced battalion headquarters
lives during operations with the infantry division or army corps
concerned. In this case Colonel Hankey, a few hours before zero,
established himself at the 39th Divisional Headquarters in Oosthoek
Wood.
As dusk fell we began to clear for action. We filled up with petrol
from the dump among the trees and piled there all camouflage nets,
tarpaulins, and spare kit. A tank prepared for action, cluttered up
as it is with necessary stores and ammunition, has no room for other
impedimenta. The crew, wearing ordinary workshop overalls, take
with them only revolvers. In the middle of this work the enemy,
who had left us in comparative peace all day, started to shell
the neighbourhood with gas; and for some time we had to carry on
handicapped by box-respirators. The tedious business of fixing spuds
occupied the last hour before the move. Spuds were always carried
in the box on the roof until the last possible moment, as any hard
surface, such as that of a road, crushed them and put a dangerous
strain on the hard steel track-plates. Each tank carried forty-four of
these iron shoes, of which we had to clamp on about thirty that night
at Frascati--a laborious process with stiff nuts and bolts, and an
inadequate supply of spanners. My crew and I were able to fix only half
of our quota in the time, and the remainder we flung into a ditch under
the bushes, where for all I know they lie to this day, unless they have
been discovered by some puzzled Belgian labourer.
At 10.45 engines were started up, and at 11 o’clock we moved off. One
tank of 19 Company developed some internal trouble and was left behind.
The trek for a long time was devoid of any incident. The Reconnaissance
officers led: my section was now the last in the line; and I simply
followed the tank in front of me. I can remember nothing that happened
until we reached Hammond’s Corner, a road-junction near Hill Top Farm
and about a thousand yards from the front line. We were so well ahead
of time that we halted for an hour at this point. The night was very
quiet, for there was a lull in the gun-fire. The sky was clouded
and dark; but unceasingly, around the curve of the Salient--to our
right and left and even in our rear--the Very lights rose slowly and
hung for a space and faded, their diffused radiance reflected in the
crater pools and imprinting continually along the horizon ephemeral
silhouettes of naked and eerie trees. The Germans were using then a
very pretty variant of this illumination (or so I suppose it to have
been), a kind of slow rocket that soared up obliquely in straight bars
of brilliant light, one below the other. In fact the Ypres salient,
depressing in its utter ruin in the daytime and infinitely dreary and
forbidding toward dusk, assumed an inhuman beauty when night had fallen
and this semicircle of wavering incandescence began its deliberate and
irregular rise and fall.
I was still leading G 46 from outside when we halted; and after a
while I pulled myself up on to the towing shackle in front of the tank
to talk to my driver through his flap. I was so tired that in this
attitude, sitting on the unsympathetic shackle with my head on one
track and my feet on the other, I fell asleep. I was told afterwards
that several shells burst about us and exploded a small dump near at
hand, but I slept through it all. Just before we moved off again a
machine-gun barrage was started to cover the noise of our approach to
the front line. I now got inside the tank and took the brakes beside
Johnstone, as with the help of the continual stream of Very lights
it was become quite a simple matter to follow the machines in front
and even to see from the cab the tape which the R.O.’s had laid down
earlier that night. Having still ample time, we crawled forward now at
a snail’s pace, and eventually pulled up once more a quarter of an hour
before zero--which was at 3.50 A.M.--at a point 300 yards from Forward
Cottage, where we were to cross the front line. As we were not required
to overtake the infantry before the second German system was reached,
we were to start at this interval behind them. While we waited, the
thought struck me forcibly (and has recurred with every later tank
action in which I have taken part) that if the enemy had used a few
mobile searchlights at intervals throughout the night, sweeping the
area immediately behind our line for a minute at a time, he could
hardly have failed to discover us sooner or later. Now, for example,
the twenty-three tanks, covered from view only by the darkness, were
drawn up in line ahead on a forward slope little more than a quarter
of a mile from his nearest trenches. The presence of these machines
in the Salient was well known to him, and the attack had been awaited
for days. A number of searchlights on motor-trucks, as used for
anti-aircraft work, might have been brought up to the summit of the
Pilkem Ridge at many points; and if employed with discretion for short
periods and moved continually, our gunners would have found it very
difficult to hit them; while once our tanks had been seen and held in
the rays they might have been knocked to pieces in a few minutes. At
Ypres, it is true, the Germans (with some justice) were not greatly
afraid of tanks; but in later battles, particularly during the final
autumn of the war, when elaborate road systems in fair condition ran
behind the armies, the value of mobile searchlights for countering
expected tank attacks would appear to have been so considerable as
to justify any sacrifice involved. But on no occasion, so far as I
am aware, were they used for this purpose. In the course of our last
advance successive assaults, which might have been disorganised and
possibly ruined by a premature discovery of tanks moving up, were
allowed to come as a surprise.
The ultimate minutes before zero passed without event. With the aid of
the Very lights I endeavoured once more to read the map which hung in
front of me, and peered continually at my clock. A tot of whisky was
passed round the crew. The engine, just ticking over, drowned by its
throbbing the noise of the machine-gun barrage, which still continued.
In front the long line of tanks stood motionless on the gentle slope.
And so, in a dim-lit silent world we waited for the moment of attack.
CHAPTER IX.
YPRES: THE 31ST JULY (_continued_).
I.
I have been told that the gigantic clap of sound produced by the
simultaneous discharge of two or three thousand guns at zero that
morning was a phenomenon never to be forgotten by those who heard it.
But I do not remember hearing it at all. Enclosed in a vibrating box of
steel, the subdued throbbing of my engine drowned even this apocalyptic
crash. And this effect of silence--for we were all so accustomed to the
local noise of our machinery that it may be said we were unconscious
of it--made yet more wonderful the really astounding display of
pyrotechnics which in a second blazed up around the whole arc of the
Salient. At 3.49 A.M., when I looked at my clock for the last time, the
night was dark and misty and very still. Heavier clouds had rolled up,
and there was no sign of the dawn. Only the pistol lights still soared
and died away about us. Precisely at 3.50 two or three thousand shells
of every calibre burst virtually together in two great semicircles on
or over the enemy’s first and second lines--ten miles or so of sudden
flame and horror. A few hundred yards in front of our leading tank
the very earth seemed to erupt. It spouted fire and fragments like a
volcano. The mist which hung over the trenches in the little valley was
rent to tatters in a blaze of orange light, while hundreds of shrapnel
bursts sparkled above, and the drums of thermit poured down their
molten oil like burning rain. Far behind, where the 9.2 barrage fell
along the crown of the ridge, great tongues of flame leapt and wavered
in volumes of scarlet smoke. And from out of this instantaneous inferno
arose strings of green and crimson rockets--the S.O.S. calls of the
enemy. It was the apotheosis of the artillery barrage, although no one
suspected it then: the greatest blast of gun-fire ever concentrated at
once on any battlefield, and, so far at least as the British Army was
concerned, the last of its kind. The next offensive battle, at Cambrai,
was to inaugurate a new order of things.
From Hill Top, or Frascati, this great curve of spouting fire must
have been a magnificent spectacle, and the sudden shattering noise of
it appalling; and I was so fascinated by the small part of it which I
could see that I forgot entirely to start the tank. The whole of my
crew was crowded forward behind the driver and myself, craning over our
shoulders to watch through the flaps such a display of fireworks as
they had never dreamed of. Realising suddenly that the interval between
G 46 and the tank in front was increasing, I touched Johnstone on the
arm; and the roar of the engine deepened as, with a slight jerk, we
also began to move. Already the glare of the bursting shells, still
raining down upon the zero line, was dulled by a pall of smoke and
dust. The spectacular glory of the barrage was at an end. Within a few
seconds it was due to lift forward at a rate of a hundred yards every
four minutes. But it still showed as a flickering haze of light across
our front; and against this one could see the long line of tanks moving
downward to Forward Cottage, about which point groups of dark figures
were standing on the parapets or walking carelessly forward across
Admiral’s Road toward the German trenches.
It seemed a long time before G 46 reached these trenches. There were,
in fact, continual stoppages as the tanks in front struggled to find
a crossing in the narrow gap between Hampshire and Canadian Farms.
At length, after a particularly long halt, I swung out of the line to
the right to make, if possible, a passage for myself. We were then
somewhere in the middle of No Man’s Land. Dawn had broken--a miserable
grey twilight behind heavy clouds; and the creeping barrage, with its
following infantry, was already far up the ridge. It was when we drew
up to the German front line that the cause of these irritating delays
became painfully obvious. We had anticipated difficulties here, but
the reality was worse than anything that I, for one, had imagined.
The front line was not merely obliterated: it had been scorched and
pulverised as if by an earthquake, stamped flat and heaved up again,
caught as it fell and blown all ways; and when the four minutes’ blast
of destruction moved on, was left dissolved into its elements, heaped
in fantastic mounds of mud, or excavated into crumbling pits already
half full of water. There cannot have been a live man left in it. At
our point of crossing there was nothing to be seen which remotely
resembled a trench: before us yawned a deep muddy gulf, out of whose
slimy sides obtruded fragments of splintered timber, broken slabs
of concrete, and several human legs clothed in German half-boots.
Immediately beyond, a veritable lagoon, fringed by a few stripped and
blackened willow-stumps, marked the site of Hampshire Farm. Infantry
were strolling about here in a very casual manner, smoking, eating,
and ferreting for souvenirs. The battle seemed a long way off. The
morning was so dark, and the murk of mist and smoke so thick upon the
ridge, that one could see only a few hundred yards in front. I was
determined not to get ditched so early in the day if I could avoid it;
and for five or ten minutes we hung over this black chasm, backing,
swinging, nosing about in vain for a likely crossing. We were rather
too much to the right of our proper track, but the ground everywhere
was so broken and treacherous that there was little choice. We had made
several tentative efforts, but had shied each time at the prospect
of crumbling and slithery mud-heaps in front of us; and I was about
to leave the tank to search for a crossing-place myself when Kessel
unexpectedly appeared outside. With his help we got over, at a point
where some revetting-stakes and wire still survived, holding the soil
together and providing a quasi-stable surface for the tracks to grip.
Once across, Kessel scrambled in through one of the sponson doors, and
as we lurched warily round the lagoon he informed me by shouts that
all this was “great fun” (a point which had escaped me), and that poor
Brassington was bogged hopelessly somewhere near at hand. We were now
climbing out of the dead ground in which the front line had run. The
light was improving rapidly, but so dense a screen of smoke and mist
hung over the ridge that no landmarks were visible. In front of me a
line of tanks--the leading section of 19 Company--was moving obliquely
to the right. Nearer at hand was one on fire, and a second apparently
ditched. No shells seemed to be falling in our neighbourhood, but far
ahead a flicker of light in the fog showed where our barrage continued
its annihilating progress up the slope. Indistinct groups of figures
moved about in the gloom--signallers laying lines of wire, platoons in
support digging themselves in, stretcher-bearers, runners, and walking
wounded trailing back to the aid-posts. The damp air reeked of the
pungent gases of high explosives. The ground, although one intricate
net of shell-holes, grew firmer as we left the infamous region about
the front line; and, with skilful driving, we were able to make fair
progress without running extravagant risks. Johnstone, indeed, drove
extraordinarily well. The great trouble at first was to find our right
direction, for all our famous groups of trees were still invisible, and
Kitchener’s Wood was veiled completely by the smoke and dust of the
barrage. The German trenches which we had studied on the map were blown
to pieces and unrecognisable. One could see nothing anywhere, in fact,
but a brown waste of mud blasted into ridges and hollows like a frozen
sea, littered with debris, and melting on all hands into the prevailing
haze. The gradient of the ridge was too slight to be a guide under the
circumstances; my compass was chasing its tail and behaving generally
as if it was drunk; and, after we had swung a dozen times to avoid the
more dangerous craters that lay in our way, we might have been heading
in almost any direction. It was therefore with some relief that Kessel
and I detected presently, in the smoky distance, a familiar object
that both of us, like Captain Reece’s washerwoman, long had loved from
afar. This was Lone Tree--a rotund bushy shrub near Kultur Farm, whose
exceeding merit it was to look the same from every point of view. It
was unmistakable; and now, happily preserved amid the universal ruin,
it still stood, a little battered and entirely denuded of foliage,
as a signpost on the way. Very shortly after the ragged tree-tops of
Kitchener’s Wood came also into view.
About this time Kessel scrambled out, leaving behind him various
impedimenta, including a haversack and the section flag--this last an
emblem of red and green, the battalion colours, with a large white
“10” sewn on to it. I could now see Merchant’s tank, apparently in
trouble, in a sort of marshy gully to my right front; but a little
while later he passed me again, going in great style. Time was slipping
away: it was nearly five o’clock, and already we were late, owing to
the delays at the front line. We were not far, however, from our first
objectives--Boche Castle and the German second system in front of
Kitchener’s Wood, where I still hoped to overtake the infantry. The
heavy howitzers had now lifted to the Steenbeek and beyond, and the
creeping barrage was crashing in the wood itself, above which hung
clouds of smoke. The enemy’s counter-barrage, falling in the beginning
on our front and assembly trenches, had developed into a heavy but
promiscuous bombardment of the western slope of the ridge; and for the
first time since zero, I saw the sinister black fountains of earth
spouting up in front, and heard the occasional rattle of fragments on
the roof of G 46. It was, presumably, one of these pieces of shell,
or perhaps a shrapnel ball, that cut the lashings of my unditching
beam about this time. As we dipped our nose into a shell-hole the beam
slid down over the cab on to the ground. Stopping at once, I got my
whole crew out to recover it; but to lift on to the roof again 9 cwt.
of steel and wood in so unhandy a form was beyond our powers; and the
occasion being urgent, I decided to abandon the thing rather than waste
time in manœuvring the tank and fixing the clamps or other tackle.
We obtained a more comprehensive view of the outer world during this
excursion, but there was little to be seen. The battlefield wore that
melancholy and deserted air characteristic of modern war. Acres of foul
slime below, dark and heavy clouds hanging low overhead, odours of
gases and corruption, a few tree-stumps, a few bodies lying crumpled in
the mud, half a dozen tanks labouring awkwardly in the middle distance,
and the shell-bursts shooting upward like vast ephemeral mushrooms--and
that was all. There was hardly a sign of life in all that mournful
and chilling landscape. The dark but busy interior of G 46, crowded
with humanity, was homely by comparison and infinitely quieter. War
has been translated into terms of sound, and the racket of gun-fire
was appalling. Coming from inside a tank, where one heard nothing but
the familiar roar of the engine, this eternal throbbing blast of noise
deafened and bewildered. Overhead the shells were rushing in a torrent
with a continual cry like that of a gale among trees--“whee-u, whee-u,
whee-u, whee-u....” For the first few minutes, until I can become used
to it, any loud and sudden noise (and this was worse than any ever
heard before) always renders me virtually imbecile, almost incapable
of coherent thought or action; and I was heartily glad to clamber back
again to the company of decent mechanical reverberations to which I
was accustomed.
We moved on once more. I can remember very little of our normal
progress beyond a general impression that the ground everywhere was
atrocious, and that Johnstone’s driving was exceptional. We passed
over a ruined trench, which a line of men was labouring to convert
with pick and shovel; and once we came upon a wounded infantryman
lying at the bottom of a shell-hole which we were about to cross. We
stopped instantly and swung to avoid him, but in the act of changing
the secondary gears the tank lurched forward a foot or two and hung
over the very lip of the crater; and I shall not easily forget the
terror in the man’s face as he watched the huge machine rearing up
fifteen feet above him, about (as he supposed) to crash down upon him
with all its thirty tons. It was about 5.15 when we drew near to the
site of the estaminet called Boche Castle. On our right was the dark
mass of Kitchener’s Wood, its trees blackened and mangled and almost
bare of leaves. No living soul was to be seen, and it was plain that
the infantry had carried the strong-point itself, and the whole of
the German second line in this neighbourhood, and had already pushed
on toward the Steenbeek. The trenches ran generally along the western
edge of the wood, but a few hundred yards from the northern end of
it they turned westward through Boche Castle and Hurst Park toward
Pilkem. I have spoken of an estaminet at Boche Castle, but of course
this building, where a few years before the Walloons had drunk their
indifferent beer, had been reduced long since to a pile of rubble.
Amid this debris the Germans had constructed a concrete tower, which
commanded the whole face of the ridge. I have mentioned also that
this interesting innovation had been shelled by our 15-inch guns. The
effect of this bombardment was extraordinary, for in that moist and
ruined soil the huge projectiles had penetrated to a depth of fifteen
or twenty feet before they exploded; and the result was a congeries
of immense craters, which I believed to be caused by mines, until I
reflected that no mine-shafts could have been driven so far. The mebus
itself had been uprooted bodily, like a plaything, and now lay flat
upon its side, cracked, but still more or less entire--an advertisement
of the resisting powers of reinforced concrete.
From this and other indications (_e.g._, the absence of dead or wounded
on the ground except at one spot, to be noted later), it was clear
that there had been no very serious fighting about this point; and
indeed the first impact of 9.2’s at zero, followed later by the lighter
creeping barrage, had virtually obliterated the whole system in front
of the wood. It was no easy task for a tank to thread its way among
these vast excavations about Boche Castle, and things were complicated
by the presence of a large patch of boggy ground there which had also
to be avoided. As we proceeded, we discovered that Merchant’s tank,
less fortunate than our own, had become ditched in one of the biggest
craters, where it lay at a most uncomfortable angle, looking very much
like a drowned beetle in the bottom of a wine-glass.
Our own ultimate disaster was near at hand. There ran out of the
salient the dismal remains of a thoroughfare known to us as Boundary
Road, which, after crossing Admiral’s Road in No Man’s Land and then
the German front line, zigzagged past the reserve trenches at Kempton
Park and Gatwick Cottage to Hurst Park and Boche Castle itself, from
where it hugged the north end of Kitchener’s Wood before descending
the reverse slope to a culvert over the Steenbeek. Up this latter part
of it was laid a light railway, as disclosed by aeroplane photographs,
and duly recorded on the map. Information from prisoners led to the
belief that this road was mined; and Merchant and I had been warned
time and again on no account to move along it. We were to cross it
in the neighbourhood of Boche Castle, proceed parallel to it on the
north, and recross it beyond the wood, thus reducing to a minimum the
risk of striking one of the mines. The road itself, when I arrived at
it, was indistinguishable from the surrounding mud; but the twisted
metals of the light railway betrayed its site; and in accordance with
my instructions, without thinking twice about it, I drove straight
over it at a point midway between the wood and the prostrate mebus at
Boche Castle. I then swung to the right and moved forward parallel to
it. As written down, this manœuvre sounds a simple one; but already
another peculiarity of the Salient was disturbingly manifest. Owing,
as I suppose, to some arrangement of strata--the same phenomenon is to
be found in parts of Dorsetshire, among other places--the water with
which Flanders is too abundantly provided collects on top of the ridges
as well as in the adjacent valleys. The boggy patch on the other side
of Boche Castle before mentioned was a symptom of this eccentricity.
And across the vanished road the conditions became at once appalling.
The ground was one network of big shell-holes, and every one was full
of water. There was no escaping it. On all hands lay these brimming
pools, divided only by a sort of mesh of semi-liquid mud. I tried at
once to get back to the road, preferring the possibility of mines to
the certainty of being ignominiously engulfed, but in that amphibious
world the engine was not powerful enough to induce the tank to reverse
or swing. She would only plough her way slowly forward through the mud.
The end was inevitable. We covered (and this in itself was something
of a miracle) about two hundred yards of this quagmire, forcing our
way through it rather than over it. It was during this final lap that
I heard my left-hand pair of gunners open fire with their Lewis guns.
Knowing that we were still behind our infantry, I induced them to stop
by hammering the nearest man on the back; and it was not until some
time later that I learnt the cause of their firing. All this while we
tried continually to swing back toward the road, a hundred yards away,
but the tank was sunk in mud to her belly, and would move only in the
one direction. We arrived at length at a point abreast of the far edge
of Kitchener’s Wood: water lay everywhere about us; and immediately in
front were two or three large shell-holes, full to the brim. It being
impossible to avoid them, G 46, like a reluctant suicide, crawled
straight into the first, which we could only hope was shallower than
it appeared to be. The water rushed in through the tracks and sponson
doors, covered the floorboards, and flooded the sump: the fly-wheel
thrashed through it for a second or two, sending showers about the
interior; and then the tank, not having been constructed for submarine
warfare, gave up the struggle. The engine raced with an increased but
futile noise, for the wet clutch had ceased to grip, and we did not
move.
It was nearly six o’clock, and the rain had begun to fall. To take
stock of the situation we had to climb out through the manhole in the
roof, the water having risen to such a height above the floor that we
could not use the sponson doors. Once outside, it was manifest that
there was nothing to be done. The lost unditching beam would not have
helped us with the clutch half under water. The tail of the tank just
touched the muddy rim of the shell-hole, but on every other side the
great pool extended for several feet. The accompanying photograph,
although taken a couple of months later, after the tank had been hit
on one track and elsewhere, shows her exactly as she lay at that
moment, and as we left her the following afternoon. A hundred yards
to our right was the northern corner of Kitchener’s Wood. Three or
four hundred yards to the left was a ruined building, converted with
concrete into a machine-gun post, which was known as Von Werder House.
This was not visible until one stood on top of the tank, for the latter
was sunk deep in the shell-hole, and was screened also on this side by
the tattered remnants of a hedge. A quarter of a mile in front of us
the ridge fell away toward the Steenbeek, and over the edge we could
see the tops of the trees which lined the banks of that stream;
while to our rear, beyond a row of wrecked sheds made of timber and
corrugated iron, rose the white pile of rubble and concrete where Boche
Castle had stood. Occasional shells burst along the ridge. The shriek
of our own projectiles rushing overhead was continuous, and the actual
throbbing blast of gun-fire a torture to the nerves; but not a living
soul except ourselves was within eyesight. I did not know how far our
infantry had progressed, but supposed them to be somewhere near the
Steenbeek. A heavy rattle of rifle and machine-gun fire sounded out of
the valley. Nearer at hand, but invisible, one or two Vickers’ guns
were indulging in overhead fire.
[Illustration: Tank G 46 as I left her (except for hit on track),
August 1, 1917.]
Having satisfied myself that the tank was bogged beyond immediate
repair (a fact, indeed, so obvious that no consideration was needed),
I sent my crew inside again and started to walk back to Merchant’s G
45, lying in the big crater by Boche Castle, where I expected to find
Kessel. The distance was about five hundred yards. It was now raining
heavily, and walking was reduced to a maddening process of dragging
one’s feet through deliquescent mud, sliding into shell-holes, and
crawling, sometimes on all-fours, laboriously out again. As I drew
near to Boche Castle I crossed what was left of the support trenches
of the German second line, and here, lying face downward side by side
over a fragment of parados, were the bodies of six British infantrymen,
all shot through the head--killed together as they were in the act of
climbing out of the trench. I was to become only too familiar with
these unfortunates in the course of that day and the next. A little
farther beyond was the series of great craters about the strong-point.
On reaching the lip of the one in which G 45 still lay engulfed, I saw
Kessel, Merchant, and the crew grouped far below me round the tank.
They instantly made violent signals to me to come into cover, and I
slid down the side of the crater with some precipitation. Believing
that all the enemy must have been driven off the ridge in our
neighbourhood, since the infantry was out of sight ahead, I had taken
no precautions in walking across beyond listening anxiously for the
whistle of unfriendly shells; but on arriving, muddy and breathless,
among the others in the crater bottom, I learnt that all this while
there was a German machine-gun still in action in Von Werder House,
then nearly half a mile behind our front. Its very gallant gun-crew
(I never knew if there was only one man there or more), cut off by
the annihilation or flight of the defenders of the second line,
apparently went to ground until our attacking waves had passed by,
only to reappear afterwards and begin sniping conscientiously at any
one who came within range. This sort of conduct always seems to me the
height of heroism or fanaticism, for the ultimate fate of such isolated
rearguards is certain. In all ignorance I had walked right across the
front of this gun within a few hundred yards of it, and I can only
suppose that at the time the gunners were occupied at a loophole on the
other side of the mebus. It appeared that Merchant had left his true
course, and so become ditched in the crater, in an attempt to reach
and silence this nuisance; and when I returned later to my own tank I
learnt that it was the “tap-tap” of bullets on the armour, no doubt
from the same source, that had provoked my gunners to open fire. And I
imagine that the six dead infantrymen whom I had just seen were also
among the victims of Von Werder House.
Having reported to Kessel the hopeless situation of G 46, I was told
to evacuate her, leaving, however, two men as a guard. This was
in accordance with orders, and was in one sense a very necessary
provision; for it had been found that any ditched or disabled tank left
unguarded was sure to be stripped within a few hours of every removable
part. But the duty, never popular, was likely to be peculiarly
dangerous in the Salient, on account of the persistent shelling to be
expected there. Near Mousetrap Farm, a day or two later, four men were
killed while guarding a couple of derelict tanks, after which the
practice of leaving such guards east of the canal was abandoned. And
the position of G 46 was exceptional. She lay so near to the Steenbeek,
our final objective for that day, as to be in imminent danger from any
counter-attack, and she was, in fact, farther forward than any machine
left within our lines. She might be seen from the next ridge, and
her neighbourhood, whatever else happened, probably would be shelled
heavily. Under these circumstances, much as I disliked the prospect of
remaining in her myself, I felt that I could not leave two of my crew
alone there; and I determined, therefore, to form one of the guard.
Merchant’s tank was as immovable as my own. Its engine had failed in an
attempt to pull it out of the big crater, and it now lay at a highly
uncomfortable angle, its nose pointing obliquely upward and its floor
so tilted that one could not stand inside. Fortunately for the crew,
the crater was comparatively dry for the Salient. It was merely a
mud-hole--that is to say, without much water in the bottom. I remained
here for about half an hour, talking to the others, for I confess I
was in no hurry to begin my return journey. Most of us, I think, are
great cowards when we are alone and have no gallery to play to, and I
did not relish the idea of exposing myself again to the occupant of
Von Werder House, who might not overlook me a second time. When at
length I moved off, I took rather elaborate precautions, keeping under
cover when possible, running across the open spaces, and making a
wide circuit through the moist and reeking undergrowth of Kitchener’s
Wood. It was an ignominious performance, and I am not proud of it; but
I could not forget those six men lying in a row with bullets through
their heads. And as it happened, the machine-gun was now permanently
silenced. When I came out from the wood upon the ruined road abreast
of my tank, prepared to duck or run for it, I saw a party of kilted
infantry, belonging to the supporting battalion of the 117th Brigade,
gathered round Von Werder House. Presumably the plucky German gunner
had been killed. Scrambling back into G 46, I told my crew (sitting
dismally immersed to the knees in water and oil) to draw lots for the
doubtful privilege of remaining behind with me. The duty fell to my
second driver, Swain, who successfully dissembled his joy. The others
began to collect their kit, most of which was under water, for in a
tank everything gravitates eventually to the floor. These men would
have to carry with them also the six Lewis guns and the compass, and
their journey through the shells and rain and clinging mud to Frascati,
thus encumbered, promised few pleasures. There was still a job of work
for them to do before they left. I wished to camouflage the tank to
some extent with mud and branches, and especially to obliterate the
conspicuous number painted on the roof of the cab. (I have explained
already my reasons for this diffidence.) At this work we toiled for
half an hour, slipping and splashing in the surrounding pool; but the
rain, now falling in sheets, washed the mud away almost as fast as we
shovelled it on, and we had to depend upon the relics of the adjacent
hedge. It was nearly nine o’clock when my corporal, Mitchell, and the
other five prepared finally to leave the tank. At this juncture another
tank appeared, homeward bound, round the corner of Kitchener’s Wood. It
was one of 19 Company’s, commanded by Maelor Jones. It had been across
the Steenbeek into St Julien, where it had been attacked by infantry
with hand grenades, and Maelor Jones himself had shot a German N.C.O.
with his revolver through the flap. He was now struggling home with a
badly leaking radiator. I do not remember how he came to be so far off
his direct route, which was south of the wood, a mile away. I gave him
all my spare water, and also put into his tank my six Lewis guns, to
save my crew this extra burden. When he moved off again he contrived to
navigate the lake district about us without disaster; but eventually
(as I discovered later) came to a standstill, with an empty radiator,
half a mile beyond Boche Castle, where the tank was hit soon after. At
the same time my six men left me for Hill Top Farm and Frascati, with
orders to report to the company commander at the first-named place.
Swain and I remained alone in G 46, with a prospect (at the best) of
indefinite discomfort before us. The only thing remaining for me to do
was to despatch my two pigeons with duplicate messages, giving my exact
state and situation.
II.
The tank, as I have said, was almost knee-deep in water. The rain
dripped in steadily through the imperfectly fitting armour-plating
of the roof. And about this time the enemy’s shelling, scattered
hitherto in a desultory fashion over his lost positions, settled down
to a sustained and heavy bombardment of the whole crest of the ridge.
It fell with particular intensity on certain areas, of which our
own deserted and impracticable neighbourhood unfortunately was one.
Possibly the Germans thought we were using or repairing the road; but
except for one platoon of infantry, ploughing along it in single file
on either side, to avoid (as I suppose) the legendary mines, I never
saw a living soul upon that obliterated highway, and very few anywhere
else about us. Whatever the reason, from about ten o’clock on the
morning of the 31st until I left the place at four in the afternoon of
the following day, a period of thirty hours, 5.9 shells fell about us
without intermission at the rate of one every minute. The particular
gun or guns responsible for our little sector maintained with Teutonic
exactitude the same invariable line, represented approximately by G 46
on top of the crest, Boche Castle 300 yards in rear, and Merchant’s
tank 200 yards beyond that; and the feature of this apparently
senseless expenditure of metal was the fact that neither tank was hit
during this time.
It might appear the obvious remedy, in these circumstances, to have
left the half-drowned “Gina” for some other shelter a few hundred
yards away. But there was no shelter to be found, or I could find
none. Trenches had been beaten to a muddy pulp; dug-outs, if they
existed, were undiscoverable in the prevailing devastation; water lay
everywhere; and shells were falling almost as thickly in Kitchener’s
Wood and about Von Werder House as in our immediate neighbourhood.
The tank at least offered protection against splinters, and, apart
from a few leaks, against the ceaseless downpour of rain. It held our
food and other possessions, which were kept moderately dry. And it is
a well-known, if illogical, truth, that any overhead cover is better
than none. A parasol would give one infinite comfort in battle. G 46,
nevertheless, was not an ideal home. She vibrated periodically from the
concussions near at hand: every fifteen minutes or so came an explosion
so close that lumps of mud pattered heavily upon the roof; and once or
twice the whole thirty tons of metal seemed to jump bodily. With the
engine silent, one heard the crescendo of every approaching shell, and
had ample time to speculate on its point of arrival. It is one thing to
be shelled in this manner when you are actively engaged in some work
which helps to occupy your mind: it is altogether another to have to
sit through two days and a night of it within a few feet of thirty or
forty gallons of refined and expensive petrol, with nothing whatever
to do but wonder what exactly will happen when you are hit. It was
natural to dwell upon the fact that a 5.9 projectile goes through a
tank’s armour as if it was paper, and then bursts inside. Thirty hours
of this life, in short, became in the end a little wearing; and I hope
sincerely never to repeat the experience.
Yet of all that long period, which seemed so interminable at the
time, I found afterwards I could remember very little. When Swain
and I were left alone in the tank, we proceeded to make ourselves as
comfortable as circumstances allowed. Swain curled himself up in the
driver’s seat. I sat with my shoulders against the front of the cab,
using a tin box of Lewis-gun ammunition as a back-rest. Half of the
engine cover, laid over a couple of oil-drums which rose well above
the water-level, served to keep my legs out of the flood. Both of us,
of course, were already soaked to the skin and plastered with mud, so
that the steady trickle of rain from the roof mattered little to us.
For the first hour or so I think we were asleep, too tired to worry
about the manifest increase in the shelling about us. Toward midday we
ate a cold and uninspiring lunch of bully and sardines, supplemented by
whisky. These delicacies lived close at hand in lockers on each side of
the cab, room for which, and also for a small drinking-water tank, had
been made in the Mark IV. by the removal aft of the petrol-supply. Our
drinking water, unfortunately, was rather mature, there having been no
opportunity of refilling the tank since the postponement on the 24th.
On all counts I congratulated myself on the two bottles of whisky. We
were now fully alive to the fact that shells were bursting very near G
46 with great regularity, and so far as I was concerned further sleep
proved to be out of the question. After each periodic whistle and
explosion, I peered around through the revolver ports in the cab to
see where the resultant cloud of black smoke was hanging, and usually
discovered it unpleasantly close. It may have been about this time that
the infantry I have mentioned came up the road past the edge of the
wood. They deployed into open order and halted for a few minutes; and
having left the tank to learn something about the general situation,
I found the subaltern in command sitting with his sergeant in a
comparatively dry shell-hole. They could tell me very little, however.
The firing line, which they were moving to support, was believed to
be along the Steenbeek, about 800 yards in front of us. The rattle of
machine-guns in the valley was more persistent than ever. The Vickers
on the ridge had fallen silent or gone forward, and from the loud
throb of gun-fire behind us it was clear that field batteries had, in
some miraculous manner, been got over the German front line and through
the slough beyond. I returned to the tank as the infantry platoon began
its stumbling progress forward again; and the last I saw of it was a
scattered line of figures disappearing beyond the brow of the hill.
This was the only formed body of troops that came within sight during
our stay on the ridge.
The next incident I remember was the startling return, about 4 o’clock,
of Corporal Mitchell and three others of my crew, who had left us six
hours earlier. It appeared that having reached the dug-out at Hill
Top Farm, after losing their way several times and enduring other
unpleasant vicissitudes, the original six had reported to the company
commander there, only to be told to return and stand by the tank,
a complete reversal of our original instructions. Orders to this
effect had been sent to Merchant by runner immediately on receipt of
a pigeon-message from him announcing his hopeless situation; but the
runner, having intercepted this crew just as it was starting for home,
had returned without bringing on the order to me. In any event, nothing
was to be gained by leaving the two crews, except a certainty of more
casualties if either tank should be hit; and trained tank personnel was
never so easily come by that it could be risked without a proper cause.
The crew of a tank left derelict on or near the front line can often
be of use by getting out and helping the infantry with Lewis guns,
but we were respectively half and three-quarters of a mile behind. I
had sent my guns back, perhaps rather foolishly, by Maelor Jones, and
both machines were so placed that they would be of little or no help
in repelling a counter-attack. In short, this clearly was a case where
the section and tank commanders on the spot ought to decide on the best
course of action. As for my own men, this development entailed for them
the additional fatigue and danger of the two-mile tramp back from Hill
Top to the tank. They started to return at once. Almost immediately
one of the gunners was hit in the head by a shrapnel bullet, and
a second man was left with him to help him to the nearest dressing
station. The other four eventually rejoined me after six hours’
continuous struggle through slime, rain, and shell-fire, and they were
so famished and exhausted that, although a certain amount of petrol was
floating about in the tank, I went to the risk of lighting a primus
stove in one of the sponsons in order to make them some tea. Braced
with a little rum, this drink, like godliness with contentment, was
great gain. It was no easy matter now to pack six men inside G 46 above
water-level, but with the aid of engine-covers and petrol and oil-tins,
the returned wanderers contrived somehow to fit themselves in.
Shortly after this I paid a visit to Merchant. Never an attractive
expedition, as it involved a good deal of wading to begin with and
subsequent periodic dives into the mud to dodge shell fragments, this
occasion provided me with a quite superfluous thrill. Hearing suddenly
the alarming crescendo of a 5.9 coming apparently straight at my head,
I dropped in a hurry just as it landed within a very few yards of me.
Fortunately it plunged some ten feet down into the semi-liquid ground
before it burst, so that beyond a bad shaking and a temporary immersion
beneath a perfect deluge of mud, I was none the worse. A little dashed
by the incident, however, I ran (or attempted to run) the rest of the
way, and of course almost fell over the six dead infantrymen lying so
neatly spaced in front of Boche Castle. I was glad to get down into the
fallacious shelter of Merchant’s gigantic crater, where I found his
crew brewing tea on a primus in the rain. They had with them two German
prisoners commandeered to help in a last hopeless effort to dig out the
tank. One of these men was dazed, speechless, and useless; and it was
supposed that he was suffering from shock until some one discovered
that the poor wretch had been hit in the stomach. Heaven knows how he
managed to stand upright. He vanished after a while, probably to die
miserably in some shell-hole; and his comrade, having been made to
understand with difficulty that his services were no longer required,
hurried off toward the rear with every symptom of relief. Merchant, I
found, had received no further orders, nor indeed any news whatever,
and he and his men were as weary of this mode of life as I and mine,
although spared our amphibious discomforts. His N.C.O., Sergeant
Meyrick, a splendid type of long-service soldier from the R.F.A.,
had the beginnings of an attack of fever, and was shaking like St
Vitus, while his first driver, Waller, was also ill. (Both these men
came to be associated with me, in circumstances peculiarly creditable
to them, in our next action, when I learnt thoroughly to appreciate
their merits.) While I was in the crater at this time a number of
shells burst so near to us that we left the tank in an endeavour to
find shelter elsewhere, but we soon abandoned the search. As in my
own case, the derelict machine remained the most attractive of the
several unsatisfactory alternatives. I may point out once more that
this instinctive desire to leave a ditched tank when shells are falling
about it arises from the fact that the protection the tank offers
against splinters is heavily outweighed by the knowledge of what almost
certainly will happen if it receives a direct hit, especially from such
a projectile as a 5.9. The terrific explosion in the restricted space,
the whirlwind of flying white-hot metal, and the inevitable fire which
follows, leave the crew with a poor hope of escaping, as was proved in
several tragic instances that morning; whereas in the open, lying flat
behind a lump of mud, the probabilities are all the other way. I think
it was the rain and the general wretchedness of things outside, as much
as the total lack of any standing cover, which induced us to remain
throughout inside our tanks.
Having spent about half an hour with Merchant, I started on my return.
In spite of a fixed intention of avoiding the six corpses on my route,
I ran into them once more, but arrived at my own watery home without
further unpleasantness. Inside G 46 the tide appeared to have risen in
my absence.
It would be tedious to inflict in detail my fragmentary recollections
of that evening or of the interminable night which ensued. The
conditions may be pictured as before. The rain fell heavily,
unceasingly, like fate. The water within the tank rose slowly but
perceptibly, and the shells exploded about us with the punctuality
of unwelcome guests. After each shriek and detonation which sounded
more than usually close to us, I would see the dim faces of my crew
turned rather anxiously toward me to see how I took it. It seemed
then advisable to make some silly joke, which, although it should
have deceived no one, helped apparently to ease the tension. And
this experience, recurring frequently through many hours, impressed
me forcibly with certain truisms lying, as I imagine, behind all
theories of military conduct and training, of which the chief was the
moral value of responsibility to others. If I had been left alone in
the tank, with nothing to think of but my own predicament, I should
have dwelt upon this until it became unbearable. Probably I should
then have run away. As it was, however, my main business necessarily
was to set a fairly decent example to the men who relied on me and
for whom I was responsible. In other words, it was their presence
and obvious dependence upon my behaviour which governed the latter,
while conversely this influence reacted upon them to the extent that
my artificial optimism and rather feeble jokes set up some sort of
standard which they felt obliged to imitate. We were all equally
afraid, but so long as we were all equally ashamed to admit it we
could carry on. The point of interest in our case, otherwise very
ordinary, was the fact that a number of men who never in their lives
before had been in any serious danger were now called upon in their
first action to endure a test exceptionally trying to nerve and
courage: to sit, during a day and a half of persistent heavy shelling,
passive, idle, and helpless in a flooded steel box on top of gallons
of inflammable spirit, protected overhead by nothing more than a thin
plate which a substantial sledge-hammer would have dented. I have said
all this before, and it may appear scarcely to warrant the previous
digression, but I will not labour to excuse the latter. It represents
the reflections which occurred to me afterwards. No doubt they have
occurred to millions of others since the first prehistoric battle; and
the whole thing may be summed up in the axiom that, when in doubt or
tribulation, it is a very material help to be forced to act a part.
That night was peculiarly unpleasant. Owing to our position on the
crest it was inadvisable to show any adequate light. (It must be
remembered also that we were entirely ignorant of the day’s events. For
all we knew the Germans might have regained ground elsewhere on the
ridge from which the tank was in view at short range. One can learn
nothing from a mere inspection of a modern battlefield, for there is
nothing to be seen.) Normally, tanks are lighted by small electric
festoon lamps hung under the roof, but in G 46 these were now out of
action, the accumulators being under water. In any case, I should not
have used them, as even with everything shut down the light escaped
through numerous small chinks around the gun-ports and shields. The
more powerful hand-lamps were tabooed for the same reason. There
remained only the pair of coloured bulbs on the signalling belt, of
which the green, besides making us look as if we were in the last
stages of decomposition, was too brilliant to please me. The feeble
glow of the red bulb, however, could hardly have been seen by some one
standing close outside. I had to employ it sparingly, as I did not
know how long the small battery would last, but when at intervals I
switched it on the effect was rather curious. The dull crimson light
was reflected in the water beneath us, the rain-drops collecting along
the joints of the roof shone like rubies, and the complication of
exhaust-pipes and ammunition-boxes above the engine cast over half
the interior a great wavering shadow, in which I could see dimly the
faces of my crew, huddled in the sponsons and about the differential.
Between these theatrical glimpses we lived in pitchy darkness, talking
a little, sleeping hardly at all, feeling acutely the bolt-heads and
angles in our backs, drinking a periodic tot of whisky (for we were
soaked and chilled), listening to the rain and the shell-bursts and the
occasional ominous patter of mud on the roof, and praying for the dawn.
When at length it broke, dreary and weeping, and we could see once more
the too familiar landscape, the latter was as desert and uninviting as
before. There was more water about, and a large shell-hole in front of
us was brimming over into ours. We lit the primus again, regardless
of possible consequences, and rummaged about for our somewhat sodden
victuals. A good deal of food, including several loaves, was submerged,
and our two days’ rations began to look small.
The morning was a repetition of the previous day. The rain fell as
if it had never rained before, the shells whistled and crashed, and,
for all that we could see, we might have been in the Ark on Ararat,
whose situation indeed must have borne many points of resemblance to
our own. We had even despatched our doves, or pigeons. But there were
no high explosives on Ararat. About 11 o’clock I ventured forth again
rather reluctantly, and stumbled over the mud to call on Merchant.
For the fourth time I encountered on the way the six infantrymen, now
showing unequivocal signs of having been dead for a good many hours.
In the big crater I found neither orders nor news, although there had
arrived a very superfluous visitor in the person of a salvage officer,
come to lend us the assistance of his intellect toward the business of
extricating our tanks! To Merchant he offered some hints on the use of
sleepers, hints whose value was impaired by the fact that no sleepers
were to hand. When I returned to G 46 I took him with me, as I wanted
an independent report on the tank which hitherto no one had visited. He
was not impressed favourably with the neighbourhood, perhaps because we
arrived just in time to dodge a salvo of 5.9’s; and having advised me
to bale out my shell-hole with petrol-tins (!), he left in a hurry. I
never saw this useless individual again, and I have forgotten his name,
but I took an instinctive dislike to him.
Merchant and I agreed at this meeting that if no orders had reached us
by four that afternoon we would lock up the tanks and march back to
Frascati. Accordingly, after a second visit to him in the afternoon,
when I found him still without any news, I returned once more to make
my own final arrangements, by which time I was coming very thoroughly
to hate this solitary journey with its inevitable accompaniment of
shells and rain. My crew collected their kit (in most cases it was
under water), and we filled our haversacks and pockets with the
unspoiled residue of our rations and with the small equipment which had
to be salved--the clock, periscopes, lamps, &c.--and just before four
o’clock we climbed very thankfully out of the manhole and padlocked it
behind us. Only a beaver or an Indian pearl-diver could have got at
the sponson doors: any child, on the other hand, could have broken the
padlock. But that was not our concern. It was impossible to pretend
sorrow at parting from G 46: our main apprehension, indeed, was that
sooner or later we should have to return to her.
Merchant and his men were ready to move when we reached the crater,
and we set off together on our dreary trudge back to Frascati. We
each took our turn at carrying his four Lewis guns. Enough has been
written of the discomfort of marching anywhere in the Salient in bad
weather, and I will not dilate upon this hegira, of which, in fact, I
remember very little. One odd incident, however, sticks in my memory as
worth recording. As we struggled past the front of Kitchener’s Wood,
where the German shells were still crashing, and approached the big
camouflaged mebus which I have mentioned in an earlier chapter, a flock
of little black-and-white birds flew out from the trees and followed
us for some way, fluttering about our legs and twittering and squeaking
in a very agitated manner. I can only suppose that they came to us, the
sole living creatures to be seen, for company and protection, their
natural fear of mankind overcome by the greater terror of that reeking
wood, resounding with the crashes of exploding shells and falling
trees. It was a singular circumstance, but I was too tired at the
time to give much thought to it or even notice what birds they were.
Possibly they were swallows. After following us in this fashion for
perhaps a quarter of a mile, they disappeared.
We were making our way obliquely across the front of the wood toward
the Wieltje-St Julien road, which was to have been put in use
immediately after the advance. It was out of our direct route, but with
the rain still falling in torrents and the elemental mud something
beyond the power of language to describe, any sort of stable surface
on which to walk was an attraction. Tired and burdened as we were, we
could not face a struggle of two or three miles through pure slime. And
presently signs of human and friendly activity were at length visible.
We passed a few 18-pounders buried in shell-holes or hidden behind
pollard stumps. A little later a line of moving figures and vehicles,
marking the road, came into view through the rain. We found the road
congested, in fact, by opposing streams of mule trains and ammunition
limbers, bringing their loads up to this new battery area and then
returning for more. Nearer the crest, about the mebus called Cheddar
Villa and the ruins of Vanheule Farm, it was being shelled heavily.
Its extemporised surface of brick-rubble and timber was swimming in
liquid mud which wheels and hoofs sprayed liberally over us. Dead
animals and abandoned limbers lay clustered on either side. We struck
it at a point where it crossed the unrecognisable debris of California
Reserve trench, the third line of the German front system, and just
here another hastily renovated track, also choked with traffic, forked
westward over No Man’s Land to Hammond’s Corner, where we had halted
before the attack. This branch, called Buffs Road, subsequently was
timbered almost throughout, and, with the continuation through St
Julien, came to be known only too well by all ranks of the 1st Tank
Brigade. We stumbled and splashed along it, involved in endless lines
of mules and horses, toward Frascati, which dilapidated haven, loathed
by all two days before, now beckoned to us like home. We reached it at
length, to find it transformed out of all knowledge. Its shell-pitted
fields, last seen deserted, swarmed with men and animals; engineers
and labour troops were digging and building, rows of horse lines
had sprung up, dumps were accumulating, and a dressing station was
established under the trees. The small ruined lanes behind were packed
with ammunition trains and ambulance convoys, and always an endless
tide of soaked and muddied transport flowed by the outskirts toward the
front line. Around La Brique, where we had been used to venture with
such misgivings, 60-pounder guns were firing noisily, while behind them
rested the novel gun-carrying tanks which had brought them into action.
III.
In some iron and timber shacks in the middle of the trees, by our
own petrol dump, we found Kessel, Winters (second in command of 19
Company), and various details, including Deakin of my own crew, who had
been left behind at Hill Top with the wounded man. Every one looked
tired and dirty, and had a three-days’ growth of beard, but they were
perfect d’Orsays by comparison with our disreputable party. Winters,
who was in command on the spot, had some dutiful misgivings as to the
strict propriety of our leaving our tanks without orders, and even
suggested that we might have to return to them; but Merchant and I held
forth so vigorously on the subject that this idea died a very rapid
death. Our men, in fact (to say nothing of ourselves), were dead-beat;
while it was because our remaining with the tanks was so palpably
useless that we had come away. The disadvantages of being attached
temporarily to another company were manifest throughout this affair.
No one in 19 Company took much interest in No. 10 Section. It appeared
that the company commander, without worrying at all about us, had gone
back to Lovie to sleep on the previous evening with the rest of his own
people, although their tanks, with one exception, were also ditched
at various points about the battlefield. He had not been seen since.
Kessel, having been in charge at Frascati during the greater part of
the day, had been unable to come out to us as he had intended. In
short, if we had not taken matters into our own hands, there appeared
really to be no reason why we should not have been left indefinitely on
the ridge without rations or orders.
Having seen the men settled down with some hot food, Merchant and I
looked after ourselves. I remember very vividly the excellence of a
mess-tin full of scalding stew which Kessel’s servant procured for
me. During this meal we learnt some of the details of the previous
day’s fighting. Considering the conditions, our two companies had done
uncommonly well at a light cost. Most of the tanks got into action.
The two sections of 21 Company on the left had taken the 51st Division
to its final objective on the Steenbeek, losing one section commander,
one tank commander, and about half a dozen men wounded. Of my section,
attached to 19 Company, the misfortunes of three tanks were known to
us. The fourth, Alden’s, had a happier career. It reached its objective
at Alberta, beyond Kitchener’s Wood, assisted the infantry to capture
this, and then, proceeding onward, passed inadvertently through our
stationary barrage and engaged in a unique duel across the Steenbeek
with a light railway train carrying a small gun, which it drove away.
Alden received the Military Cross for that morning’s work. Meanwhile,
on his right, 19 Company had attacked in two waves up the St Julien
road. Four or five tanks of the second wave got across the half-ruined
bridge and into the village. One, Jordan’s, actually pushed on as far
as Springfield, a fortified farm on the Langemarck-Zonnebeke road, but
the infantry could not follow. This tank, with Maelor Jones’s, alone of
those which crossed the stream, returned to the west bank. The others
were all disabled by artillery fire or ditched. Poor Lynch ran upon a
5.9 howitzer firing as a field-gun over open sights, and he and his
whole crew were killed by a shell which came through the front of the
cab and burst inside. The following year, when I was near Béthune,
I met a chaplain who had seen this tank a couple of months after it
was hit. He had found the skeletons of the crew still lying among the
shattered machinery. This complete destruction of a crew represented
the majority of fatal casualties in the battalion that morning. There
were in addition, in the two companies, four men killed and seven
officers and nineteen men wounded.
Having acquired this information and consumed large quantities of
stew, Merchant and I assembled our crews again and trudged off to
Reigersberg, where a lorry from the camp was due to arrive at six
o’clock. In the dismal château grounds a 15-inch howitzer was now
firing from a railway truck, the 8-inch weapons which had helped to
make the place so unhealthy having moved a mile or so farther forward.
The journey back in the lorry was a slow business, for the roads were
jammed with transport, and it was after eight when we arrived at Lovie
again.
CHAPTER X.
THE “HUSH” OPERATION AND THE COCKCROFT.
I.
The result of the first day’s fighting at Ypres was on the whole
satisfactory. The left of the attack had been quite successful. The
French, Guards, and 51st Division had carried their final objectives,
and the French had even gone beyond theirs. But from St Julien
southwards things had not gone so well. Repeated counter-attacks
during the afternoon and night drove our infantry out of St Julien
itself, and away at Hooge the net result of twenty-four hours’ terrible
fighting was a very small gain indeed. The 2nd and 3rd Tank Brigades,
operating in this southern sector, suffered heavy casualties, although
the average time during which their machines were in action was
comparatively short--five hours in the case of the 2nd Brigade and
seven in that of the 3rd. The same average in G Battalion, the only
representative of the 1st Brigade, worked out at sixteen hours. The
two southern brigades sent in between them 94 fighting and 13 supply,
signalling, and cable-laying tanks--a total of 107. Thirty-three were
disabled by shell-fire, a similar number remained ditched at the end
of the day, and 22 had mechanical breakdowns. This last figure appears
extraordinarily high. Nine officers and 27 men were killed, 29 officers
and 168 men were wounded, and 8 men were reported missing--in all,
241 casualties out of some 800 of all ranks who went into action. In
many cases valuable help was given to the infantry, especially by the
3rd Brigade (C and F Battalions), working with the 19th Corps against
Spree and Bank Farms, Beck House and Capricorn, and Frezenberg. The
2nd Brigade was hampered by the appalling state of the ground in the
Hooge area. Most of its tanks were late in coming up, and the infantry
in the meanwhile having been checked, machine after machine was hit
in the narrow defiles by which they endeavoured to get forward. Our
counter-battery work, thorough as it appeared to be, failed completely
in this region to keep down the German artillery fire. The two tank
battalions, A and B, lost more tanks and men than the other two
brigades together.
Individual tank actions during this day presented, one and all, similar
features, and I shall not consider them here. The machines dragged
themselves laboriously through the mud, became ditched and extricated
themselves, and then probably became ditched again. Crews, while in the
open during unditching operations, were much harassed by machine-gun
fire from low-flying aeroplanes. There were fifty-one recorded cases
in which tanks assisted the infantry. Sixteen of these were credited
to our two companies on the left, and there can be no doubt that G
Battalion, in its first action, carried off such honours as the Heavy
Branch gained in that dismal battle. Whether this performance was
due to the ground in our sector being a trifle less atrocious than
elsewhere (although in all truth it was bad enough), or whether, as one
likes to think, it was due rather to the excellent training and spirit
of the battalion, must remain a matter of personal opinion. It is
certain, however, that our discussions with the infantry beforehand led
to a standard of co-operation in the field which does not seem to have
been reached in other cases. On several occasions the infantry directed
our tanks on to objectives, or called them up from a considerable
distance; for we had brought their officers to understand that the view
from a tank is so restricted that without such help half its value
will be wasted.
‘Weekly Tank Notes,’ a concise history of the corps issued recently
from the Headquarters in London, sets out the main lessons to be
drawn from this day’s fighting, as follows: “The unsuitability of
the Mark IV. tank to swamp warfare; the danger of attempting to move
tanks through defiles which are swept by hostile artillery fire; the
necessity for immediate infantry co-operation whenever the presence of
a tank forces an opening, and the continued moral effect of the tank
on both the enemy and our own troops.” This last was exemplified very
strikingly in the case of one of 21 Company’s tanks, which led the 51st
Division to the Steenbeek, and helped it to establish itself there,
without firing a shot. Successive German posts surrendered as soon as
the tank came within range. As for “swamp warfare,” the unsuitability
for this of an experimental machine weighing thirty tons had been
manifest to every one in the corps itself long before. But to infantry
commanders, regular British officers with the conservative outlook and
the prejudices common to their type, this consideration carried no
weight. They had never liked this newfangled weapon. It was absurd, in
their eyes, to attempt to introduce the tactics of naval warfare on
land, and they seized upon the inevitable failures at Ypres as a happy
confirmation of all their doubts. The three corps commanders concerned
supplied the 5th Army H.Q. with their opinions on the work of tanks
during the battle. Major Williams-Ellis, in his book, deals with this
incident so effectively that I cannot do better than quote him.
“The three summaries were agreed that the courage and
perseverance shown by tank personnel had been admirable. One
corps, however, had given way thoroughly to the spirit of the
time. They practically reported that tanks had been of no
use to any one, and moreover that they were never likely to
be. With the 30th Division they had been unable to deal with
certain machine-gun emplacements; with the 24th they had been
late--they always drew enemy shell-fire; and with the 8th
Division one tank had even lost direction and been reported as
firing on our own men. Another corps had found tanks helpful,
and said all they could for them. Tanks had greatly assisted
the Gordons and Black Watch at Frezenberg; they had dealt
effectively with concrete dug-outs; with the 55th Division they
had broken the wave of an enemy counter-attack at Winnipeg, and
everywhere their moral effect on the enemy had been of great
assistance. Twenty-four tanks had been put out of action by bad
going or shell-fire.
“A third corps, with fewer machines, had in many cases reached
their objective without being held up. The tanks had in these
cases merely followed the infantry, but they reported that
without tanks the capture of the strongly-wired position of
Alberta would have cost the 39th Division dear, and that on
the Steenbeek near Ferdinand Farm the enemy, who had bolted at
the mere sight of a tank, had been ‘dealt with’ at ease with
a machine-gun by infantry of the 51st Division. Upon these
summaries and upon later failures the commander of the 5th Army
was subsequently to base a generally unfavourable report upon
tanks.
“The report may be condensed into a simple syllogism:--
1. Tanks were unable to negotiate bad ground.
2. The ground on a battlefield will always be bad.
3. Therefore tanks are no good on a battlefield.
“He added to this, that being no longer a surprise to the
enemy, he considered that tanks had lost their moral effect,
and had no value used in masses. This report was not officially
presented for some weeks, but the Higher Tank Command must
early have perceived the drift of affairs.”[17]
The prospects of the Tank Corps, in fact, were become suddenly very
gloomy. I cannot say how near the corps came to extinction, or at
least to drastic limitation, at this period; but by all accounts it
came very near. All the prophets of evil were up and about and busy,
saying everywhere, “I told you so!” The labour of three years, the
sacrifice of many lives, seemed likely to come to nothing after all.
A weapon which, properly applied, could alter the whole face of the
war, was in imminent danger of abandonment because it had been used, in
defiance of all authoritative opinion, amid conditions for which it was
wholly unfitted. By a parity of reasoning the cavalry might have been
threatened with abolition; for their patrols were supposed to be at
hand to cross the Steenbeek, and not a trooper got even as far as the
canal. And, when one comes to think of it, a state of mind which can
hope that cavalry will be of any use whatever at such a stage of such
a battle must be capable of the most astounding misjudgments. It was
in this state of mind that too many senior officers, even after three
years of shattering surprises and disillusionment, looked upon tanks or
any other new thing. Faced by so obstinate a prejudice, now fanned into
activity by the events of the 31st July, the position of the new arm
obviously was precarious. It is possible also that the Treasury, always
alarmed by the growth of a very expensive organisation, and encouraged
by the fact that the Tank Corps, unlike the R.A.F., had few friends
and no publicity agents, was backing up any proposals made at home for
economical reform. In short, it looked very like becoming a question
whether the corps would have another chance of justifying itself before
its fate was taken out of its hands. For, in the meantime, at Ypres the
rain still fell, the whole offensive came virtually to a standstill,
and the mere idea of further tank operations in that dissolving world
seemed ludicrous. One such attempt, indeed, was made, and ended as an
inglorious but inevitable fiasco.
Before we come to this, however, and to the surprising success which,
following immediately after, re-endued the Tank Corps with life and
hope, another and unique enterprise falls to be noticed.
II.
The most interesting phase of the third battle of Ypres, as originally
planned, was never fought. This was the landing on the Flanders coast.
Tanks were to have played an important and indeed essential part in the
undertaking.
The landing was designed to take place in the neighbourhood of
Middelkerke, a little _plage_ midway between Nieuport and Ostend.
The sea-front along the whole of this flat coast is protected by a
high concrete wall, on the top of which runs the usual esplanade
and roadway. On the other side of the road are the villas and cafés
and _pensions_ where, in happier days, visitors crowded during the
summer and autumn. The whole esplanade now was all but hidden by
barbed wire, and there was more wire along the beach; batteries were
emplaced at close intervals along the wall; and the ground-floors and
cellars of the lodging-houses were become concrete machine-gun posts.
A landing here presented extraordinary difficulties, but the main
problem before the assailants (assuming that all else went well) was
how to haul field-guns and supplies rapidly over the concrete wall
under fire. Infantry might be got ashore under cover of a smoke-screen
and a bombardment from the sea; but infantry alone, even if it could
capture that fortified esplanade, could not hope to hold it. Guns were
essential, and, if possible, some other factor which would upset the
enemy’s _moral_ and prevent him recovering from the initial surprise.
For this purpose tanks, of all things, were to be employed.
The attacking force consisted of the 1st Division, several batteries of
field-guns and 4.5 howitzers, a company or two of engineers, and nine
Mark IV. tanks. To throw this considerable force ashore three immense
pontoons or barges were constructed, each 700 feet long. These were
taken over to Dunkirk harbour toward the end of July. On the night of
the attack (which, as I have said before, was to follow the capture of
the Passchendaele Ridge, provided that was effected within three or
four days) these barges were to be pushed on to the beach by pairs of
monitors, lashed together, one barge at Middelkerke itself and one on
either side of that place. Each barge carried a brigade of infantry,
several batteries, three tanks, and some motor-lorries. The landing was
to take place just before dawn, covered by a dense smoke and ordinary
bombardment from warships supplied by the Dover Patrol, which was in
charge of the naval side of the enterprise.
The wall itself was a very serious obstacle. It rose to a height of
some thirty feet, sloping up from the beach at an easy angle, but
ending at the top in a vertical coping with a lip or overhang. A
tank, fitted with special shoes on the tracks, could climb the slope
easily enough, but the vertical coping was too high to be surmounted
without additional appliances. To each tank, therefore, was fitted
in front a massive detachable steel ramp, slightly wider than the
machine, supported on lattice-work girders carrying a pair of wheels,
and so constructed that it sloped upward from the inclined part of
the sea-wall to the top of the overhang. When the tank reached the
foot of the incline, the ramp would be lowered by tackle until its
wheels rested on the concrete, pushed up against the coping, and there
detached. The tank could then climb over it on to the esplanade.
Afterwards this highly ingenious contrivance was to be used for the
haulage of guns and motor-lorries over the obstacle, the tanks being
fitted with special cables and attachments for this purpose. Another
clever device was a system of wooden sledges carrying ammunition-boxes,
the sledges being simply jammed on to a rope and hauled up by the
tanks, releasing themselves automatically as they cleared the top of
the overhang. The actual disembarkation from the huge barges to the
beach was effected by strong hinged gangways, which fell over the bows.
The troops detailed for this hazardous attempt were trained very
thoroughly. The infantry, segregated for weeks in a camp near Dunkirk,
practised repeatedly the whole attack with the aid of a concrete model
of a section of the sea-wall. A similar model was built at Merlimont,
where the special tank detachment, commanded by Major the Hon. J. D. Y.
Bingham, and made up of volunteers from the original four battalions,
climbed up and down with their machines, towed up guns and lorries, and
demonstrated conclusively that this essential part of the enterprise
was perfectly feasible. The ramps worked admirably. Major Bingham
informs me that tanks made as many as 200 ascents of the model at
Merlimont.
Had this attack taken place, it would have been profoundly interesting.
Obviously it was an immense gamble. It bore many points of resemblance
to the successful raid at Zeebrugge, with this great difference: it
was intended not as a raid but as a permanent landing. Once troops and
tanks were ashore, it is difficult to see how they could have been got
off again if things went wrong. The great barges would have been blown
to matchwood if they remained on the beach after daybreak, unless an
extensive clearance of the sea-front was effected at the very start.
The roadway above the sea-wall was none too wide, and there were doubts
as to whether the tanks would have room to tow the guns, to say nothing
of the lorries, up the narrow ramps. It was found afterwards that the
lower storeys of the houses across the road were veritable fortresses
of concrete. There were a hundred other obstacles to success which
might arise, such as bad weather, premature discovery, or even a wind
sufficient to dissipate the smoke-screen. And it seems probable that,
well as the secret was kept in England, the Germans had some uncertain
information about it. I believe that the camp near Dunkirk was bombed
with quite exceptional thoroughness. The chances, in short, seem to
have been very greatly against success, and failure would have meant a
ghastly slaughter on the beach and along that narrow esplanade. On the
other hand, whatever the Germans suspected, it does not seem likely
that they possessed any exact information. Some sort of a landing
somewhere on the Flanders coast was always a bogey to them. And after
so prolonged a crying of “Wolf!” the prospects of a genuine surprise,
if one could be effected, were very hopeful. Above all, if the German
machine-gunners, buried in their concrete basements and discouraged by
news of a successful advance at Passchendaele, threatening their whole
coast-line, were to be confronted suddenly with tanks where no rational
human being could expect tanks to be, a widespread panic was possible.
One can imagine these men, deluged with gas and high explosive and
blinded by smoke, peering anxiously out of their loopholes for human
targets, and seeing instead, huge and distorted in the gloom, tanks
which seemed to have arisen from the sea....
But this great experiment was never attempted. By our sanguine
calculations, it was due for the 3rd or 4th of August. It was
admittedly useless, however, to land a force at Middelkerke unless
the armies from Ypres were in a position to do their share of the
work; and at the end of the month, and for many weary weeks after,
the armies from Ypres were still floundering in a morass a bare mile
or two from where they started. Passchendaele and its insignificant
ridge were not ours until November. And with the ruin of its parent
enterprise, the conception of the Flanders landing, the great “Hush”
operation, necessarily came also to nothing. Long before we had even
a footing on the ridge, the amphibious attack had been abandoned.
The infantry dispersed to more normal fields of action, the great
barges lay derelict, like Napoleon’s, in Dunkirk harbour, and the
special tank detachment was disbanded. The scheme remains one of those
unfulfilled but deeply interesting adventures over which any person of
a speculative mind could write pages of inconclusive arguments.
III.
We will return from these cursory surveys of the whole field of
operations to the small world of Oosthoek Wood and the camp by Lovie
Château.
The morning after I rejoined from Frascati, the tank commanders
left in our two companies--eight out of the twenty-three had become
casualties--were interviewed by the brigade commander and his
Intelligence officer, that same Major (then Captain) Williams-Ellis
whose book I have quoted. For the next two or three days most of us
were suffering from the reaction after the strain and fatigue of the
approach-marches and the battle itself. For all tank personnel (and
this applied to every other arm) the fighting at Ypres was by far the
most exhausting and nerve-wracking ordeal undergone throughout the
war. The dreadful conditions of ground and weather, on top of all the
ordinary trials of warfare, brought every one to the limit of endurance
very quickly. The hard labour involved in taking and fighting tanks
anywhere was multiplied tenfold in the Salient; and after a severe
action there, it was a physical impossibility for any crew to go in
again until it had been given a complete rest. On other fronts the same
tanks and men often were fit enough for a renewed march and attack
after a few hours’ sleep. In our case there was now little or nothing
for some of us to do, for the two companies were left for the moment
virtually without tanks. Of the twenty-three which went into action,
one only returned the same day to the neighbourhood of Frascati. Four,
which had received direct hits, were lying in the new No Man’s Land
around St Julien; others, like G 46, were derelict in positions where
salvage work at present was out of the question; and the rest, half
engulfed or mechanically crippled, or both, lay scattered about the
west slope of the Pilkem Ridge. During the next fortnight most of these
nearer machines were brought back to a spot known as Ghent Cottages,
near Brielen, where the battalion had established an advanced base.
In the meantime it rained. The camp at Lovie, its leaky tents immersed
in dripping shrubs and undergrowth, and surrounded by sodden parapets
of sandbags as a protection against the persistent bombing raids, grew
always more evil-smelling, steamy, and unhealthy, and those of us who
had little to do became more melancholy every day. There was a time,
some four days after the battle, when the reaction was at its worst,
and when, personally, I felt I could cut my throat for twopence. An
expedition up the line to retrieve my six Lewis guns from Maelor
Jones’s tank was a diversion, but not a strikingly attractive one. For
once, it is true, it was not raining; I do not know why. We went by
lorry to Salvation Corner, a miserable road-junction near the Dead End
of Ypres, and thence walked once more over the familiar route by Bridge
4, Frascati, and La Brique. At Frascati, under the trees where our
tanks had lain during Y-Z day, 9.2 howitzers were being “assembled”--if
one may use this expression with regard to such imposing weapons. A
few duckboard tracks had been laid over the tumbled waste of mud and
water beyond, by which we proceeded with comparative ease for a part
of the way. I was able for the first time to examine at leisure the
ground over which we had advanced, and it appeared to me to be rather
astonishing that tanks had got over it at all. A good number of dead
were still lying about, among them a whole batch of Highlanders, I
remember, near Hurst Park, and everywhere hung the horrible sweet odour
of decomposing animal matter. Away on the top of the ridge the Germans,
with a curious futile industry, were shelling with heavy metal the big
concrete mebus in front of Kitchener’s Wood.
Our directions for finding the tank were not too explicit, and even so
large an object was easily missed in that distorted wilderness, where
everything was mud-coloured. When at length we discovered it, we found
it had been hit on one track. The guns were lying rusting inside amid
a litter of tools, petrol-tins, and rubbish, and mud was everywhere.
I had intended to go on to G 46, if the situation seemed propitious,
to collect Kessel’s cherished flag and my binoculars, which I had left
somewhere under water, but the auguries were not favourable. The enemy
began to burst heavy black shrapnel overhead. As no one else was within
sight, I concluded that my little party probably was under observation,
and the epidemic of high explosive on the crest appearing to spread at
the same time, we made for home with all the speed of which we were
capable, hampered as we were by half a dozen Lewis guns. Johnstone,
who was not in good health, presently became so ill that I took his
burden from him. It was while I was staggering along under this
double load, gingerly circumnavigating craters and cursing the very
name of the American Colonel who invented the weapons, that I stepped
literally into an inglorious predicament. I tried foolishly to cross a
well-churned artillery track, went into the soft mud up to my knees,
and there stuck, absolutely helpless, with the wretched guns occupying
both my hands and weighing me down, and at the same time totally unable
to move my legs. It required the cautious assistance of most of my
crew, helped by some providential gunners who brought bits of board, to
get me out.
There ensued another week of rain, squalor, and depression at Lovie
Camp. Our doctor was despatching officers and men by twos and threes
to a rest-camp at Wormhoudt, just over the Belgian frontier, and
I managed to get Johnstone away with one of these parties. He was
not over strong, and he had never recovered from the strain of our
thirty-six hours’ vigil on the ridge following on that of driving for
the best part of three successive nights and a part of the fourth day.
Neither of my other drivers had his knowledge or skill, and during the
latter stages of the approach-march, when he should have been resting,
I had been obliged to call upon him. As it happened, he was still at
Wormhoudt when the sudden call came for the Cockcroft operation. In
the meantime the general outlook, from what we could deduce, was not
encouraging. The great offensive, launched with so vast a preparation,
had come to a sudden standstill at the very start. Fighting continued
every day: there were minor attacks and counter-attacks all round the
Salient, and we had blown our way once more into St Julien and into
various other posts captured and then lost again on the 31st; but
in essentials our line remained where it had been on the evening of
that day. Already more than a week had passed since, by the original
time-table, Passchendaele should have fallen, and now it was tacitly
confessed that the whole ambitious plan (persistently described as a
“residue” of something even greater, although before the end almost
every division in the British Army was involved and decimated in it)
had dwindled to a struggle, amid conditions indescribably ghastly,
for that single ridge, which at one time was to have been but the
starting-point for infinitely bigger things. Into this struggle the
Tank Corps was drawn virtually to the last tank and the last man. We
have seen what happened on the 31st, and how hopeless it was, even
then, to expect decisive results from these machines in such a country.
A fortnight later, when the ground was a mere slimy pulp, 20 Company
of G Battalion moved up to take part, if possible, in a second serious
attempt to advance.
This attack was fixed for the 16th August. 20 Company, which had been
in corps reserve on 31st July, had since moved forward to our old park
at Halfway House. On the 13th the twelve tanks started for Frascati.
The ground everywhere was now in so appalling a state that one machine
actually became bellied in Rum Road, a few hundred yards from the
start. As she could not be got out that night, I was detailed on the
following day to take my crew down and see what I could do, while her
own people came back to camp for the short rest. We worked the whole
afternoon, digging round the tank, which was sunk to the sponsons, and
building a small causeway of timber and brick-rubble in front; and when
her crew returned in the evening they were able, with the help of the
unditching beam, to pull her out at once. But if this sort of thing
happened on Rum Road, what would happen in the shelled zone? In fact,
the progress of the company across the old trench systems and up the
slope toward St Julien, during the dark hours of the 14th and 15th, was
one long nightmare of ditching and unditching under shell-fire and gas.
Four only got anywhere near the front line, and at length it was clear
that even these could not arrive in time. When the infantry attacked,
these four were still a mile behind. So far as the 1st Tank Brigade was
concerned, this was the last attempt made to move tanks across country
in the Salient.
The infantry assault was, in results, very similar to that of the
31st. The left, where Langemarck was carried by eight o’clock in the
morning, was successful, but from St Julien southwards little or
no progress was made. In this part of the field we had now come up
against the main system of fortified farms and other strong field forts
already mentioned. A cluster of these forts, just beyond St Julien,
checked every attempt to debouch from the village up the Poelcapelle
road; and until they could be carried no further general advance was
possible, as our line now bulged out into an awkward little salient
in the north. General Maxse, commanding the 18th Corps, was told
that an attack on these forts would cost him 600 to 1000 casualties,
without any guarantee that we should capture them in the end. The
Lieutenant-General, who had more faith in tanks than some of his
colleagues, for they had served him well on the 31st, consulted with
the Brigadier of the 1st Tank Brigade. The position of the forts,
disposed about a triangle of roads, was such that tanks could get close
to them, and in some cases absolutely alongside, without necessarily
venturing into the slough of mud on either side of the _pavé_. Details
of the operation were accordingly hurriedly worked out. One company
of tanks was to be used, and G Battalion, straitened for machines
as it was, once more was called upon. This, at least, was a notable
compliment, for D Battalion, one of the old originals, as it never
failed to remind us by word and behaviour, had not yet been into action
at all.
IV.
About midday on 17th August, Kessel, I, and several others were
standing together in the marquee which served us for a company mess at
Lovie, drinking the usual sherry and bitters, or something of the kind,
before lunch. To us entered Paisley, second in command of the company.
He held a sheet of paper, from which he proceeded to read. “The
following officers will take over tanks this afternoon, fill up with
petrol, oil, and ammunition, and be prepared to move at six o’clock.”
The officers named were Coutts, Claughton, Chaddock, Bubb, and myself.
It transpired further that four tanks from 20 Company, and three from
19 also were to move: that we were to trek that night to Bellevue, on
the old German front line, and again the night following to St Julien;
and that we were going into action on the morning of the 19th. The
charge of this composite detachment had been given to Major Broome, who
had just arrived from the depot at Erin to replace Torbett, invalided
home, in command of my own company. There were to be three section
commanders, Kessel, Guy of 20 Company, and Wright of 19.
Sudden orders of this kind, when one has been contemplating a quiet
afternoon with a book, are always somewhat disturbing. There ensued
now the inevitable bustle, for there was no time to lose, as we were
leaving by lorry at 1.30. My first task was to make up my crew. I
had lost one man on the 31st, and now Johnstone was away; and it was
essential to get a good first driver in place of the latter. I went
immediately to find Sergeant Meyrick, the section sergeant (already
mentioned as Merchant’s N.C.O.), and told him what I wanted. He
volunteered on the spot to come himself as an ordinary gunner under
my own corporal. Meyrick was, I think, one of those rare people who
positively enjoy a battle, and, what was more valuable, he was a
peculiarly intelligent and competent regular soldier, who had come
out with his battery in the original Expeditionary Force. For a
first driver he recommended Waller, of his own crew, who volunteered
as promptly. I was extremely fortunate in obtaining these two men.
Leaving Meyrick and Corporal Mitchell to arrange about rations and
other details, I reported, with the rest of the tank commanders, to
the Major for further instructions. The first thing to be settled was
the allotment of tanks to one or two of us who had none. My own, of
course, was still lying by Kitchener’s Wood; but by this time some
six or eight of the others had been got back to Ghent Cottages, where
they were parked under a hedge in various stages of unreadiness or
actual disrepair. We could just about manage to provide five dependable
machines. John Alden being away at the Wormhoudt rest-camp, I was told
to take over his tank, G 47, or “Gitana,” my second eponym from the
variety stage. The general idea and tactics of the proposed attack
were then discussed. At this time our outpost line just skirted St
Julien on the north and east. A thousand yards beyond the village two
important roads cross one another--the St Julien-Poelcapelle road,
pointing almost due north at this point, and the Zonnebeke-Langemarck
road, running north-west. A triangle, of which these thoroughfares
form two sides, has for its base a third road, running eastward from
St Julien and cutting the Langemarck road at Winnipeg. A fourth road,
whose direction is also roughly east and west, bisects the triangle
250 yards from its apex. Around the sides, or within this symmetrical
boundary, lay all, save two, of our objectives. Of the two exceptions,
one, called the Maison du Hibou, was situate west of the triangle,
and some 300 yards along the fourth or bisecting road; the other, the
Cockcroft, was due north of this, a quarter of a mile from the apex
up the Langemarck road. In the original scheme, four tanks were to
devote themselves to these two objectives, while the remaining eight
moved in line ahead along the roads right round the triangle, dealing
with the other strong-points as they passed, and beginning and ending
at St Julien. Very unfortunately, as it turned out, this plan was
afterwards modified considerably, for what reason I do not know. The
eastern side and base of the triangle were left for another day. Our
work was confined to the two outlying forts, the Poelcapelle road, and
a couple of farms at the apex. It was, in any case, an entirely novel
operation in every respect, much resembling a naval action where a
squadron of ships passes by and reduces a line of batteries. The tanks,
if possible, were to keep strictly to the roads, as the neighbouring
ground, watered by one or two small tributaries of the Steenbeek, was
now reduced by rain and shell-fire to a swamp notable even in the
Salient. The infantry was to follow on either side of the roads, one
platoon to each tank 250 yards behind it, and was not to attempt to
occupy the objectives until the tanks signalled that all was clear, or
that they wanted help. The signal in either case was a shovel waved out
of the manhole in the roof. There was to be no artillery preparation:
the affair was intended as a genuine surprise; but at zero, which was
4.45 or dawn, an ordinary creeping barrage would come down, together
with a heavy smoke barrage on the German third-line trenches, which
lay behind the posts to be attacked. This was devised to blind the
enemy’s observation of what was happening. A large number of extra
field batteries were brought up to supply this smoke-screen, much to
the disgust of the weary gunners who manned them, and who had just gone
back to rest. The infantry concerned were the 48th and 11th Divisions,
the former a Midland unit. Our own arrangements for the attack and the
particular objectives allotted to tanks will be better left until I
come to deal with the Divisional conference held on the 18th, when we
were told of the modification already referred to, and when all final
details were decided.
Having obtained this rough outline of the scheme, we ate a hasty and
uninspiring lunch; collected such articles as we thought we might
require; were loaded in addition with maps, periscopes, compasses, and
clocks; and departed by lorry at 1.30. Very fortunately the weather
was fine, and remained so, by some miracle, over the next two days. On
arriving at Ghent Cottages--a row of melancholy ruins on the Brielen
road--I found that I had a great deal of work to get through in a
very short time. G 47 having suffered from some mechanical trouble,
it had taken Alden and his crew several days and nights to repair her
temporarily and drive her back from Mousetrap Farm, where he had left
her on the 31st, to her present quarters. Since then she had been in
the hands of our workshops personnel. Although very dirty, she appeared
now to be in good order mechanically, but she had to be greased up and
filled with water, oil, and petrol. She was short of about a hundred
Lewis drums (Alden must have used a fair amount of ammunition in
capturing Alberta and engaging the German train), and many tools and
spare parts were missing. This last calamity we considered, perhaps
unjustly, to be inevitable when workshops had been about. I raided
a supply-tank and replaced most of the deficiencies, while my crew
cleared up inside, greased the rollers and stauffers, and cleaned the
six Lewis guns we had brought with us from store. We had time for tea,
and were ready to start when the first tank moved off just after six
o’clock. I should have mentioned that there were only eleven fit tanks
at Ghent Cottages. Our twelfth machine--a doubtful starter belonging
to 19 Company--was on the other side of the canal, where she had lain
since the 31st with a twisted extension-shaft and badly ditched into
the bargain. To such an impoverished state had the Salient already
reduced us!
The first stage of the night’s journey was a short one. As we did not
wish to cross the canal before dusk, we pulled up before seven o’clock
at Murat Farm, close to Marengo Causeway. I never saw any vestige of a
farm at this place; but there was a row of tall splintered trees hung
with camouflage netting, a few muddy enclosures bounded by overgrown
hedgerows, and the usual squalid dug-outs and elephant-iron shelters.
Behind one of the hedges was a 9.2 naval gun on a railway mounting. The
brigade had formed a petrol dump here, and we took in a final supply of
the spirit. Although we had come such a short distance the water in my
radiator was boiling furiously, and for some time we could not discover
the cause, until, with the help of Paramor, the engineer of 20 Company,
who was ministering to the detachment, we found that the workshops
people had unscrewed a large baffle-plate from one side of the copper
envelopes and omitted to replace it. The plate was lying on the floor
beneath an accumulation of oil-drums and water-tins. We readjusted this
by 7.30, when the eleven tanks moved off again.
We now began one of the most wearisome and maddening treks I have ever
undertaken with tanks. At first everything went well. The evening
was fine: the German artillery was inoffensive, although our own was
very noisy and persistent; and we crossed the causeway and the bad
ground beyond without a hitch, for there was still light to see by.
We passed 19 Company’s ditched tank, still immobile and plainly in no
condition to attempt even to catch us up later. It was just getting
dark when we swung out of the wire and shell-holes on to Boundary
Road, with the trees of Frascati to our left. Boundary Road, as I
have mentioned in the last chapter, eventually crosses the old front
lines, passes the north end of Kitchener’s Wood, and then descends to
the Steenbeek. Our route now followed it as far as our old acquaintance
Hammond’s Corner, and thence by Buffs Road to the main St Julien
highway. Both Buffs and Boundary Roads, presumably having been (at a
prehistoric era) ordinary country lanes, had gone utterly to pieces
under the impact of high explosive, and long stretches of them since
our advance had been timbered. A tank on a timbered road can do a great
deal of damage, especially if the driver is inexpert and swings too
often. During this trek I had the misfortune to meet the R.E. officer
responsible for the upkeep of Buffs Road at the moment when G 47 was
swinging unavoidably round a bend, and when, to the accompaniment of
loud rending and crashing noises, all the beautifully laid and clamped
baulks of timber on our off or turning side were opening upward and
outward like a fan. It was not my fault, as I hope he realised after
a period of reflection. At the moment his language and despairing
gestures seemed fully adequate to the situation, and I was too much
occupied with my own troubles to spare much sympathy for his. For long
before this we had begun to experience some of the vicissitudes which
attend the movement of tanks by road at night anywhere near the front
line. Our first encounter after getting on to Boundary Road was with
one of our own machines on its way home, in charge of a young officer,
Wayne, who had joined the battalion only the day before. To acclimatise
him without delay, Wayne had been detailed immediately to bring in
this tank from some unhealthy spot near St Julien, where it had been
lying in the mud undergoing repairs since the last battle. By this
time it was growing dark rapidly, and we now began to encounter the
mules. I have never seen so many mules as we met that night. I did not
know there were so many in the world, or that any modern quadruped
could be so stupid. We had collided, of course, with the usual nightly
ammunition trains, going up loaded to the forward battery positions and
returning empty. Even a mule could not travel at night across country
in the Salient, and there were only three or four roads for all this
vast traffic. Buffs Road and its continuations rearward formed one of
the most important lines of supply. It was well choked with opposing
streams of mules and limbers, when into it turned our eleven tanks.
The result, I hope, can be imagined: it was something beyond the power
of polite language to describe. The night fell intensely black; one
could see only a hundred yards or so ahead, and the world seemed to be
full of mules. My tank was one of the last, so that the beasts were
thoroughly disorganised by the time I reached them or they reached me.
The latter state of affairs seemed the more normal of the two, for I
was forced to stop continually for five or ten minutes at a time while
limbers or pack-mules were pulled and pushed and cajoled past G 47.
Occasionally there would supervene a thoroughly satisfactory block,
when the road in front was filled from edge to edge, and, as far
ahead as one could see (which was not far), by a seemingly insoluble
congestion of animals and transport--the former heading to every point
of the compass, some standing rooted as if stricken with paralysis,
some bucking and kicking, some deliberately getting entangled in their
own and others’ harness, and a number wandering casually off into
the mud on either side. I was sorry for their drivers, who must have
had a perfectly abominable evening, but I was still more sorry for
myself. I soon lost touch with the tanks in front. They were swallowed
up in the nightmare ahead, wrestling with their own problems. I was
expecting every minute the whistle of a shell, and I shall never
understand why the German gunners, who were very prodigal of ammunition
at that time, and who possessed, in the 5.9, the most accurate of
created guns, did not devote themselves every night and all night
to such arteries as the St Julien road. They would have found it far
more profitable than the blind “area” shooting to which they were
so addicted. I am speaking, of course, in the judicial spirit that
comes with comfortable surroundings where 5.9’s are not. There were
nights and to spare when the Germans did shell the roads and turned
them into shambles, and I shall be the last to complain because they
omitted to do so that evening. Wedged for hours amid the stream of
demoralised animals, the expectancy was bad enough. We were infinitely
fortunate that it was not realised. For our progress up that road was
in itself like some fiendish torture invented for animal haters by the
S.P.C.A. Hour after hour went by, the night grew blacker and blacker,
dawn, even, was drawing near, and still we were embedded in mules.
Under the circumstances, no better obstacle to tanks could have been
devised. We were entirely helpless. We could not drive over the mules,
if only because they were controlled, in theory, by human beings,
who (when they were not falling off) were blaspheming and raving in
their saddles. We could not drive round them, because in the dark we
did not dare to leave the road. We could only wait their pleasure.
Like ships struggling against a violent current, we forged slowly,
very slowly, ahead. I do not wish to appear to be exaggerating, and a
trivial arithmetical computation will prove in a few lines what has
taken me several pages to explain in words. From the point where we
turned on to Boundary Road to our destination at Bellevue is roughly
a mile and a half: it is actually 2500 yards. (I have just measured
it on a large-scale map with a simple but ingenious instrument like
a speedometer.) Judging by the light, it cannot have been later than
8.30 P.M. when I struck the road. When I turned off the road again at
Bellevue, it was two o’clock in the morning. It had taken me five and a
half hours to cover those 2500 yards--on a road. With no obstructions,
the tank could have done it in thirty minutes.
If I have written flippantly about this journey, it did not strike
me as being in the least amusing at the time. I walked outside, of
course, throughout, and nothing is in itself more fatiguing than
this sort of enforced crawl with frequent stoppages. Added to it was
a consuming anxiety about shells and other things peculiar to an
approach-march. Waller, who drove most of the way, must have been even
wearier than I was. I do not remember how I discovered Bellevue, which
was nothing but a name on the map, but I think I overtook the tank
in front, thanks to some unexpected hiatus in the torrent of mules.
Kessel was there, however, to guide me to a vacant space behind an
exiguous hedge. The place struck me as being extraordinarily noisy. We
were, in fact, surrounded by field batteries, all of which were very
busily in action. The gun-flashes supplied our only illumination, and
this was insufficient, as I discovered when I had fallen three times
into a cesspool under the nose of my tank while helping to rig up the
camouflage net. After this we lighted primus stoves, brewed ourselves
some cocoa, wound up with a tot of rum, and then crawled inside with
an optimistic notion of obtaining a little sleep. It was just on three
o’clock.
CHAPTER XI.
THE COCKCROFT (_continued_).
I.
Very few of us contrived to sleep before dawn. The 18-pounder, for its
size, makes the most ear-splitting report of any gun, and there were
batteries so near to us that their fire, which never ceased, kept the
tanks in a continual state of vibration. The only pillow available
for most of us was made of armour-plate, studded with bolt-heads, and
now being hit by these concussions as if by millions of muffled but
infuriated hammers. Under these circumstances any sort of rest was out
of the question. Toward dawn, however, the bombardment slackened. I
had just begun thankfully to doze when I was aroused again by some one
shouting my name. It turned out to be the Major, who very thoughtfully
had walked across at that unconscionable hour from Company H.Q.
(established overnight on the canal bank) to take some of us back for a
wash, a rest, and a meal before we attended a Divisional conference at
midday. It was now just after five, and a bright sunny morning. When I
joined the Major outside the tank, I obtained my first daylight view of
our quarters, which were much as one might have expected. I do not know
the cynic who named the spot Bellevue, but no doubt he had his reasons.
It was the site, apparently, of a small farm--a building, at least,
was marked on the map, although long since invisible to the naked eye;
and it was happily situated in the original No Man’s Land, close to
the German front line, the remains of whose first trench, California,
bounded this desirable property to the east. For the rest, there was a
square of bedraggled hedge, entirely imaginary in places, behind parts
of which the tanks, like so many ostriches, believed themselves to be
concealed: the usual ground surface of mud, wire, and shell-holes; and
in one corner a patch of unmitigated bog where a pond had been. Buffs
Road, lined by sand-bagged shelters and dead mules, and now void of any
sign of life, passed by the north side toward its junction with the
main St Julien road at California Reserve. Beyond it, and to the east
and south-east, rose the curve of the ridge, while behind us were the
stump of wall at Hill Top Farm, the trees of Frascati, and the higher
branches of the shattered avenue along the canal. The whole landscape,
if intrinsically depressing, was very peaceful at that moment. No one
seemed to be discharging any sort of lethal weapon anywhere.
It appeared that 19 and 20 Companies had made their own arrangements
with their officers in the detachment, and only four of us, therefore,
accompanied the Major back to headquarters. Bubb was left in charge of
our tanks. As the Major was in excellent condition, and had not been
up all night, we had an exhausting walk across country at the rate
of about five miles an hour. Before six o’clock we arrived at that
singular colony of sand-bagged dwellings which had grown up in regular
terraces along the inner face of the eastern bank of the canal. The
address of the two shelters appropriated to our use, if I remember
correctly, was 9 and 10 Gordon Terrace. They commanded no view, except
(across a two-foot duckboard walk) of the back of a similar terrace on
a lower level, and their accommodation was limited. They were, in fact,
the familiar structures of curved elephant iron, about eight feet high
in the centre and perhaps twice as long, half the length being dug out
of the canal bank, and the front part surmounted by a towering mass
of sandbags. There were a couple of wire-beds and a table or two in
each, and everywhere there were flies. One of these tenements was given
over to our signallers, runners, and other details. Into its fellow we
crowded as thankfully as if it had been the Ritz, and sat about on the
beds and floor while kindly people brought us tea and bacon and bread.
Kessel was there, and with him his invaluable servant, Taylor, who
always seemed to have a hot drink ready at the psychological moment.
We passed the morning at Gordon Terrace, washing, shaving, and behaving
generally like gentlemen of leisure, worried only by the malignant
flies and the telephone, which conspired successfully to rob us of
what we needed most--two or three hours’ sleep. Shortly before midday,
Claughton, Chaddock, and I left with the Major for the conference at
the 48th Divisional Headquarters. Coutts was working by himself with
the 33rd Brigade of the 11th Division, and had already gone off to
hunt for his Brigadier, who was living in some remote dug-out east of
the canal. Our destination was nearer at hand. There runs side by side
with the canal north of Ypres a sluggish stream called, I think, the
Yperlee. Overhanging this, there had been built into the western canal
bank a series of dug-outs and shelters similar to those on the east
side, and divisional headquarters occupied a quite commodious suite in
this part, with a railed balcony projecting over the stream. Here were
a great number of immaculate persons wearing red tabs; and scattered
humbly among them, like poor relations, a few more workmanlike figures
in steel helmets and privates’ tunics--the officers of the two infantry
battalions which, with ourselves, were going to do the fighting.
At these conferences one is always kept waiting, the delay usually
being in strict ratio to the presiding General’s dignity; and on this
occasion it was nearly one o’clock before any of the actual performers
were called upon. We spent the interval profitably in becoming
acquainted with our infantry colleagues. I discovered the platoon
commander of the 7th Warwicks who was to follow the fortunes of G 47.
The Major was then summoned to consultation with the infantry battalion
commanders, and we continued to stand patiently about and wonder when
we were going to get any lunch. At length the conference was over: it
appeared that none of us, except the Major, had been wanted at all; and
we trooped thankfully back to Gordon Terrace, where we found Merchant
and some other faithful souls who had come all the way from Lovie to
bring us our letters and wish us luck.
The Divisional conference, all natural misgivings notwithstanding, had
at least accomplished something: the scope and details of the attack
were agreed upon--for how long of course no one could prophesy. The
operation had been modified, as I have explained, until it took in only
the western side of the triangle of roads. It was limited, that is, to
the Poelcapelle road itself, the apex, and the two formidable works to
the west and north-west of the latter. Nine tanks were to go in, the
other two remaining in reserve at Bellevue. Tanks were detailed for
objectives as follows, and were to move in this order:--
Coutts, with Willard of 19 Company, for the Cockcroft, the most distant
fort to be attacked (it was a mile north of St Julien). Charles Baker
and Kane of 20 Company, for Maison du Hibou; Morgan and Close of 20
Company, for Triangle Farm and Vancouver, at the apex; Claughton of 21
Company, for Hillock Farm, at the side of the Poelcapelle road, 400
yards south of Triangle Farm; myself for a row of fortified gun-pits
lying almost opposite Hillock Farm, but well off the road, toward the
middle of the triangle. Chaddock, with the ninth tank, was to follow me
and make himself useful where possible. We were to cross the Steenbeek,
not by the ruined bridge at St Julien, but at a point 100 yards to the
left, where the engineers that night were going to lay fascines in
the bed of the stream. As this necessitated our leaving the road for
a short distance, rejoining it in the village itself, Guy and Kessel
were detailed to tape the crossing after dark. Our battle headquarters
would be established before zero at Cheddar Villa, a large concrete
mebus by the roadside on the crest of the ridge, from where a good view
was obtained over the whole area of the attack.
It was unfortunate that there were only two male tanks in the
detachment--Willard’s and Baker’s. Six-pounder guns are of great
service against these field forts, especially if the tank can get round
to the rear of the latter, where the concrete is always weaker and
where the entrance is situated. This weakness is intentional, as it
facilitates a lost post’s recapture with the aid of field-guns, whose
shells penetrate the thin rear wall. As the Cockcroft was believed
to be the most formidable of the St Julien forts, Willard with his
6-pounder was detailed to assist Coutts’s female machine, but in the
event Willard did not get into action. His tank was not running well,
and from the first it was thought likely that Coutts might have to
tackle the Cockcroft single-handed. Chaddock therefore, if required,
and if he could pass the other tanks in front of him on the road, was
to push on to Coutts’s help. The Maison du Hibou, almost as powerful as
the Cockcroft, was allotted for the same tactical reasons to Baker’s
remaining male tank, assisted by Kane.
Coutts returned from his interview with the 33rd Brigade while we were
having lunch at Gordon Terrace. He was not in the best of spirits,
as he had been impressed unfavourably by what he had seen of the
infantry who were to work with him. As it fell out, his misgivings were
justified. About this time Brown, the assistant Reconnaissance Officer
of 21 Company, arrived with some aeroplane photographs and additional
maps; and a little later Colonel Hankey and the Adjutant appeared with
the battalion R.O., Hatton Hall.
We spent the afternoon lounging about near the dug-out, a dreary
interval of waiting without any genuine rest. A slight shower fell,
but toward evening the weather cleared again and gave promise of a
fine night. At eight o’clock the four of us started to walk back to
our tanks by way of Buffs Road. Evening was always the most melancholy
time in the Salient: the colours and mists of sunset serve only to
emphasise the utter ruin of the country. At that hour no one was
moving, for industry above ground began only with the dark. The road
wound on deserted in front of us, and on either side were only mud,
sandbags, dead animals, and skeleton trees. Even the guns were silent.
Impressed as we were with the unpleasant possibilities of the morning’s
battle, we compared reflections of a generally pessimistic tone as we
tramped through the twilight, while the wilderness about us awoke to
its nocturnal life; and looking back upon it, that walk appears as
one of the least exhilarating I can recall. We had some excuse for
dubiety, especially Coutts, who had the most difficult task of all and
who mistrusted the people who were to support him. The whole operation
before us confessedly was another gamble, of a novel and more than
ordinarily hazardous nature so far as tanks were concerned. It had
been an axiom in the corps, until the latter was plunged into liquid
mud at Ypres, that in action tanks should avoid roads like the plague,
for obvious reasons. In the present case, the field forts themselves
did not worry us an atom; but if everything went wrong--if the smoke
barrage failed or if the enemy by any means suspected in time what
was happening--then our tanks, strung out along a highroad which they
dared not leave, on which it was doubtful if two could pass each other,
and which the German batteries on the next rise knew to a yard, stood
every chance of being blown to pieces in a few minutes. Although as it
happened our attack proved a complete surprise, and was successful in
all essential details, those of us who remained on the road to the end
escaped damage or destruction very narrowly; and subsequent operations
on similar lines were mostly disastrous failures. And during that
evening walk we could not foresee events--we could only imagine them.
[Illustration: _The Cockcroft, Aug. 19, 1917._]
II.
It was quite dark when we arrived back at Bellevue. Already some of the
batteries in our neighbourhood had begun their night firing, and all
round the Salient the cold white flares and Very lights were rising and
glowing and fading once more. The tank crews had passed a peaceful day,
sleeping during the morning and completing their battle preparations
in the afternoon. They had been visited by the Chaplain, who brought
them letters, newspapers, and cigarettes. He also held a Communion
service before he left, a proceeding which provoked the Major to a
characteristic utterance. “That’s the worst of these _specialists_,” he
remarked a day or two later, “they’re always butting in where they’ve
no business to be!”[18] The Chaplain, in fact, had the temerity to wish
to be of some real use on these occasions. He had accompanied the tanks
of 20 Company on their dismal fiasco a few days before, and had done
admirable work preparing food and hot drinks under shell-fire for crews
whose machines were ditched, winding up by assisting to bring home a
tank whose officer had been gassed. He was given the Military Cross for
his work that day.
I found there was little, or nothing, for me to do before the time
came for us to start. Meyrick and Corporal Mitchell had thought of
everything, and G 47 was as ready to go into action as she ever
was likely to be. The pigeons, even, had arrived, and our pair was
stowed away in their basket beneath my seat in close proximity to
the left-hand track-oiler, a conjunction which they seemed to find
beneficial. I explained to my crew exactly what was required of us,
but tactically our part in the affair was so simple that very little
discussion was necessary. It merely resolved itself into a question
of going up a road and, with a percentage of luck, coming down it
again. In these final conferences one does not enlarge upon unpleasant
contingencies. We examined the map and photographs inside the tank by
the light of an electric torch, and then after the inevitable ritual of
bully, cocoa, and rum, disposed ourselves for sleep, if such was to be
had. We had still two hours and a half before we need be disturbed.
The tanks were to be formed up in the road, in their fighting order,
by 1 A.M. Guy and Kessel having gone on to tape the crossing over the
Steenbeek, Wright was in charge of this stage of the proceedings. I
must have fallen asleep, notwithstanding the noisy batteries and my
vibrating steel pillow, because I remember him waking me prematurely to
ask me some question which, at the time, I considered superfluous. I
did not get to sleep again. At 12.30 I roused the crew, and we started
the engine. Soon after this, Coutts and Willard, the leading pair, were
moving on to the road, and before one o’clock all the nine tanks were
lined up, their engines ticking over almost silently, ready to start.
We were away on the stroke of one, with three hours and three-quarters
before us in which to get to St Julien, a distance by the road of
only 2500 yards, or less than a mile and a half. The whole trek,
however, was to be taken very slowly, and the latter part, from Cheddar
Villa onward, must be covered at a mere crawl, for then we should be
descending the reverse slope of the ridge without any covering noise
except the normal night firing from our field batteries. It may be
as well to correct here any misapprehension that shall have arisen
from all this talk about ridges and valleys. These terms have only a
relative significance, and the reader who is so fortunate as to know
nothing of the Salient must not picture us climbing and descending
a range of hills like the Pennines, or even like the Chilterns. It
is necessary, however humiliating, to confess that the famous Pilkem
Ridge, at the highest point attained by the St Julien road, rises no
more than 81 feet above sea-level. The valley of the Steenbeek is only
some 40 feet lower. In the country of the blind, however, the one-eyed
man is king; and a geographical excrescence negligible anywhere else
becomes a prominent feature in Flanders. The Steenbeek valley is
a genuine depression, led down to by a level slope over a mile in
length, and it carries sound as well as any similar if more pronounced
depression elsewhere. Once we began to descend, moreover, we were
without any direct cover from view, for the night, although dark, was
starlit and free from mist, and a few sparks from the exhaust of a tank
would have been clearly visible from the German posts on the rising
ground beyond the stream. Hence the various precautions entailed in our
approach over this portion of the route. Not only must we crawl, but
for tank commanders who, like myself, were walking outside, cigarettes
even (one’s chief comfort during an approach-march) very properly were
forbidden.
Before we had been long on the road an irritating delay ensued,
due to trouble in Willard’s tank. The gases from his exhaust were
escaping through the breathers in the engine casing, and threatening
to asphyxiate the crew. This fault having been remedied for the
time being, we proceeded for some way without further incident, and
presently topped the crest and began our cautious descent. The fall of
the ground was so gentle that one might hardly have observed it but
for other material evidence, unmistakable even in the darkness, that
we were on a forward and not on a reverse slope. Up the western face
of the ridge the road was clear of all obstructions. Such objects as
dead mules and shattered limbers were pushed to one side. But once over
the crest one began to encounter dead animals lying in the roadway,
and also other shapeless forms that were not those of animals--in
the common usage of the term. No one moved about on the road on this
side during daylight, or lingered at night to clear anything away
but the wounded; and as in the darkness some of these remains were
indistinguishable until too late from the black mud on which they lay,
while others, when seen in time, could not be avoided, one could only
hope that no single spark of life still flickered anywhere among them.
For after nine tanks had passed over them....
The sky being cloudless, the night, dark as it was, had not the same
impenetrable quality as that of the 31st July, when I had last taken
a tank down toward the German lines. I could imagine now at times
that I could see a little mist over the Steenbeek below us, and even
the vague outline of the farther ridge; and presently, when far away
in the German rear a fire broke out, a short strip of skyline in the
direction of Langemarck was clearly visible against the glow. In
reality, however, one saw virtually nothing but the stumps of trees
on either side, the faint shine of water in ruts and pools on the
roadway, and the darker shadow of the tank in front. After a while
came another halt, due to further trouble in Willard’s machine. In our
exposed position, any experiments with the exhaust were impossible, and
he had to proceed eventually as best he could, with everything flung
open to admit fresh air. The next event I remember was the appearance
on the right of the road of a clump of ruined buildings--presumably
Vanheule Farm. Away to the left the trees in front of Juliet Farm were
just visible. Vanheule was only some 600 yards from the crest, but
this distance seemed to have taken us hours. The time, in fact, was
2.30. And at this point the first really unpleasant interruption of
our march occurred, with the whine and crash of a shell which burst
somewhere behind the farm. Several more followed in our neighbourhood,
and somehow it was additionally disturbing to perceive the flashes of
the guns that were firing, apparently not so very far away. If we could
see these flashes, one could not help the illogical suspicion that the
gunners could see us. In any case, I decided I should be more happy
inside the tank, as shell fragments have a way of travelling unexpected
distances. I scrambled in accordingly, hoping devoutly that this sudden
activity was a mere caprice, having no connection with our presence on
the road. Once inside I could hear nothing, but I believe this shelling
was a spasmodic burst directed vaguely at some suspected target near
Vanheule Farm. We were not troubled again during the rest of our
journey.
Owing to our deliberate pace and the several delays in the front of the
column, most of the tanks had little time to spare, after all. Coutts,
unhampered, pushed on well ahead, and was in St Julien a quarter of
an hour before zero, at which time the rest of us were crossing, or
waiting to cross, the Steenbeek. This stream, when I arrived at it,
presented in the growing light (for dawn was just about to break) so
forbidding a spectacle that I got hurriedly out of the tank to lead
the way across myself. At one time an insignificant trickle of water
a couple of yards wide at the most, but enclosed between banks 6 to 8
feet high, the pounding of our own barrage, followed during the past
three weeks by that of the Germans, had multiplied its difficulties
tenfold. There was little water to be seen now, only a sort of boggy
surface, several yards across, beneath which the fascines laid that
night by the engineers had already disappeared completely under the
weight of the leading tanks. Some of these tanks were now climbing a
perfect precipice of mud on the opposite side, the black nose of one
pointing almost vertically upward against the rapidly brightening sky
in the east. Two, however, out of the seven in front of me, had not got
so far. Close to my left was Willard’s unfortunate machine, apparently
ditched. Behind this was a second tank, which I discovered afterwards
to be Kane’s. He had missed the tape, or attempted to find a crossing
for himself, and was ditched hopelessly in consequence. I had little
time for investigation, however, for I was pounced on immediately
by Guy, who was waiting there to see all the tanks across--a most
unattractive duty, as the German barrage always fell on the stream.
He abused me roundly for being outside, pointed out the way, and then
pushed me in again. The fascines, it appeared, were there, although
invisible, and we crossed the stream and mounted the farther bank
without difficulty. A final climb over the debris of a house, and we
were in the main street of St Julien on the stroke of zero. I did
not even pause there. As we swung left-handed on the brick-littered
_pavé_ and saw the tail of Claughton’s tank, with its large-painted
number, G 44, moving forward a few yards in front, the yellow sky
beyond was dotted suddenly with shrapnel bursts, a dense cloud of white
smoke billowed upward from the far end of the village, and almost
simultaneously there soared above this the red and green rockets from
the startled German forts.
III.
I find that my memory plays me curious tricks on, or after, occasions
of this kind. I gained a distinct impression, for example, that I moved
down a street whose houses, although battered, were for the most part
standing to a considerable height. It appears, however, that there was
nothing standing in St Julien at all. The place was merely a series of
rubbish-heaps. On the other hand, I remember with unnecessary accuracy
certain objects lying amid the reddish brick-rubble and dust which
covered the muddy road--a dead German soldier on his face, two of our
own infantrymen, also dead (and not recently, to judge by appearances),
a neat roll of wire-netting, half an iron bedstead, a decapitated
mule, and, several yards distant, the mule’s head. I do not know why I
should have noted these particular items among the assorted domestic,
military, and human debris which littered the street. St Julien had
been systematically destroyed only within the last few weeks. Before
that, being hidden from direct observation (unlike St Jean, its
equivalent on our side), probably it was in fair preservation and in
use for billeting troops on their way into or out of the line. I have
an idea that there were a number of fragmentary articles of furniture
lying about, perhaps dragged from the cellars to make hasty obstacles
during the recent fighting in the place. It is curious how often such
trumpery things survive the effects of a bombardment. You will see a
house dissolved into its elements, and, amid the wreckage, some old
bird-cage or an almost perfect chair.
The dawn seemed to have broken into full day with startling rapidity.
The morning was bright and cloudless, and one other feature I somehow
found time to notice and even to enjoy--the extreme brilliance of the
yellow-green sky, streaked with green and crimson rockets, above the
cloud of the smoke barrage in front. The smoke, however, was rising
fast and drifting back down the street. A smoke-shell, falling short,
burst in front of the tank, blinding us so completely that we nearly
ran into Claughton’s machine; and from that moment until I was in St
Julien again on my way home I was never able to see more than a few
hundred yards in any direction. There was no wind, and the smoke lay
heavily in the best way possible for our purpose.
Through the village the going for tanks was good, as the greasy road
was coated with brick-rubble and there were no pitfalls on either side.
But once beyond the last ruins our troubles began. The Poelcapelle
road is, or was, a characteristic, straight, continental highway,
rising very gently uphill from St Julien, lined by fine trees, provided
with a deep ditch on both sides, and paved in the middle. It had been
shelled now very heavily for over a month by one army or the other, or
both at once; and its condition was this. The central strip of _pavé_
had withstood the shell-fire moderately well, but was badly broken in
places by jagged holes. It was covered by a thick greasy scum, and as
it was cambered, careful driving was needed if one wished to avoid
slipping off. And to avoid this was essential, for the macadamised
portions on either side had, for all practical purposes, vanished. They
were blown away and merged in the ditches, forming deep gulfs a yard
or two wide, out of which the stouter _pavé_ stood up like a causeway.
Of the double line of trees, half were down, and a large proportion of
these victims lay across the road at all angles. Beyond the trees the
country was quite impassable for tanks, and on the east side of the
road, where my objective lay, was simply a swamp. A small tributary
of the Steenbeek rose near my gun-pits, and since its bed had been
destroyed by the shelling, its waters had welled up and spread over a
wide area of ground from St Julien to Triangle Farm. This inundation
was shown clearly on aeroplane photographs, and it put out of the
question any attempt on my part, had I wished to make one, to leave the
road. My only course of action was to remain on the _pavé_ and engage
the strong-point across the intervening 150 yards of quagmire.
We had to get there first, however, and this was a delicate matter.
As we emerged from the village I saw Claughton’s tank, 50 yards
ahead, surmounting the first fallen tree. A big tree is an unpleasant
impediment to a tank, as it is impossible to balance on the rounded
trunk, and one comes down inevitably on the other side with a jarring
crash. On the Poelcapelle road these trees became a dangerous obstacle,
because in crashing down over them, with the nose of the tank falling
from a great height and the whole thing entirely out of the driver’s
control, the machine was very likely to slip straight off the greasy
_pavé_, which was none too wide, into one of the gulfs on either side.
(This happened eventually, I believe, to Morgan’s tank when he was
trying to draw closer to Triangle Farm.) There also was a danger of
breaking a track-plate on the stones. The angle at which the trees
could best be taken, lying as they did in all directions, required to
be judged, and when this was done they might move suddenly under the
tracks and precipitate a crash at the wrong moment. Negligible, in
short, as they would have been on a good road, in the circumstances
they caused us all a great deal of anxiety. Everything depended on the
drivers; and the fact that all seven tanks reached at least the close
vicinity of their objectives was a distinct feather in the cap of
every one of these admirable men. Waller drove G 47 over a succession
of trees without a semblance of trouble. Everything loose inside, of
course, including the crew, fell helplessly about each time we crashed;
but this was a part of the ordinary day’s work. The pigeons, as I
have remarked before, bore this repeated experience, which must have
seemed to them like a series of earthquakes, with as much equanimity as
anybody, although their basket usually was dislodged and upset.
All this time I was peering out for some sign of my gun-pits. The
smoke was still very dense, and visibility a matter of a couple of
hundred yards. G 44 sometimes faded to a mere blur in front. The
first recognisable feature I saw was a wide sheet of water to the
right of the road, which I took correctly to mark the actual course
of the flooded stream. Immediately after, my right-hand pair of
gunners, Sergeant Meyrick and Carter, opened fire. It appeared that
they had sighted not only the gun-pits but also some figures moving
out from them carrying a machine-gun. I could still see nothing from
the flap in front, but on craning over Waller’s head and opening a
revolver loophole on that side of the cab, I discovered at once a row
of high mounds, looking enormous through the smoke, about 150 yards
from the road. It had been obvious from an inspection of aeroplane
photographs that these pits had been constructed for heavy guns, but
I had not expected to find them so conspicuous. Further investigation
was curtailed rather summarily by a rapid “tat-tat-tat-tat” upon
the side of the cab, indicating two things: (_a_) that some one in
or near the gun-pits was firing at us with a machine-gun; and (_b_)
that if he could see, and was aiming at, my revolver loophole, he was
making remarkably good shooting, and must be blessed with far better
eyesight than I could claim. It is true that by this time the German
machine-gunner knew all about tanks, while we must have presented a
fairly clear-cut target. I closed the loophole instantly, and telling
Waller to hold G 47 in her present position, broadside on to the
strong-point, proceeded to fish about in the locker for our periscopes.
It is impossible to see anything on a flank through the front flaps,
nor, if one can use them, is it advisable to do so under machine-gun
fire. We carried six periscopes, drawn in a hurry from store before
we left camp. It was only when I had pushed all six through the hole
in the roof, and had failed utterly to see anything through any one of
them, that I remembered that we had lashed our camouflage net on top of
the cab. Normally the net is carried on the spud-box in the rear, but
it is then very apt to be shaken on to the red-hot exhaust-pipe, when
it catches fire. I had a horror of fires on a tank, and was determined
on this occasion to put the net in some safer place, forgetting that I
might want to use the periscopes.
During this time Meyrick and Carter had continued to fire busily, and
there was a periodic clatter of emptied Lewis drums on the floor. The
tattoo on the cab having ceased, I resorted again to the revolver port.
There was not a sign of life about the gun-pits, but so long as the
smoke continued to hang over the ground they might have concealed a
battalion of infantry for all we could see. My gunners, in addition to
claiming the destruction of the party seen to run out in the beginning,
asserted that their fire was hotly returned; and the lead splashes on G
47’s exposed flank proved that there was some truth in this contention;
but my belief is that the garrison of the pits abandoned them after the
first few minutes--a fact which, if true, in no sense detracts from
the spirit and general excellence of our performance. And as we had no
means of telling what had happened, we could only continue firing until
the situation (and the light) became clearer. After a while I moved the
tank a short distance up the road, with the slight hope that I might
find a patch of ground firm enough to justify our attempting to get to
closer quarters; but between us and the enigmatic gun-pits the swamp
lay everywhere.
In all, this curious duel lasted for about a quarter of an hour.
While it proceeded I could see Claughton’s tank, a little way ahead,
motionless alongside the ruins of Hillock Farm, which abutted on to
the road. His guns appeared to be firing point-blank through what was
left of the windows. Beyond him was nothing but smoke, in which the
leading tanks were swallowed up. While I watched G 44, and while my
own two guns were still in theory dealing out death and destruction
to the gun-pits, I saw Claughton’s shovel, that grotesque symbol,
waved triumphantly out of his manhole. Hillock Farm, presumably, had
fallen. Out of my left-hand loophole an extended line of infantry was
visible crawling forward with extreme care through the mud beside the
road--evidently Claughton’s supporting platoon moving up to take over
the farm. And very shortly after this, welcome portents became manifest
about my gun-pits. A great plume of smoke and mud shot suddenly upward
beside them, and then a second plume, and a third. Others followed,
appearing in some cases to rise out of the mounds themselves. The
Germans were shelling their lost property (and with remarkable
accuracy, as it must still have been invisible to the gunners), a
fact which could be taken as evidence that it definitely was lost,
for if any of the garrison remained there, they would not give much
trouble while they were being bombarded by their friends. I indicated
the “cease fire” by the usual method of thumping my nearest gunner on
the back, and then clamoured loudly for the shovel. The Germans were
only shelling the pits at the moment, but there was no knowing in what
direction they might not extend their activities; and as the smoke
cloud was thinning palpably, I did not wish to remain stationary on the
road longer than was necessary. I had a rooted dislike to stationary
tanks in action.
We waved our shovel and peered out of every opening for signs of our
following infantry. Failing to detect them, I told Waller to swing the
tank round, in order that I could get a better view backward, and also
be in a position to start for home. Although I had definite orders to
return the moment my objective was secured, I had thought of pushing
on to help Coutts in his single-handed attempt on the Cockcroft, but a
glance at the _pavé_ negatived this idea. It was too narrow to permit
of my passing Claughton’s tank, now also in the act of swinging
round. For the same reason, Chaddock, who had a roving commission,
and who wished to go on to Coutts’s help, could not pass G 47. There
was nothing for it, therefore, but to return as soon as the infantry
were in the gun-pits. The business of swinging on the narrow greasy
camber of the _pavé_ was not easy, but Waller accomplished it with his
usual skill, and I found myself presently facing Chaddock’s tank and
waving to him out of my flap. He was about twenty yards behind me, and
his guns also had been firing at the gun-pits. A line of infantry was
now visible close at hand, the men crouching in a sort of drain which
ran outward from the road. I beckoned to the nearest man, who was
kneeling behind a fragment of wall by the roadside, and on his running
cautiously to the front of the tank I learnt that these people were the
second wave of my supports. The leading platoon had moved on to the
gun-pits. Our work, therefore, was done. Chaddock, in his turn, was
edging carefully round on the _pavé_ to start for home; Claughton was
close astern of me; and in a few minutes the three tanks were making
for St Julien again at their best speed. None of us knew what had
happened to the other four in front.
The time was 5.45, the sun was up, the smoke and dust about the village
had vanished away, and as we crashed once more over the fallen trees,
I could see to the left, between St Julien and Winnipeg, two of 19
Company’s disabled tanks lying where they had been hit on the 31st of
July. At this time, although I did not know it, the German batteries
had at last turned their guns upon the road. Possibly we were now in
sight as we jolted down it. Three or four shells burst clean on the
_pavé_, between G 44 and my own tank, so that Claughton thought we had
been hit, but we heard nothing of this until after. It appears to have
been a narrow escape for both of us. In the street of St Julien we
were able to push on at top speed, until I remembered that I had not
despatched the necessary pigeon-message. We slowed up while I wrote
it, thus letting in Claughton, who passed us at a great pace. I have
in front of me now my copy of Army Book 418 A, containing the carbon
duplicate of that historic document. It is all but illegible. Having
released the bird, we put on speed again and made for the Steenbeek
crossing.
That unpleasant spot appeared less formidable in daylight, but it was
to provide us with a final nerve-wracking incident before we finished
with it. As we mounted the ruined house again and looked down upon
the muddy gulf below, it was congested with tanks. Willard, with his
asphyxiating box of tricks, was still in much the same position as
when I had passed him before zero--hours ago, as it seemed now. He
had contrived, however, to unditch himself partially, and crawl a few
yards forward, so that he almost blocked the narrow crossing. Close
beside him was G 44, clawing its way precariously round. Behind was
Kane’s tank, still in its old place, while Chaddock, who had got across
in safety, was close to Kane. I had begun to descend toward this
congregation before I realised that it was going to be very difficult
to get past Willard. The passage where lay the buried fascines was
only just broad enough to take a tank, and on either side was the
bog which represented the true bed of the Steenbeek. We slid down
the bank rather more rapidly than I intended, and brought up nose to
nose against Willard’s tank. We tried to swing, and failed. We tried
to reverse, and failed again. It was a repetition of our experience
at Kitchener’s Wood. We were sunk too deep in mud to permit of any
movement but a forward one, which was rendered impossible by the tank
in front. External measures were necessary, and I led the way outside.
It was then that I discovered that the village behind us, and also the
Steenbeek itself, were being shelled heavily. We had stopped, in fact,
on the line of the German counter-barrage, which fell automatically
along the stream, particular attention being paid to the neighbourhood
of St Julien. This was an unfortunate circumstance, and I do not
think any of us can ever have worked harder, or more apprehensively,
than we did in the course of the next twenty minutes. Chaddock and
Claughton by this time had got clear of the imbroglio, although the
former, deciding for some reason not to return to the road, got himself
ditched hopelessly farther on. Willard and some of his crew appeared
from his tank and asked for assistance in starting up the engine.
They all seemed rather dazed and helpless, from the poisonous exhaust
fumes, as I supposed; and finding them still standing about in the
open after I had sent two of my men to help, I pointed out to Willard
that they would be very much safer inside, fumes or no fumes. Heavy
shells were exploding about us much closer and more frequently than was
pleasant, and fragments flew whining overhead continually. Twice we
were deluged with brick-rubble from the remains of a house on the bank
above. Presently Deakin was hit in the back by a flying piece of brick,
which knocked him down; but as it struck a buckle of his equipment, it
did him no harm. All this time we were labouring feverishly, digging
away the mud piled against one side of the tank, as it prevented her
swinging, collecting bits of timber, boughs of trees, bricks, and
other rubbish, to form a holding-surface beneath her, clamping on the
unditching beam, and removing the camouflage net from the cab, where
it interfered with the beam’s action. These varied pursuits took up a
considerable amount of time, as any one who has engaged in them will
believe, and we were interrupted periodically and impelled to shelter
against the tank by the sudden rush and explosion of some more imminent
shell. Altogether, this job must have taken us nearly half an hour,
for a premature attempt to swing G 47 failed, and we had to back her
again and continue our work. At length we had prepared what seemed an
adequate base for her manœuvre, and I pushed most of the crew inside
again and beckoned to Waller to come on. As the heavy unditching
beam fell over the nose and jammed beneath the tracks against our
rubbish-heap, and the tank climbed over it until she was almost on the
point of balance, I signalled to him to swing. She came round, to my
intense relief, dragging the beam with her, and cleared the nose of
Willard’s machine. All was now plain sailing. Three of us unclamped the
beam as it came up, like Caliban, filthy and dripping, over the tracks
behind, and made it fast; and the tank climbed easily over the mud
slope toward the road. I could do nothing to help Willard or Kane. The
former, indeed, as his engine was running again, could effect his own
salvation now that I was out of the way. I scrambled up the slippery
slope after G 47, and hoisted myself on board as she increased speed on
the level ground between the Steenbeek and the road.
IV.
The remainder of our return journey went without a hitch. No shells
were falling west of St Julien, and we rolled along the deserted
road at a good pace and at peace with all men. We had that sense of
exhilaration (rare in the Tank Corps at Ypres) that follows after the
successful achievement of a task, however small. As we neared the top
of the ridge, Meyrick and I got outside again and looked back over
the valley, but we could see nothing of interest. Our own artillery
was still busy, as was the enemy’s, and a haze of smoke hid all the
farther end of the triangle and the ground beyond. There was no
sign of any of the other tanks. As we passed Cheddar Villa, Kessel
ran out to congratulate us and hear our news. He was without any
detailed information himself, beyond the fact, conveyed by telephone,
that the whole operation had been a remarkable success. He and the
other watchers at Cheddar Villa had seen through their glasses the
German troops abandoning their third-line trenches (which nobody
had approached), and streaming away over the farther crest. A little
later we passed Bellevue, and found it deserted, the two reserve
tanks having been ordered to return. From the battery positions in
this region, gunner officers came out to inquire anxiously about the
efficacy of their smoke barrage. Being able to assure them, from ocular
evidence, that it had been little short of blinding, I became extremely
popular, and was dragged off to the nearest dug-out for a very welcome
whisky-and-soda.
Farther down, in Buffs Road, we met with one or two delays. Traffic
was on the move here, and my radiator started to boil again. Somewhere
about this time we came across Chaddock, carrying a Lewis gun and
helping one of his crew, who had been hit by a shrapnel bullet in
the leg. His tank, it appeared, was ditched near Juliet Farm. I took
the wounded man and the gun on board, and deposited the former at a
dressing station lower down the road. Owing to these and other brief
stoppages, it must have been nearly 10.30 when we drew near to the
canal. I halted the tank by Marengo Causeway while I went to report at
Gordon Terrace. At our headquarters I found the Colonel and Adjutant
with the Major, all in a very Christian frame of mind and full of
felicitations, messages having arrived from both infantry and tanks
reporting the capture of all objectives at a ridiculously low cost. The
infantry casualties, up to the date of the last message, totalled a
dozen wounded. I was beginning to realise by now that between us we had
accomplished something rather exceptional that morning. It transpired,
however, that our four leading tanks were ditched, and no further news
had come through as to the fortunes or whereabouts of their people.
I was told to proceed with G 47 to Murat Farm, where a fresh crew would
take over the tank. I rejoined the latter, and we began the last stage
of our journey. All my men were thoroughly exhausted, and Waller in
particular, as he had been driving for seven or eight hours. But in
view of my experiences during the latter part of our homeward trek
from St Julien, where my second and third drivers had been in charge
alternately, I felt obliged to ask him to complete the run. (It was a
misfortune that at Ypres there were no facilities for driving practice
for second and third drivers. Tanks hardly moved except when going
into action. The first drivers usually were highly skilled men, but
between them and the others there often was a great gulf fixed, which
we had no opportunity of reducing by a little regular training.) I
took the brakes, and with poor Waller almost falling asleep in his
seat, we crossed the causeway and parked up eventually under a hedge
at Murat Farm just after midday. One minor _contretemps_ rounded off
the performance. We proceeded as a matter of routine to camouflage the
tank. The little canvas tags sewn profusely over a camouflage net are
dyed in some highly inflammable green paint, the cause of innumerable
fires. Our engine having been running continually for twelve hours, the
whole machine was like an oven, and the exhaust-pipe on the roof all
but red-hot; and the net instantly caught alight. We had to use every
pyrene extinguisher we carried to keep the flames under before we had
pushed the last smouldering fragments over the side. I was standing
on the roof stamping out a few stray embers and blaspheming about war
in general to Allerton, of 20 Company, who had just appeared, when my
nerves received a final shock. The 9.2 naval gun on the other side of
the hedge, whose existence I had forgotten, fired with a frightful
detonation and nearly threw me off the tank.
Our tribulations were now, however, at an end. It is true that I missed
the lorry which took my crew back to Lovie; but after waiting for
some time at Essex Corner, on the main road beside the canal, for any
vehicle which would take me on my way, I was picked up by Major Fernie
in his car and arrived at the camp, fast asleep, at tea-time.
V.
Leaving for the next chapter a consideration of the causes which gave
to the Cockcroft operation a significance out of all proportion to its
scope, I will describe briefly the general result and the fortunes of
the other tanks. The accounts hitherto published are inaccurate.
Coutts, who gave the “star turn” of the performance, was reduced as
we have seen to tackling the Cockcroft itself single-handed with a
female tank. This fort was an extremely powerful and massive affair
of concrete, erected in the ruins of some farm buildings. It held a
garrison of something like 100 men, with a number of machine-guns,
and was further protected by wire and outlying posts. The concrete of
the walls and roof would keep out any projectile below a 9.2 howitzer
shell, being in places eight feet thick. A formidable stronghold
of this nature bears as little resemblance to the ordinary light
“pill-box,” containing half a dozen men, as does a first-class fortress
to a semi-permanent redoubt, and if held by a determined garrison in
combination with similar forts, could check a large force indefinitely,
as indeed the Cockcroft and its fellows had conclusively demonstrated.
A 6-pounder tank, provided it could place itself against the weak rear
face of such a fort, might compel its surrender; but a female tank,
moral effect apart, was in fact as helpless against it as a platoon of
infantry, although less vulnerable itself. Nevertheless, when Coutts,
by leaving the road, managed to get within 50 yards of the Cockcroft
before becoming ditched, the large garrison abandoned it after a brief
defence. As an instance of a tank’s moral effect this was the more
remarkable in that the infantry of the 33rd Brigade, confirming all the
tank commander’s previous misgivings, failed signally in their duty
of supporting him. No attention was paid to his signals announcing
the evacuation of the fort. His sergeant was sent with a message to
the same effect, but still the infantry did not come on. Eventually
Coutts himself went back under machine-gun fire and through the German
barrage, found the officer commanding the supporting battalion, and
urged him to send his men forward: after which a move was at length
made and the Cockcroft occupied, with no more than two or three light
casualties. Coutts and his crew, after failing to extricate the tank,
formed Lewis-gun posts at the request of the infantry, and only
returned in the late afternoon.
The Maison du Hibou was scarcely less formidable than the Cockcroft,
and consisted of two storeys of solid concrete, garrisoned by about
sixty men. It was attacked by Charles Baker with the only remaining
6-pounder tank. The fort stood some way off the road, in the middle of
a perfect morass; but Baker, finding he could effect little from the
_pavé_, plunged into the mud and was able to crawl round to the rear
before, like Coutts, he also became bogged. One 6-pounder, however,
now bore on the entrance of the Maison du Hibou at short range. Thirty
or forty rounds were fired into the door. Most of the garrison came
running out, and thirty were shot down or captured by the infantry of
the 48th Division, who followed up in excellent style. The tank being
immovable, Baker formed Lewis-gun posts with the infantry until the
afternoon. One of his men was killed.
Morgan and Close, engaging Triangle Farm and Vancouver at the
cross-roads in the apex, met with a good deal of trouble. Morgan’s
tank proved to have defective plating, and the German armour-piercing
bullets filled the interior with flying splinters. With his help,
however, the infantry got into Triangle Farm, which was not so
powerfully constructed as some of the other forts, and shot or
bayoneted the garrison, who had been resisting stoutly. Morgan then
attempted to go to Baker’s assistance, but became ditched through
slipping off the greasy road. He was in a position to fire into the
back of the Maison du Hibou, and his Lewis guns accounted for a number
of the escaping garrison of that place. Having unditched his tank
after a while, he returned to St Julien by midday.
Close had a variety of adventures, including that of being taken
prisoner for a time. His tank also was permanently ditched somewhere
near Vancouver, but its influence seems to have been responsible for
the abandonment of the strong-point. Close himself did not appear again
until the next day.
Claughton, whose tank I had watched, had no trouble with Hillock Farm,
whose garrison fled the moment he ranged up alongside and opened fire.
My own experiences with the gun-pits I have already described at
unpardonable length. I may add that my two right-hand guns fired 1200
rounds between them, but I never heard evidence as to what damage, if
any, they effected.
All the four leading tanks came under excessively heavy machine-gun
fire from posts outside the strong-points. Morgan’s machine, which
was the only one we had the opportunity of examining, had large areas
of its armour plastered a whitish-grey with lead splashes, and the
armour-piercing bullets were driven almost through the defective
plates. He and his crew suffered a number of tiny wounds in their faces
and hands from steel splinters. These counted as casualties, and made
up more than half of our very trifling list, which totalled two men
killed and one officer and ten men wounded. The infantry casualties,
however, were even more remarkable for their insignificance. The two
Warwick battalions (of the 48th Division) which were working with every
tank except Coutts’s, followed up in an admirable manner throughout;
yet the whole operation, in which the equivalent of a brigade took
part, which resulted in the capture within ninety minutes of six
formidable strong-points and a gain of 600 yards of ground on a mile
front, and in which the enemy must have lost several hundred men
killed, wounded, and prisoners, together with some fifty machine-guns,
was carried out at a cost to the infantry engaged of fifteen men
wounded!
CHAPTER XII.
FROM THE COCKCROFT TO CAMBRAI.
I.
It is no exaggeration to say that even those of us who had played the
most modest part on the 19th August awoke the following morning to find
ourselves famous--at least in the not inconsiderable world controlled
by the 5th Army. The astonishment and interest evoked by this single
little action were a measure of the perplexities confronting the Higher
Command in the Salient. In any series of operations the casualty list
may become a governing feature, as it must always be an important one.
There are limits to the price which may be paid for any gain, and there
are limits to what any troops will stand. The most highly-trained
infantry, save in exceptional circumstances, cannot be expected to
maintain their offensive spirit after sustaining a succession of
crippling losses for no very apparent result. In mid-August our
casualties at Ypres had not approached the frightful total they were
to reach before the end, nor perhaps were they as high proportionately
as in October or November; but they were becoming very serious, if
only because to the subordinate ranks, who were suffering them, they
seemed to lead nowhere and promise no cessation. One murderous attack
against wire and concrete, if it gained a little ground, meant only
increased misery for those who were left, followed, the next day or
the next week, by another murderous attack against more wire and more
concrete. One had only to look at the faces of infantry going into
the line before an assault, or even for ordinary trench duties, to
realise how the strain was telling. At this time our most precious
assets, the journalists, after walking through a cavalry camp thirty
miles behind the front or watching a brigade in rest going out with its
bands for a route-march, were writing to their newspapers about the
cheery faces of our fighting men, the grim delight they took in shells
and slaughter, and the pusillanimity and general idiocy of the enemy.
A phrase which appeared in some journal (it referred to Cambrai, but
will serve in this digression) was bandied about our camp for a long
time, as being characteristically imbecile. The writer, speaking of
a unit which had received sudden orders to move, remarked that “the
men hurried from the baths, fearing that they might miss the fight!”
For weeks after, any one seen moving hurriedly was accused of fearing
to miss the fight. This sort of rubbish may conceivably have served
some useful purpose in England; but it made extraordinary reading
in Flanders, where, after only a few weeks, there was growing upon
every one the feeling that this offensive, with its peculiar horrors
due to weather and terrain, was becoming another and more dreadful
Somme, remorseless and everlasting. And if the Higher Command still
cherished brighter hopes, they cannot have contemplated the future
without anxiety. They must have realised that Von Armin, or whoever was
responsible for the interminable series of pill-boxes and concreted
farms, had devised a method of defence which in such a country, and in
combination with the barriers that our own artillery was augmenting
daily, deserved at least as much credit for our discomfiture as that
convenient public scapegoat, the rain. Without any rain at all, there
would still have remained the problem of how to surmount quagmires
and reinforced concrete bristling with machine-guns. And then had
come what seemed a sudden and quite startling gleam of light. Here
was a group of these pestilent fortifications which had held the 18th
Corps in check for three weeks. Attempts to get near them, even,
had resulted in sanguinary repulses. A serious attack on them, it
was estimated (and it may be noted that such estimates usually are
conservative), would cost from 600 to 1000 casualties, and would be
a doubtful speculation at that. And this was only the beginning--a
little preliminary clearing away. There was the untouched German third
line beyond, and behind that again more forts.... But now, in an hour
and a half, all these initial bogies had tumbled down like ninepins,
at the ridiculous cost of fifteen wounded infantrymen and a few Tank
Corps personnel. To men habitually dealing in returns and states and
figures of every kind, arithmetic makes the most potent appeal. The
grander the scale, the more they are swayed by it. It represents, at
least to their minds, a concrete fact from which there is no escape.
They cannot fail to understand it. It is inevitable in an army that
plain figures must often be the solvent of a doubtful point. A thousand
men are always a thousand men. Here, then, was a simple comparison
of numbers which must have been very startling to some of the staffs
concerned. Here was a plain statement: in the one column an estimate
of 600 to 1000, in the other the actual expenditure--15. Generals and
G.S.O.’s who knew nothing about tanks, who never had attempted to
comprehend their tactics, but who had seen them lying bogged in scores
about the Salient, must have felt that a miracle had happened. It was
unfortunate that some of them, still wider from the mark, mistook it
for a conjuring trick, which could be repeated indefinitely.
I have laboured this point because the Cockcroft action, insignificant
in itself and forgotten long ago, did actually at the time arouse
remarkable interest in the Army as a whole, and because it affected
permanently the future of the Tank Corps. It was by far the most
complete success achieved by tanks up to that time. It proved
conclusively their potentialities as economisers of life--a point upon
which their advocates had been insisting from the beginning. It was a
striking example of their moral effect. And because it was all this,
it helped undoubtedly (although to what exact degree I cannot say) to
determine the whole future of the corps, then hanging in the balance.
Dozens and scores of tanks were thrown away in the Salient after the
Cockcroft with no adequate return for the sacrifice, but there was no
more overt talk of abolition or even of reduction. It was not a mere
coincidence that on 6th October an actual programme of expansion to
18 battalions, already rejected in June, was confidently put forward
again. It was approved in a hurry immediately after Cambrai in
November; and indirectly the Cockcroft led to Cambrai.
II.
While the first glad rapture lasted, G Battalion basked in a rare blaze
of popularity. To any one of a cynical turn of mind--and I think that
prolonged experience of the Army induces that spirit in most people of
moderate acumen--the days immediately following the action must have
provided much quiet amusement. The very morning after, while those
of us who had been the innocent actors in the scene were making up
for lost time in bed, the camp was thronged with exalted visitors. A
deluge of congratulatory telegrams descended upon the Colonel. Most
significant of all, perhaps, Mr Beach Thomas, of the ‘Daily Mail,’ felt
impelled to leave the seclusion of the Ternoise Valley to gather copy
among our tents at Lovie. The actors, however, all being in bed when he
arrived, he was captured very fortunately by 19 Company, who immured
him in their mess until he had to leave. Their only representative in
the caste, through no fault of his own, had never got into action at
all; but this fact was no bar to their imaginations, and they supplied
the journalist with what must have been a very highly-coloured version
of the facts. The result, to our great joy, appeared a few days
later in the ‘Times’ and the ‘Daily Mail,’ in an account of a most
extraordinary and Homeric conflict in which the inevitable “leviathans”
figured prominently, but in which, oddly enough, those of us who had
been there were unable to recognise a single detail.
The most gratifying tribute came in the form of a Special Order by the
18th Corps commander, General Maxse, addressed to G Battalion, in which
he thanked all ranks for their efforts, and frankly attributed the
success his corps had attained at such a trifling cost entirely to the
tanks. I regret having lost the copy I made of this letter, which was
quite exceptional in form and substance. Hardly had we digested these
unusual compliments when it was intimated that the Army commander,
General Gough, wished to see some of the officers and men who had
been in action on the 19th. Five of us, therefore, paraded with our
crews the following morning near the old tank park in Oosthoek Wood.
A curious but characteristic incident marked this ceremony. Coutts,
with his crew fallen in behind him, was on the right of our little
line: I was next to him. As the General approached, his Staff quite
obviously shepherded him past Coutts and diverted him on to me. With
his first question I realised the reason for this manœuvre. He asked
me if the infantry had supported me properly. I was able to testify,
quite honestly, that they had; and Morgan, Close, and Baker, who were
the other three present, could give equally satisfactory answers. Some
rumour must have reached the Staff about the trouble at the Cockcroft,
and Coutts, who might have made damaging revelations, was given no
opportunity to speak. It was a little thing, but instructive.
As a final result of the action, so far as we were concerned, Coutts,
Baker, and Morgan received an immediate award of the Military Cross.
In the meantime an attempt had been made to repeat our success, on the
principle of the conjuring trick. Of the strong-points in front of
the 18th Corps there still remained intact those along the eastern
side of the triangle, the Zonnebeke-Langemarck road. There can be
little doubt that we could have accounted for these places on the
19th, especially if the two reserve tanks had been brought in. The
Germans were then completely surprised, in ignorance of what actually
was happening (on account of the very effective smoke barrage), and,
for the time being, thoroughly demoralised. They were even running
from their third-line trenches, as has been recorded. If the original
plan of attack had been allowed to stand, there was nothing, barring
accidents, to prevent Claughton, Chaddock, and me, with the reserve
tanks, from pushing on from Hillock Farm and the gun-pits right round
the triangle, and capturing also Springfield, Winnipeg, and the other
forts near them--all of which lay on the road. The task, however, had
been left unfinished; and on the 22nd a company of D Battalion, with
the necessary infantry, went in to complete it. The attack was designed
on the lines of our operation. At the same time tanks from the 2nd and
3rd Brigades advanced with the 2nd and 19th Corps on the right against
similar forts and subsidiary works on their fronts. The result was
not very encouraging. The Germans this time were wide awake, and the
stratagems which had proved so successful in effecting a surprise on
the 19th could hardly be expected to deceive again so soon after. In
some cases also where tanks reached their objectives, the infantry was
unable to follow. On the right, part of Glencorse Wood was carried with
the help of four tanks. On the 19th Corps front, where even the roads
had been almost wholly blown away, the tanks of the 3rd Brigade could
do little and the infantry less. One very remarkable feat, however,
was accomplished by a tank of F Battalion. This machine, on board of
which was the section commander, Richardson, was detailed to attack a
field-fort called Gallipoli, south-east of St Julien. The infantry were
to follow behind in the now accepted fashion. They did not follow; and
the tank became ditched in what virtually was No Man’s Land, although
the phrase had lost some of its definite connotation in the fighting
for these isolated forts. The tank was so far ahead of our line, in
fact, that it was believed to be captured, and a steady fire was
opened and maintained on it from rifles and machine-guns. The Germans,
of course, were firing on it from the other side. The tank commander
was wounded almost at once, and Richardson took command. This was on
the morning of the 22nd. The situation continued the same throughout
the day, the crew being unable to evacuate the tank owing to the fire
from our lines. At the same time they were able with their own guns to
break up several German counter-attacks which were gathering behind
Gallipoli. At night-time the Germans closed on the tank, and eventually
brought a machine-gun to within a few yards, and even climbed on the
roof. Our own people, imagining the tank to have been converted into
a hostile strong-point, continued to fire briskly in its direction.
It was still holding out the next morning, however, and continued to
defend itself during the day--the 23rd. Signals to our own line were
attempted, but produced no result. A second night supervened, and
again the Germans closed in with machine-guns and grenades, but failed
entirely to subdue the defence. These attacks, in fact, caused them
considerable losses. But when day broke on the 24th, the situation
inside the tank was becoming serious. One man had been killed, every
other member of the crew except Richardson himself was wounded,
and food and ammunition were running short. The condition in that
restricted space, with one dead man and several badly wounded lying
among the others’ feet in blood and oil, must have been appalling. Yet
for another whole day the tank held out under the double fire. Any
attempt to signal to our people was made dangerous by their misdirected
zeal, and was never understood. This could not continue. At any risk
the infantry must be made to realise the true state of affairs; and
after dark a man contrived to crawl back to our front line under a
constant fire from both sides. The situation was now made clear to
our troops, and their fire ceased. Richardson was able to evacuate all
his wounded men without mishap. The tank had been held for seventy-two
hours under these extraordinary circumstances, had killed or wounded a
great number of the enemy, and had disorganised at the outset several
budding counter-attacks--a feat without parallel, and one which
well merited the special complimentary order issued from Tank Corps
Headquarters. Richardson received the D.S.O., and the tank commander
the M.C.
Returning to the operations on the 22nd, we find D Battalion’s tanks
moving up by our old route through St Julien. The road was no longer
as quiet, however, as it had been four days earlier. On the night of
the 20th, in particular, it was shelled heavily, and four of the tanks
were hit and disabled during the approach-march. Four of ours from
Ghent Cottages, being the nearest reserve, were sent up to replace
the casualties and handed over to D Battalion crews. The action which
followed was moderately successful, Winnipeg and Springfield being
carried; but the losses in infantry and tank personnel were heavy,
and a large proportion of the tanks were ditched and abandoned. In
all the attacks on the 22nd, every tank which left the roads became
instantly bellied, some sinking into four or six feet of water. Out of
thirty-four machines employed on the three corps’ fronts, eighteen were
lost from this cause and six were hit by shell-fire.
It will be unnecessary to describe in any detail the further operations
in the Salient in which tanks took part. They provide the same dreary
experiences, were almost uniformly unsuccessful, and possess no novel
tactical features for consideration. They should never have been
attempted. By this time E Battalion had come out from England and
joined the 1st Brigade, having its camp at Lovie and its tanks in
Oosthoek Wood, and before long it also was flung into the hopeless
struggle with the elements. After a series of minor affairs on 23rd,
26th, and 27th August, in which a few tanks of the 2nd Brigade were
involved and inevitably lost, without accomplishing anything at all,
a pause lasting for nearly a month ensued in the general operations.
We were still in front of the original German third line, and guns
had somehow to be got forward and arrangements completed for another
formal assault. The weather improved in September, but this made
little difference to the state of the ground, which was broken up by
shell-fire as fast as it attempted to dry. The attack took place on
20th September, extending from the extreme right of the Salient (where
the 2nd Army had now taken over a part of the 5th Army front) to the
north of Langemarck. Tanks were to operate as on 31st July, following
up the infantry to deal with the fortified farms along the second and
third objectives. This was a reversion to the old bad manner, and in
the event was almost a complete failure, although the tanks endeavoured
to keep to the roads. Four machines sent in by the 2nd Brigade went to
swell the crowd of derelicts in the quagmire by the Menin road, known
as the “tanks’ cemetery.” Of nineteen tanks from E Battalion, thirteen
were ditched and four hit; while only three out of fifteen from D ever
got near the fight at all. The Germans had grasped very quickly some
of the lessons of this road fighting, and trees had been felled across
the roads in such a position as to offer the greatest obstruction to
tanks. On the night of the 22nd-23rd, D and E Battalions tried to get
one tank apiece into action by dawn and failed. A further attempt on
the 26th met with the same fate. In the meantime the infantry attack
had succeeded to the extent that our line was advanced everywhere to
an average depth of 1000 yards, and minor operations on the 18th Corps
front during the last days of the month brought us to the outskirts
of Poelcapelle. On October 4th this village was captured. By heroic
exertions some tanks of D Battalion were at last able to render
substantial help, forcing the surrender of Gloucester and Terrier Farms
and entering Poelcapelle itself with the infantry. On the same day a
section from A Battalion was in action farther south, and Captain
Robertson, who was in command, died and was awarded a posthumous V.C.,
after what has been well described as “one of the most patiently
courageous actions of the war.” His tanks had to cross a bridge over
a stream called the Reutelbeek, and drive the enemy from positions on
the farther side. For three days and nights Robertson and his servant
(who won the D.C.M.) went to and fro over the ground, reconnoitring
and taping routes, always under heavy fire. They returned from their
last trip at 9.30 on the evening of the 3rd, and Robertson at once
began to lead the tanks forward. For seventy hours already he had been
almost continually under fire, without rest of any kind. He led his
section to the assembly point, and the weather being misty and the
ground execrably bad, went on again with it at zero, still walking in
front. Amid increasingly heavy shelling he guided his tanks down to the
bridge, across it, and on toward a road which would take them, beyond
any chance of error, to their objectives. The tanks, now visible to
the enemy and far ahead of the following infantry, drew a furious hail
of rifle and machine-gun fire; and Robertson, having brought them to
the road and launched them to the attack, was shot through the head.
“But the tanks went on, and succeeded in their mission. The object for
which Captain Robertson had so deliberately sacrificed his life was
achieved.”[19]
The attacks at Poelcapelle and on the Reutelbeek, on the same morning,
were the only successful tank actions in all the dreary weeks since
mid-August. The 2nd and 3rd Tank Brigades were now withdrawn to refit.
The 1st Brigade was to make one more attempt and to suffer the most
calamitous failure of all.
[Illustration: D Battalion Tank ditched on remains of Poelcapelle
Church, October 4, 1917.]
On the 7th October, tanks of D Battalion were to have attacked certain
forts along the Poelcapelle road, beyond the village. One became
ditched, however, blocking the road, and before a way could be made
round the derelict it was too late to go on. Two nights later eight
tanks of the same battalion left St Julien (where they had been lying
concealed by reddish-brown camouflage designed to blend with the ruins)
to repeat the attempt. Their starting-point was the Retour cross-roads,
south of Poelcapelle. The main road itself, that tragic thoroughfare,
was now in a condition baffling description. It was shelled without
ceasing day and night, and its shattered surface, swimming in liquid
mud after thirty hours’ rain, was littered with a frightful welter of
dismembered men and animals and broken limbers. Before the cross-roads
were reached, one tank slipped over the edge and was submerged
instantly in several feet of water. The remainder arrived at Retour,
and thence crawled on into Poelcapelle. The night was as black as
the Pit: it was raining in torrents; and upon the destroyed village
was crashing a more terrible rain of shells. At the point beyond the
cemetery where two roads converge upon the main street, one from
Langemarck and one from the railway station on the Ypres-Staden line,
the leading tank became bellied in the mud and rubble, tried to free
herself with her unditching beam, broke that, and remained immovable.
Just behind her the second tank was hit almost simultaneously by a
shell and disabled. These two completely blocked the road, and as there
was no way round, the others decided to return. But in the meantime the
last tank had fouled D 44, the machine abandoned on the road two nights
earlier, and in the collision became ditched herself, thus closing
the way home. The four tanks in the middle were trapped. One or two
attempted to find a way round, but were bogged the instant they left
the _pavé_. Those left on the road were hit again and again, and most
of their people were killed or wounded.
[Illustration: Poelcapelle Church before the advance in August,
September, &c., 1917. (German Photo.)]
In itself this was a lamentable disaster, and its results were
peculiarly unfortunate; for the six or seven burnt and ruined tanks
blocked completely the Poelcapelle road, an artery upon which the
troops in front depended for all supplies, and which was essential to
any further operations. It rested with the Tank Corps to remove these
obstructions. A party under the Chief Engineer of the 1st Brigade
began the work at once. It had to be done at night, and then under
conditions of extreme danger, for the Germans knew perfectly well what
was happening, and shelled the village and the road ferociously. One
by one the tanks, filled not only with their own dead but with the
bodies of wounded infantrymen who had crawled in from that tormented
street to die, were blown up by heavy charges of gun-cotton. Within
a week the ghastly road was clear again, except for the human debris
which accumulated always there. And in the noise and flame of these
explosions the active work of the Tank Corps in the Salient came also
to an end. Only the salvage branch returned after a season to gather in
that which remained.
III.
G Battalion, having borne the brunt in the early days, was so fortunate
as to escape the horrors of this later period. It did not go into
action again after the Cockcroft, although at the end of October every
preparation was made, and the approach-march actually was begun for
what promised to be a grisly undertaking at Spriet, between Poelcapelle
and Westroosebeke. To the profound relief of every one concerned,
this affair was cancelled at the last minute. I was away at the time
at the Wormhoudt rest-camp (actually a very pleasant house in the
village), where I had been sent after becoming a victim to a sort of
mild dysentery which swept through our unhealthy quarters at Lovie. As
I was supposed to be suffering also from a slightly strained heart,
due theoretically to exertions undergone at a special course on tank
repairs, I returned to camp about 20th October with instructions to do
only light duty for a fortnight.
I had been away nearly three weeks. Everything was very much as I
had left it. The bustle and worry aroused by the Spriet episode had
subsided, and it was common knowledge that tanks would not be used
again in the Salient. There was the usual talk of our withdrawing to
Blangy, or some other village in the Erin neighbourhood, for winter
training. As a battalion we were rather scattered at this time. 20
and 21 Companies still lived in the camp at Lovie, but 19 Company,
always exclusive, had chosen for some obscure reason to bury itself
in Oosthoek Wood. An assortment of tanks belonging to all three
companies still lived in the wood, and about as many more were at Ghent
Cottages. I do not think we had more than fifteen machines altogether
that were fit: the remainder were under repair, or were still lying
derelict between Admirals Road and the Cockcroft. Nor, when it came
to a pinch, had we too many men available, notwithstanding our very
moderate casualties. It was the curse of all tank units under the
latest establishment that, with more extra duties than any branch of
the service, they had virtually no extra duty men. Battalions now came
out with the bare total sufficient for the fighting crews and a few
essential fatigues and guards, and a proportion of this total might be
written off permanently for brigade duties and instructional courses at
Erin or elsewhere. At this time, for example, with our strength reduced
by these causes, and also by casualties and illness, we had to find
guards for the camp at Lovie, the camp and tanks at Oosthoek, and the
tanks at Ghent Cottages; also for a brigade petrol and ammunition dump
at Vlamertinghe (whose _raison d’être_ no one ever had discovered), and
for one of our own at Dirty Bucket Corner; while for a time there was
a dump also at St Julien, now become comparatively a peaceful spot. A
guard can always be calculated at three times its actual strength, for
in addition to the men on duty there are those who are just going on
duty, and those who have just come off. Whenever one wanted an N.C.O.
or man in those days, he was certain to fall within one of these three
categories, and in consequence to be unavailable. The old headquarters
sections, which had existed for a time at Wool, would have been
invaluable in the field, to leave the fighting crews free for their
proper work. The result of this multiplication of small duties with
our inadequate personnel was that when we received the usual sudden
orders to leave the Salient, bag and baggage, and the camp had to be
struck and the tanks prepared for entrainment on the same day, these
simultaneous tasks, four miles apart, had to be performed in theory
by the same men--which was absurd. In my own case, I found I had not
a single member of my crew at liberty to help me with my tank. Half
were on guard somewhere, and half were striking tents and packing up at
Lovie. I was obliged to borrow a couple of workshops men to drive the
machine on to the train.
Alden having reclaimed G 47 after the Cockcroft, I had been given my
third tank, by name “Goliath”--a very proper translation from the
variety stage to the Scriptures. She had been recovered from the swamp
where she had been left on 31st July, and after being furbished up she
was as good, or better, than new, for she possessed the best-running
engine in the company, and was notoriously a fast machine. She never
left Oosthoek Wood, however, after her return there, until we finally
departed; and as it fell out I had only one opportunity of seeing what
she could do.
After the middle of October our advanced tanks were moved back to
Oosthoek from Ghent Cottages, preparatory to what we supposed would
be a withdrawal to refit, following the example of the 2nd and 3rd
Brigades. E and D Battalions were also collected once more in the wood,
with what machines remained to them. Reinforcements, however, began to
arrive from Central Workshops, and as quite a number of salved tanks
were under repair, our nominal establishments once more grew toward
completion. This seemed to point to the fact that the 1st Brigade would
not be withdrawn to refit, but was to be employed again before very
long. No whisper escaped, so far as I am aware, of what actually was
intended. It was realised that no further work was expected of tanks
in the Salient, where operations had dwindled down to a final struggle
for Passchendaele village, all attempt to reach Westroosebeke, on the
highest part of the ridge, having been abandoned; but beyond that we
knew nothing. Nor, in our hand-to-mouth existence, did we waste much
time on speculation. I believe there was some talk of a surprise attack
in the Lens area, but what interested us most was the question of
leave, which was scandalously overdue.
Late in October came preliminary orders for a move to our old
driving-ground at Wailly, near Arras, for instructional purposes and
training with infantry--this last so obviously called for and so long
demanded that it served as an excellent camouflage for the real object,
and persuaded most of us who thought at all about the matter that
nothing further was intended. We were in the penultimate month of the
year, and judging, as we naturally were inclined to do, by the weather
and ground at Ypres, training seemed all that was left for tanks until
the following spring. I have forgotten the exact date when our final
movement orders arrived, but it must have been about the 1st or 2nd of
November. We were to move at once, but there was nothing surprising in
this, as all orders in the Army are delivered on principle at the last
moment, and sometimes after it. There ensued, of course, a frightful
scramble. The Tank Corps, being a sedentary organisation which requires
huge facilities in transport and rolling-stock for any serious
removal, wherever it settles down gathers an immense amount of stores,
public and private. We had been four months in the Salient; and apart
altogether from the spare tank equipment to which we were legitimately
entitled, and could not part from if we wished, the personal baggage
of G Battalion alone was little short of a scandal. We were going
to train for the winter in an inhospitable region of chalk trenches
and barbed wire, and very naturally we took what comforts we could.
Huts, furniture, souvenirs, duckboards, and other rubbish had to be
carried by our long-suffering transport down to Oosthoek and shipped
on board tanks and trucks. 21 Company had just erected an elaborate
mess, beautifully made by our carpenters of timber, wire-netting, and
tarred felt, with linen windows and a canvas lining. This also must
be pulled down and carried with us. It was little wonder, in short,
that there were few men available to look after such trifles as the
tanks themselves. Final orders had come through on the morning of a
pouring wet day. All three companies were to leave from the Oosthoek
ramp thirty-six hours later. After a frenzied evening spent in packing
and jettisoning my personal belongings, I went down next morning to
the wood to prepare the tank for the move. The weather was now fine,
but by this time the interior of Oosthoek was filthy beyond words. The
continual coming and going of tanks during the past months, and the
immense downfall of rain, aggravated by the dripping trees, had reduced
the ground to a swamp excelled only in the heavily bombarded areas.
On one occasion an entire engine, weighing a ton or two, having been
removed from a tank, sank completely in the slough and was lost and
forgotten, being discovered weeks later by some one stubbing his toe
against it. All unnecessary movement of tanks eventually was forbidden
in the wood, as they actually became ditched there. On three sides of
“Goliath,” as it happened, there was now a deep pool. Having no men
to help me, for reasons already given, I spent the morning splashing
about in this water, struggling single-handed to fold and stow away
huge and sodden tarpaulin sheets and camouflage nets, unbolting the
sponsons, and finally driving the latter inboard with a sledge-hammer.
Happily “Goliath,” in spite of its name, was a female tank. Male
sponsons, even of the new type, required several men with crowbars and
other implements to push them in. After lunch in a small mess which 20
Company had rigged up in the wood, I collected two workshops’ men,
borrowed Johnstone from a guard where I had discovered him, and in
this way got the tank driven on to the ramp, where several others were
waiting for the first train.
D and E Battalions had already left; and with our departure only a few
broken-down machines, dedicated to salvage, would remain in Oosthoek
Wood. Before dark, which fell early now, 20 and 21 Companies, with
all their paraphernalia, were on the first two trains. 19 Company was
following next day. And then ensued one of those interminable waits to
which, in the Army, one becomes accustomed without becoming reconciled.
The night was intensely cold, with a wicked north-east wind and a moon
and stars frostily brilliant; and hour after hour we stamped about the
military road or gathered round the primus stoves on which the mess
staff brewed cocoa and hot rum at frequent intervals. In theory I was
still on light duty, and did not in fact feel aggressively robust;
and as I had been soaked to the knees half a dozen times during the
day, these freezing hours of waiting induced a foreboding that before
long I should be down again with a chill. It was two o’clock in the
morning before the first train got away. By a rare stroke of fortune it
included a first-class coach for officers, in which we were comfortable
enough and even moderately warm. The journey took about fifteen hours,
as we went at the usual tank-train pace round the usual periphery of
Hazebrouck, Lillers, St Pol, and Doullens, and we drew into Beaumetz,
the station for Wailly, some time after dark that evening. Every one
in the Tank Corps knows Beaumetz, with its long street of half-ruined
and generally abandoned houses on the Arras-Doullens road, its
roofless railway station, and its single clean and reputable café,
where a pig-tailed and precocious infant called Émilie (or some such
name) cheeked the patrons without respect for rank or age. We had no
time for the café that night, however. The tanks had to be detrained
and parked near by, and then came the business of unloading all our
stores and lumber. The vast amount of the latter produced a bitter
and thoroughly justifiable outcry from the exhausted R.T.O., who had
been dealing with tank trains for the last three or four nights and
was heartily tired of the sight of them. It was approaching midnight
before we had finished unloading this stuff and conveying most of it
across to the tanks, and then after a meal of hot stew on the platform
it became a question of finding somewhere to sleep. It was still fine,
but colder than ever. The men were sleeping in the tanks or under the
tarpaulin covers, and to the officers fell the spacious but otherwise
negligible accommodation of the station itself. Kessel and some others
burrowed into a big stack of fodder by the side of the line. Chaddock
and I, feeling like Scott or Shackleton, unstrapped our valises, laid
them out on the Arctic platform, and tied ourselves up inside with
Balaclava helmets over our heads. An icy hurricane whistled through the
station all night, and my expected chill, already developing, was not
definitely improved by this rather foolish arrangement.
The distance from Beaumetz to the training-ground at Wailly is about
five miles. We moved off in the course of the morning, and my new
machine showed her capabilities by arriving three-quarters of an hour
ahead of anybody else. An advance party, travelling by lorry, had begun
already to erect a camp in the usual area, which actually was just
outside the village of Rivière. The whole countryside swarmed with
tanks, all three brigades being concentrated here. H and I Battalions
had followed E from England, making a total of nine battalions, three
to a brigade. Altogether, with gun-carriers and supply-tanks, upwards
of 400 machines were gathered at Wailly during those early November
days. And, the moment one arrived, one’s eye was caught by a suggestive
novelty. Lying everywhere about the ground, or lifted high on the
cabs of tanks, were the immense brushwood fascines designed for the
Hindenburg line.
My own stay at Wailly, however, was brief, uncomfortable, and
inglorious. On the second day after my arrival I was in bed in my tent
with one of the innumerable maladies classed together by the Army
under the symbol P.U.O. In other words, I had a high temperature and
semi-crippled legs. As the temperature improved, the legs got worse;
and after four or five days I was despatched under protest to the
nearest field-ambulance at Ficheux.
Owing to this unfortunate illness (a mild sort of “trench leg” which
crippled me for a month), I was not present at the battle of Cambrai.
Most of the ground over which it was fought is unfamiliar to me, as,
although I took part in the operations which led incidentally to the
fall of Cambrai itself in the following autumn, our line of advance
then lay to the north of the old battlefield. Only Bourlon and Bourlon
Wood I know rather intimately. In any case, however, the battle has
been described so often that its general outline should be familiar to
most people; and I wish to fill in that outline from the point of view
of the Tank Corps, and to correct the inaccuracies and wilful omissions
which abound in most published narratives, rather than attempt in
detail to relate the various phases of the battle. The actual story
will be better left to open the second part of this book, because
Cambrai stands for that great turn in the fortunes of the Tank Corps
to which such an action as the Cockcroft gave only a small initial
impulse; but we can consider very briefly here the means which brought
about so startling an experiment.
Ever since its inception, the Tank Corps had been demanding a fair
trial. It is one thing to demand, and another to receive. It so
happened that tanks entered the field at a time when certain new
tactical theories were being elaborated in practice. There was the
theory of the limited objective, and the theory of the annihilating
preliminary bombardment. Both of these broke down in the end: the
first, because it often was the enemy, and not ourselves, who decided
the limit of the objective; and the second, because the preliminary
bombardment was found to defeat its own designs, as at Ypres. In an
admirable and most interesting book on the Gallipoli campaign, recently
published, General Callwell points out repeatedly that the most obvious
means to some military end must be no less obvious to the enemy, unless
the latter be afflicted by the Gods with judicial blindness, and upon
this it is not safe to count. Given two armies of approximately equal
strength and resources, facing one another from lines of trenches which
cannot be turned, and excluding all miracles and other improbable
contingencies, the normal expedients adopted by one side will have
been foreseen by the other. We thought it astonishing on the Somme
that the German machine-gun posts remained in action after the most
terrific bombardment. But they had been designed to that end, with
profound dug-outs that no bombardment could injure. The army, in short,
that hopes to win speedily under these conditions, and does not count
solely on that blessed but two-edged word “attrition,” must have some
abnormal factor up its sleeve. We possessed such a factor in the tanks.
The initial surprise effected by tanks on the Somme was nothing. Their
exceeding value lay in the fact that, properly used, they could always
effect a surprise. They could take the place of all that preliminary
bombardment which announced to the enemy the approaching attack days
and weeks before it was to materialise. There are, of course, two sorts
of surprises in war. There is the sort employed at Ypres, where your
opponent knows you are going to attack him, but does not know when.
There is the less common sort, when he does not expect you to attack at
all, has made no preparations for an attack, and probably is asleep.
Tanks were valuable enough in the first case, but tanks alone now could
bring about the second. Wire and machine-guns had forbidden a genuine
surprise to any combination of the other arms. The German use of poison
gas, designed originally to effect a surprise, was successful up to
a point because it had not been foreseen, but it was countered at
once by the gas-mask. There was no such thing possible, however, as a
tank-mask. Provided tanks were used on suitable ground, in sufficient
numbers, and with an infantry trained to support them, no dependable
antidote to them existed. We had discovered--and this includes the
French, whose _artillerie d’assaut_ were invented independently of our
tanks--a very powerful weapon which the Germans in their blindness
had for some reason put aside. The idea must have occurred to them.
Apparently, until it was too late, they pinned their faith to heavy
howitzers, masses of men, and the excellence of their military
machine. Afterwards they had neither the plant nor the labour to
spare. They were building tanks before Cambrai, but these were obvious
makeshifts--glorified tractors of great size and considerable speed,
but clumsy and inconvenient to a degree.
The abnormal factor, then, was in our hands. For a year it had been
wasted. Circumstances, presumably unavoidable, had led our series of
offensives to incline always northward, where the conditions grew
steadily worse; and when, after the Somme, Arras, and Messines, tanks
found themselves at Ypres, it was felt that if the Army decided to
wage a campaign on the Goodwin Sands the unfortunate machines would be
called there too. And during all this time their peculiar attribute of
affecting a genuine surprise, and, by so doing, revolutionising modern
war, had hardly been tested.
On 17th September, while the Ypres battle was dragging out its weary
programme, General Elles (as he now was) visited the commander of the
Third Army, Sir Julian Byng. This army now held the southern extremity
of the British line, opposite that part of the so-called Hindenburg
system which covered the important railway centre of Cambrai. Following
up the German retreat in the early spring, we had come to a halt in
front of these fabulous earthworks, and had remained quiescent ever
since. It was notoriously the most peaceful section of the line, a
place where No Man’s Land often was 1000 yards across, with the
hostile trenches out of sight behind a hill, the Mecca of every wearied
and decimated unit withdrawn from the Salient for a rest. Virtually
untouched by war, except that the fields, long untended, grew nothing
but coarse grass and weeds, it was an undulating, hedgeless, chalk
country, dotted with frequent villages, a few small copses and one or
two more pretentious woods, criss-crossed by sunken roads, and watered
by several insignificant streams and two important canals. Athwart
it, from north-west to south-east, ran the irregular trace of the
Hindenburg Line, eight miles from Cambrai at the nearest point on the
Bapaume road. This line was known to be weakly held. The immense belts
of wire and the innumerable machine-guns were trusted, and justifiably,
to fend off any orthodox attack by the very moderate forces under
General Byng. The Tank Corps, however, alone among the various branches
of the Service, had looked for months upon the Hindenburg Line as
a lawful and easy prey. The wire was no obstacle at all, and the
trenches, whispered of as though they were Charon’s seven streams,
were not worth even an obolus. They had been crossed at Bullecourt,
and human ingenuity was equal to devising some means of bridging those
which might exceed a tank’s allotted span. The country was all that
could be desired--firm, unbroken by shell-fire, and well drained. Every
circumstance had long pointed to this region for an offensive carried
out, as the Tank Corps maintained all offensives should be carried
out--led and determined by tanks, and launched, without any overt
preliminaries, as a genuine surprise. With these ideas General Elles
had no difficulty in infecting the 3rd Army commander. A general plan
of attack on this front had been worked out some time before. It was
altered and trimmed to suit the particular conditions now in view, and
the completed scheme was submitted to the Commander-in-Chief.
Three considerations, one may suppose, helped especially to recommend
it to Sir Douglas Haig. The Ypres offensive, however it might be
disguised in public, was a lamentable failure, and needed some
corrective; the Russian collapse was setting free the best German
troops from the East; and within a few months it might be impossible to
strike a blow anywhere with a reasonable hope of success. It is likely
also that some rumours of the forthcoming stroke on the Italian front
helped to quicken a decision. In any case, the scheme was approved
on 20th October, and was fixed for a date exactly one month later.
Unfortunately, G.H.Q. had not the courage of its convictions--or of the
convictions of others. Probably in this case it had no convictions of
its own. It did not believe that tanks, even when working under their
own chosen conditions, could perform all that they claimed ability
to perform. A highly interesting article by M. Paul Painlevé, French
Minister of War in March 1917, contains an account of a visit to our
G.H.Q. in that month, where, he records, the general opinion was in
favour of “having a smack” at the enemy. This characteristic but rather
primitive attitude undoubtedly governed the decision to carry out the
Cambrai attack. Having lost upwards of a quarter of a million of men
at Ypres, it was as well to have as cheap “a smack” at the enemy as
possible. The conditions laid down manifested in every article the
spirit of compromise. If the Tank Corps liked to sacrifice itself
wholesale, well and good, but no additional infantry could be provided.
The 3rd Army must make the most of its very slender resources in this
respect. (It was stated officially that any additional concentration
of troops would have betrayed the coming attack to the enemy. But it
is difficult to accept this reasoning. On the 8th August 1918, to name
only one instance, several army corps were gathered behind the line
in perfect secrecy.) Finally, the whole operation was to be completed
within forty-eight hours at the most, this being the time it was
calculated the enemy would require to bring up reinforcements.
Restricted as it was, the opportunity was welcomed by all concerned--in
especial by the Tank Corps, which saw at last a prospect of proving in
the field those theories it had advocated in and out of season for the
past twelve months. Preparations, already begun, were expedited, and
the concentration of the three brigades at Wailly was put in hand.
PART II.
THE SECOND PHASE:
CAMBRAI AND AFTER
CHAPTER XIII.
CAMBRAI.
I.
The Tank Corps had to accomplish an immense amount of work in a very
short time before the battle of Cambrai. This preparation consisted of
five main features:--
1. The arrangements for secrecy.
2. The concentrating of three brigades of tanks at Wailly, and
their subsequent dispersal to detraining centres behind the
Cambrai front.
3. Rehearsals with the infantry of the plan of attack.
4. The construction of certain devices for crossing the wider
trenches of the Hindenburg Line, for bringing up supplies, and
for clearing the wire for the cavalry.
5. The establishment of petrol and ammunition dumps.
We will take these features in order.
The whole 3rd Army was involved in the question of secrecy. The
bringing up of numerous additional batteries to positions close
behind the front line, the assembling of several cavalry divisions,
and all the thousand and one preparations for an advance on a wide
front had to be completed without a suspicion reaching the enemy.
This was accomplished successfully. The normal artillery activity
was maintained, while dozens of new batteries were brought up and
camouflaged. None of these were able to register before the battle
opened. The Tank Corps, meanwhile, had its own especial difficulties.
The withdrawal of one brigade from the Salient and another from the
Lens front could not be wholly concealed, but the myth of winter
training deceived the enemy, if he heard of it, as thoroughly as
it deceived the troops concerned; and the activities of one or two
wireless tanks, left at the front to send bogus messages, easily
intercepted, to imaginary brigade headquarters, fostered the belief
that the latter had not moved. The forward H.Q. established with the
3rd Army at Albert was disguised as the Tank Corps Training Office. In
the beginning only four members of General Elles’s staff knew of the
forthcoming attack. The information was next revealed to battalion and
company commanders and reconnaissance officers; and last of all, only
two or three days before 20th November, zero day, section and tank
commanders were admitted to the secret. Reconnaissance was carried out
with every precaution, distinctive badges being hidden or removed,
and senior officers visited the front disguised in steel helmets and
trench-coats.
Thirty-six tank trains were needed for the almost simultaneous removal
of the nine battalions. Our supply of K.T. trucks being insufficient,
it was necessary to borrow a number of the smaller French type. A vast
amount of work was thrown on the railway staff, all the entraining
and detraining being carried out at night. In four or five nights
upwards of 450 machines were entrained at Beaumetz. Twenty-seven
train-loads were concentrated at Plateau Station, near Albert, by the
14th November, and dispersed to their final detraining points during
the three following days, the remaining nine trains reaching Plateau
on the 15th. Only the most careful management could have succeeded
in disposing of these slow and heavy trains, amid all the normal
traffic, in so short a time without a hitch. The 1st Brigade detrained
finally at Bertincourt and Ruyaulcourt, behind Havrincourt Wood, the
2nd Brigade at Sorel and Ytres, to the south, and the 3rd Brigade
at Heudicourt, near Epehy. At all these railheads new ramps had to
be built or old ones repaired. With one or two minor accidents, 378
fighting tanks and 98 administrative machines were assembled at points
from two to four miles behind the lines on zero minus two days--18th
November.
The plan of attack and its rehearsal with the infantry at Wailly cannot
be described more lucidly than in the account given in ‘Weekly Tank
Notes,’ the official publication already referred to. I will quote this
account entire.
“Before the infantry assembled for training a new tactics had
to be devised, not only to meet the conditions which would
be encountered, but to fit the limitations imposed upon the
tank by it only being able to carry one tank fascine. Once
this fascine was cast it could not be picked up again without
considerable difficulty.
“Briefly the tactics decided on were worked out to meet
the following requirements: ‘To effect a penetration of
four systems of trenches in a few hours without any type of
artillery preparation.’ They were as follows:--
“Each objective was divided up into tank section attack areas
according to the number of tactical points in the objective,
and a separate echelon, or line, of tanks was allotted to each
objective. Each section was to consist of three machines--one
advance-guard tank and two infantry tanks; this was agreed to
on account of there not being sufficient tanks in France to
bring sections up to four machines apiece.
“The duty of the advance-guard tank was to keep down the
enemy’s fire and to protect the infantry tanks as they led the
infantry through the enemy’s wire and over his trenches. The
allotment of the infantry to tanks depended on the strength of
the objective to be attacked and the nature of the approaches;
their formation was that of sections in single file with a
leader to each file. They were organised in three forces:
trench clearers to operate with the tanks; trench stops to
block the trenches at various points; and trench supports to
garrison the captured trench and form an advance-guard to the
next echelon of tanks and infantry passing through.
“The whole operation was divided into three phases: the
assembly, the approach, and the attack. The first was carried
out at night-time and was a parade drill, the infantry falling
in behind the tanks on tape lines, connected with their
starting-points by taped routes. The approach was slow and
orderly, the infantry holding themselves in readiness to act
on their own initiative. The attack was regulated so as to
economise tank fascines, and was carried out as follows:--
“The advance-guard tank went straight forward through the
enemy’s wire, and turning to the left, without crossing the
trench in front of it, opened right sponson broadsides; the
infantry tanks then made for the same spot, the left-hand one,
crossing the wire, approached the trench and cast its fascine,
then crossed over the fascine, turned to the left, and worked
down the fire trench; the second infantry tank crossed over
the fascine of the first and made for the enemy’s support
trench, cast its fascine, and crossing did likewise. Meanwhile
the advance-guard tank had swung round, and crossing over
the fascines of the two infantry tanks, moved forward with
its own fascine still in position ready for the third trench
line. When the two infantry tanks met they assembled behind
the advance-guard tank and awaited orders. The leading wave of
infantry planted a red flag at the gaps in the wire.
“In training the infantry the following exercises were carried
out:--
(1) Assembly of infantry behind tanks.
(2) Advance to attack behind tanks.
(3) Passing through wire crushed down by tanks.
(4) Clearing up a trench sector under protection of tanks.
“To enable them to work quickly in section single files and
to form these into section lines a simple platoon drill was
issued, and it is interesting to note that this drill was based
on a very similar one described by Xenophon in his ‘Cyropædeia’
and attributed to King Cyrus (_circa_ 500 B.C.).”
The fascines above mentioned were designed to assist the tanks over the
wider trenches of the Hindenburg system. Some of these were known to
be 12 feet wide and of great depth, the actual width being increased
by the inward slopes of a parapet and parados 2 feet 6 inches high.
A Mark IV. tank could only cross a trench 10-11 feet wide, a fact of
which the Germans were well aware. The real obstacle was the depth of
the trench, as when the tank was halfway over, but not yet balanced
on the parados, the tail left the parapet and dropped to the trench
floor, shifting the centre of gravity and leaving the machine at an
angle so near the vertical that the tracks could not grip against all
the deadweight below. The object of the fascine, therefore, was not to
fill the trench and form a bridge, as seems commonly to be supposed,
for this was both impossible and unnecessary, but to keep the tail of
the tank from dropping so far that the machine was unable to recover.
These tank fascines were made by binding together with chains, under
great pressure, seventy-five ordinary brushwood bundles 10 feet long.
Each big fascine was 4 feet 6 inches in diameter and weighed a ton and
three-quarters. This monstrosity was carried on the cab of the tank,
and was dropped into a trench over the nose by means of a release
mechanism from within. It was an abomination to man-handle, fifteen to
twenty Chinamen being required to push each fascine through the mud
at Erin; and during a train journey it had to be lowered on the truck
and hoisted up again before detrainment. But in action the fascines
fulfilled their purpose admirably. The widest and deepest Hindenburg
trenches proved no obstacle at all.
Four hundred of these fascines were made at Central Workshops during
the feverish three weeks before Cambrai. This involved the trimming
to the correct length of 30,000 ordinary fascines, and the welding of
2000 fathoms of steel chain. Eighteen tanks, working in pairs, pulled
on the chains in opposite directions after they had been wound several
times round the huge bundles. In the same period were constructed 110
heavy timber sledges, to be towed by tanks with loads of petrol and
ammunition. 127 tanks were repaired and issued, and a number were
fitted with large grapnels for wire-clearing. Owing to the necessity of
secrecy, the personnel at Erin were not informed of the extreme urgency
of these tasks; yet during these three weeks the shops were working
for 22¹⁄₂ hours out of every 24 without a break. Nor was this pressure
confined to the workshops. Between the 10th and 25th November, 28
lorries covered between them 19,000 miles, or 744 miles per lorry, and
some small box-cars averaged 1200 miles apiece.
Three main supply dumps were established at the lying-up points of the
three brigades--Havrincourt Wood, Dessart Wood, and Villers-Guislain
and Gouzeaucourt. Among the stores collected here were 165,000 gallons
of petrol, 55,000 lbs. of grease, 5,000,000 rounds of S.A.A., and
500,000 rounds of 6-pounder shell. The splendid system of light
railways behind the 3rd Army front alone made this huge accumulation
possible in so short a time. In the field, stores were to be carried
from these dumps by supply-tanks and gun-carrying tanks towing sledges.
This brief account will give some idea of the work required before
a full-dress tank battle, and of the sudden problems with which the
technical staff had to grapple at short notice. It must be remembered
that there was no precedent whatever for this operation. Four times as
many tanks as went in on the first day at Ypres were to be employed
at Cambrai. There had been little time for preparation and less for
reconnaissance. The Hindenburg trenches, until they were met and
conquered, at least were impressive impostors; and there was a great
weight of responsibility, as well as a sense of gratification, attached
to the fact that for the first time in the career of the corps, tanks
were to be the dominating factor in a big battle. Their method of use
determined the whole tactical scheme. Confident though all ranks might
be of gaining that triumph to which they had looked forward through a
series of discouragements, lasting over many months, the importance of
the occasion brought infinite anxiety and strain.
On the other hand, everything, at long last, had been done for them
that could be done. They were to have their own way on ground of their
own choosing. For over a week at Wailly tanks and infantry rehearsed
over the old German trenches the exact tactics they were to employ over
the new ones. To give the infantry additional confidence, they were
asked to construct their own defences and wire entanglements, which
the tanks then proceeded to obliterate. The deep German front line
at Wailly, enlarged to a veritable gulf by the passage or ditching
of innumerable tanks during previous months of training, was an
admirable model on which to prove the efficiency of the fascines. The
masses of rusty wire provided practice for the special machines whose
grapnels were to clear the way for the cavalry. Short though the time
was, nothing was left undone. Tank personnel and infantry practised
together and talked together, and for the first time was reached an
approximation to that mutual trust and understanding which these two
arms had so long and so especially required.
II.
An examination of a layered map shows very clearly the conformation
of the country between the Hindenburg Line and Cambrai. The 3rd
Army, lying south-west of that town, was attacking north-east. The
battlefield can be divided into two parts, north and south of a
line drawn westward from Marcoing through Flesquières along the
Flesquières-Havrincourt Ridge. The southern part is a triangle, bounded
to the north by this ridge, to the east by the Canal de L’Escaut, which
zigzags southward from Cambrai, and to the south-west by the Hindenburg
Line, which almost touches the canal near Banteux. In this part of
the field we should be fighting downhill to the canal valley. The
northern part, beyond the Flesquières Ridge, is lowish ground dominated
by one prominent landmark, Bourlon Hill and Wood, and delimited to
the west by the Canal du Nord, which the Hindenburg trenches crossed
immediately north of Havrincourt Wood, thence following its course
northward to Mœuvres. The Flesquières Ridge itself is an important
tactical feature, running from east to west against the general lie of
the country and overlooking the whole northern part of the battlefield;
and where it was crossed by the German line, west of Havrincourt, the
latter made a pronounced salient, taking in a portion of Havrincourt
Wood. This portion was held as an advanced position in front of the
trench system, and farther south the hamlet of La Vacquerie and other
posts were strongly occupied in a like manner. The Hindenburg Line
itself, taking it correctly as the first line of trenches, was sited on
reverse slopes, hidden from our observation, and covered in front by
a dense belt of wire, nowhere less than 50 yards deep. The Hindenburg
wire was, in fact, a remarkable sight. You saw it winding away over
the ridges in three broad belts, clean cut and separated by narrower
avenues of grass; miles upon miles of it, with great patches red with
rust after any rain, and looking in the distance where it climbed some
final crest to the horizon like zigzag stripes of plough or trimmed
and level vegetation. Behind the front system of trenches were three
others, the Hindenburg Reserve, wired almost as thickly as the first
line, and two more. These last were not so formidable. The series
varied in depth from three and a half to four and a half miles. The
front line and reserve were pierced in every bay by the shafts of deep
dug-outs, although some of these had not been finished. In places they
were joined up to form considerable tunnels, forty feet underground.
The chalk of which the higher land is formed, although hard to work,
is admirable for such subterranean use. The shafts and dug-outs were
timbered, walls and roof, and when, a year later, I lived in several of
them, were always dry. The whole system was knitted together by a maze
of communication trenches.
The third and fourth lines, which in fact formed one system called
variously the Marquion, Masnières, or Beaurevoir Line, crossed the
Canal de L’Escaut south of Cambrai and covered another important
tactical feature, the Niergnies-Seranvillers Ridge, east of the canal.
This ridge, like that of Flesquières, overlooked all the northern part
of the battlefield as far as Bourlon, making any attack on that height
from the south a matter of great difficulty. The Niergnies Ridge,
therefore, was to be carried if possible as soon as the canal crossings
had been seized, but this effort proved beyond our resources.
The infantry at the disposal of Sir Julien Byng for his main attack
amounted only to six divisions, with two cavalry divisions, and
upwards of 1000 guns, for a front of six miles from east of Gonnelieu
to a point north of Havrincourt Wood. Subsidiary attacks to secure
the flanks were to be carried as far as Bullecourt to the north, and
from Gonnelieu southward to Vendhuile. The whole operation, as we
have seen, was under a time limit of forty-eight hours, while the
Commander-in-Chief intended to call a halt before that period had
expired if sufficient progress was not made. The first twenty-four
hours was expected to show, one way or another, how much might be
expected. But one rather startling factor resulted from the inadequate
means to be employed. Every tank and infantryman in the six divisions
was to go forward at zero. There were no reserves other than local
ones; nothing was left for the second day--except the cavalry. The
Guards and one or two other divisions were within a few marches of the
battlefield, but not near enough to come up in time; nor were they
intended to be used. The plan, in fact, was stamped plainly with that
spirit of compromise due to ignorance and consequent mistrust of the
capabilities of tanks. It was not really believed that the latter could
do all that they claimed. Six divisions, therefore, were enough to risk
on the gamble. On the other hand, in case the unexpected should happen,
a most ambitious programme was drawn up, for which six divisions were
hopelessly inadequate. The last German positions, beyond the Canal de
L’Escaut, were to be carried in the first phase of the attack, after
which cavalry was to cross the canal, occupy Cambrai and villages to
the north and east, and move forward with its right on Valenciennes.
In the meantime, the 4th Corps, on the right, was to form a defensive
flank until the cavalry had cut the Valenciennes-Douai line nine or
ten miles north of Cambrai (an incredible supposition), when the corps
was to continue its advance in a north-easterly direction. The second
and third phases of the battle were in the hands of the 3rd Corps on
the left, whose business it was to capture Bourlon and Inchy-en-Artois
(on the Canal du Nord), and then, by crossing the Arras-Cambrai road
toward the marshes of the Sensée, to cut off the enemy’s troops in the
angle which that river formed with the Canal du Nord. All this, with
six divisions, reads like a dream, as in fact it was. Admitted that it
represents the utmost possible and includes all that optimistic phase
of “exploitation” which never throughout the war was reached in any
battle, it remains an astonishing proposition. For if it was possible,
three times six divisions would barely be enough to fill the enormously
extended line we should have won; while as in the actual attack the
infantry were found to be exhausted after an advance of four or five
miles, it is difficult to see how, in the same time, they could be
expected to cover ten or fifteen. Most extraordinary of all is the
almost supernatural rôle allotted to the cavalry. It takes one back to
the days of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, or to the triumphs of Murat.
This venerable fallacy about cavalry would be pathetic if it were not
so mischievous. For as an offensive weapon a man on a horse is an
anachronism in any modern battle fought in an enclosed and cultivated
country where everybody else is under cover. He cannot see his enemy,
but can himself be seen a mile away, and, what is more pertinent, can
be shot at that distance. He is tied to his horse, which he cannot
hide. Even the pursuit of a routed enemy, supposed to be his especial
_métier_, is governed now by conditions which render him useless. In
every rout of a disciplined army some stout fellows will always be
found as a rearguard, and two or three machine-guns can hold up a whole
brigade of cavalry among villages and hedgerows. No ten feet high
combination of man and beast, in short, has any chance whatever against
modern small arms. It cannot be expected, however, that this ever
will be admitted in an army controlled largely by influential cavalry
soldiers; and as at Cambrai the mounted troops, with few exceptions,
proved incapable even of arriving in time to attempt anything, the less
said about them the better.
A further serious handicap to General Byng lay in the fact that most
of his six divisions had come from the Salient, where they had been
strained to the uttermost and had suffered heavy casualties. Their
ranks were filled up with drafts who had no experience, while it had
been impossible in the short time available for more than a small
percentage to practice at Wailly with the tanks. But having enumerated
these various adverse considerations, there remains much that was
encouraging to be put against them. The divisions included some of the
best in the army. The 29th had won an almost fabulous reputation in
Gallipoli, although few of its original rank and file were left. The
6th was another formation with the traditions of regular service behind
it. The 51st Highland Territorial Division (with which G Battalion had
been associated in the Salient) had the distinction of coming second on
a German list of those units most feared by the enemy. Among the troops
taking part in the subsidiary attacks to the north, and likely to be
involved in the main battle if all went well, were the 3rd Division,
which headed the German list referred to, and the 40th London and
36th Ulster Divisions. On the right flank, where the 3rd Army linked
up with the French, a strong force of French infantry and cavalry was
put at our disposal. Then there was the known fact that the enemy’s
position, held by Von der Marwitz’s 2nd Army, had been much depleted of
troops, and especially of guns, while our own people must have gained
confidence from the marked efficiency of our preliminary arrangements.
Everything had gone well; every man, so far as was possible, knew what
he had to do. Tanks and guns were in position; and the Germans in their
deep trenches half a mile away, undisturbed by any breath of doubt or
rumour, still performed mechanically the routine duties of a quiet
sector, and reported that we were similarly employed.
[Illustration: _First Battle of Cambrai._]
The three Tank Brigades were disposed as follows: The 1st Brigade,
of D, E, and G Battalions, with 42 tanks apiece, lay hidden in the
western end of Havrincourt Wood, a large mass of timber of which the
Germans actually held the eastern extremity, 3000 yards away. Colonel
Hankey, of G Battalion, had under his command for the operation tanks
from both the other units, giving him a total of 60 machines. The 2nd
Brigade lay in Dessart Wood, two miles south of Havrincourt Wood. It
consisted for the time of only two Battalions, B and H, A Battalion
being attached to the 3rd Brigade. The tanks of the latter (A, C,
F, and I Battalions), having no convenient wood in which to hide,
were concealed under brick-coloured camouflage netting in and about
Gouzeaucourt and Villers-Guislain. The battalions of the 2nd and 3rd
Brigades had also 42 tanks apiece. Each unit set aside a small number
as a reserve to replace mechanical breakdowns. In addition to the whole
total of 378 fighting machines, there were 32 wire-clearing tanks with
grapnels to open passages for the guns and cavalry; 2 for carrying
bridging material; 1 with a telephone cable for the 3rd Army signals;
54 supply-tanks, some of them adapted gun-carriers; and 9 with wireless
apparatus.
The 1st Brigade, on the left, was operating with the 62nd and 51st
Divisions, its first objectives being Havrincourt village and
Flesquières, with subsequent exploitation toward Graincourt, Anneux,
Fontaine-Notre-Dame, and Bourlon.
The 2nd Brigade in the centre, leading the 6th Division, was to carry
the Blue and Brown lines and Ribécourt, thence making for Marcoing on
the Canal de L’Escaut and the Bois des Neufs further north.
The 3rd Brigade on the right, its 4 battalions working with the 29th,
20th, and 12th Divisions, had in hand the capture of La Vacquerie and
the Blue and Brown lines beyond, then the bulging line of the canal
from Marcoing to Masnières and the crossings at those places, and
finally Crèvecoeur on the east bank at the foot of the Niergnies ridge.
Zero was fixed for 6.20 A.M. on the 20th. After dusk on the previous
evening tank routes would be taped to the assembly positions. Before 6
o’clock all the tanks were to be ready in one long line from Trescault
to Gonnelieu, in front of our trenches and within 500-1000 yards of
the German outposts; the “advance-guard” tanks 150 yards ahead, and
the main body deployed at approximate intervals of 100 yards. At 6.10
the whole mass would begin to move forward, followed by infantry in
section columns. At zero, ten minutes later, a barrage of shrapnel,
H.E. and smoke shells from upwards of 1000 guns would fall on the
enemy’s outpost line, lifting after one minute, and moving forward in
jumps of 250 yards, but remaining on certain objectives for stated
periods. In addition, smoke-screens were to fall on the Flesquières
ridge and along the right flank of the 4th Corps, together with the
usual counter-battery work and bombardment of roads and bridges.
The weather had been fine, but so misty that little aeroplane
observation had been possible. This did not affect us, as motives of
secrecy had kept our aerial reconnaissance within the normal routine,
and it prevented awkward prying on the enemy’s part. On the night of
the 17th-18th November the Germans made a small raid near Havrincourt
Wood and captured a few prisoners. These men were carried to Army
Headquarters for investigation, a delay which had fortunate results for
us, for some information about the forthcoming attack eventually was
extracted from them. It came too late. A telegraphic warning reached
the German front line only a few minutes before zero on the 20th, and
was found half transcribed in a signaller’s dug-out.
III.
General Elles, on the evening of 19th November, issued his “Special
Order No. 6,” in which he said: “To-morrow the Tank Corps will have the
chance for which it has been waiting for many months--to operate on
good going in the van of battle.... I propose leading the attack of the
centre division.” Enough has been said by others about the better-known
newspaper version: “England expects every tank to do its damndest”--but
I cannot refrain from pointing out once more that this impudent lie was
only in accordance with all the traditions of modern journalism, which
knows neither scruples, education, nor good taste. Herodotus was in the
habit of putting imaginary speeches into the mouths of his historical
characters; but we have indeed sunk low when some illiterate scavenger
of Fleet Street is permitted, and even encouraged, to employ his own
characteristic phraseology for the same purpose in the columns of a
newspaper.
Before midnight that evening, from Havrincourt Wood and Dessart
Wood, from Gouzeaucourt and Villers-Guislain, scores of tanks had
uncamouflaged and moved out and were already on their way. It was such
a gathering of these singular machines as never had been seen before,
and was to be seen only once again--on 8th August of the following
year. Section after section, company after company (twenty-seven
companies were there, as against two on the Somme a year earlier),
they crawled forward in long columns that split up after a while
into smaller ones, and then again into twos and threes, until toward
five o’clock the whole were deploying into a single line six miles
long--a threatening, silent, curving line that faced and corresponded
to the larger salients and re-entrants of the Hindenburg trenches.
So silently had this approach been carried out that many of the
infantry, assembling behind the gaps in our own wire, heard no tanks
at all, and inquired with some anxiety if they had arrived. A few had
broken down, and were replaced at once from the mechanical reserve.
Upwards of 350 were in position. The night was very dark, with a
dense ground mist, but so complete were all arrangements that this
caused no inconvenience, while it helped to screen the massing of this
unparalleled armada. A sudden burst of shelling and trench-mortar
fire from the German lines about 4.30 startled every one and provoked
suspicions of a premature discovery, but it died away in half an
hour. From five o’clock until zero the whole front was quiet. At ten
minutes past six tanks and infantry began to move; and at 6.20, with
the sky lightening rapidly above the mist, the barrage exploded with
a shattering crash of sound along the German outpost line, some 250
yards in front of the “advance-guard” machines. In the centre of the
six-mile line, in a tank called the “Hilda” of H Battalion, General
Elles was leading into the most revolutionary battle of the war the
corps which had made it possible, and which he had controlled almost
from its infancy. It was not the ordinary post for the commander of a
large organisation, but this was not an ordinary occasion. It was the
consummation of two years of struggle and disappointment. There can
have been little doubt in his mind, or in that of any other man in the
350 tanks, as to what the result would be now that the adventure was
fairly launched.
The immediate onset of the tanks inevitably was overwhelming. The
German outposts, dazed or annihilated by the sudden deluge of shells,
were overrun in an instant. The triple belts of wire were crossed
as if they had been beds of nettles, and 350 pathways were sheared
through them for the infantry. The defenders of the front trench,
scrambling out of dug-outs and shelters to meet the crash and flame of
the barrage, saw the leading tanks almost upon them, their appearance
made the more grotesque and terrifying by the huge black bundles they
carried on their cabs. As these tanks swung left-handed and fired down
into the trench, others, also surmounted by these appalling objects,
appeared in multitudes behind them out of the mist. It is small wonder
that the front Hindenburg Line, that fabulous excavation which was to
be the bulwark of Germany, gave little trouble. The great fascines
were loosed and rolled over the parapet to the trench floor; and down
the whole line tanks were dipping and rearing up and clawing their way
across into the almost unravaged country beyond. The defenders of the
line were running panic-stricken, casting away arms and equipment. The
Hindenburg Reserve, with its own massive entanglements, went the way
of the first trenches; and so far our following infantry had found
little to do beyond firing on the fugitives and rounding up gangs of
half-stupefied prisoners. It was now broad day, the mist was thinning,
and everywhere from Havrincourt to Banteux on the canal was rout and
consternation. The Grand Ravin, a gully which runs from Havrincourt
to Marcoing, was choked with an unarmed mob streaming eastward. The
garrison of Havrincourt had put up a fight, but tanks closed on
it from the north, and it was cleared by the 62nd Division.[20] La
Vacquerie had gone in the first onset; and now Ribécourt was carried,
and tanks and infantry were approaching the vital canal bridges
at Marcoing and Masnières. Over the whole southern half of the
battlefield, the triangle I have described, the defence had collapsed;
and this area was virtually cleared by midday. Only at one or two
points had there been any serious resistance, the most notable being
Lateau Wood, on a hill-top overlooking the canal, where a number of
batteries were posted. Fighting continued here during most of the
morning, and included an encounter between a tank and a 5.9 howitzer,
in which the tank for once was the victor. The gun blew away the tank’s
right-hand sponson, but failed to injure the engine, and was overrun
before it could be reloaded. Eventually the wood was cleared and the
guns captured. By two o’clock Marcoing was in our hands, and all but
a portion of Masnières. At the former place a tank of A Battalion
arrived in time to drive off the German engineers who were in the act
of destroying the bridge, which was on the far side of the village.
At Masnières, however, the bridge was partially wrecked, and a tank
of F Battalion, endeavouring to cross, completed the destruction and
fell with the wreckage into the canal. This accident helped to delay
our advance at this point upon Rumilly and the Niergnies ridge. In the
meantime a hitch had occurred in the northern portion of the field.
The 51st Division, advancing against Flesquières, as soon as the
fall of Havrincourt and Ribécourt secured its flanks, had adopted a
formation of attack which does not seem to have combined successfully
with the tanks. The latter entered the village, but the infantry were
too far behind and were held up by machine-gun fire. Throughout the day
tanks were in and out of Flesquières, driving the Germans into cellars
from which they emerged again as the danger passed; but the 51st could
do no more than obtain a grip on the outskirts of the place. The
château, surrounded by a stout wall and impregnable to tanks, was the
centre of resistance. Night fell with the village still untaken.
Largely on account of the inability of the 51st to give adequate
support, the tanks had very serious losses in and about Flesquières. A
number of batteries lay just over the ridge, and tank after tank was
hit and disabled as it appeared on the crest, the easiest of targets at
almost point-blank range. One gun in the west end of the village itself
was believed to have knocked out no fewer than sixteen machines of D
and E Battalions. This was the celebrated piece served single-handed by
a very gallant German officer after all his men had abandoned him. He
was killed beside his gun in the end by the infantry. Had the latter
been able to support the tanks more closely, most of these mischievous
batteries could have been silenced before they had a chance of doing
any damage. A few riflemen pushed ahead would have driven off the
gunners while the tanks remained hidden by the crest. It is no part of
a tank’s duty to make itself a helpless target for field-guns. As it
was, while the wings of the army had swept on triumphantly to their
third objectives and beyond, an unfortunate check had occurred in the
centre. On the left of the 51st Division the 62nd, having cleared
Havrincourt with the help of G Battalion’s tanks, pushed on northward
over the narrow neck of the Flesquières ridge up the line of the Canal
du Nord. Some of our tanks were caught by the same batteries that were
holding up D and E. Muirhead, of 20 Company, was killed here, and five
or six machines were disabled. Chaddock, who had his section commander,
Fearnley, on board, had an extraordinary escape. A shell came through
the cab, took off the driver’s head, and flung it on the knees of
Fearnley at the brakes, killed or wounded the two right-hand gunners,
and passed out at the stern without exploding. But the majority of
the tanks were covered by a spur from the view of the batteries, and
elsewhere there was no stopping this combination of G and the 62nd.
Both the Hindenburg main and reserve lines were crossed in many places
without the use of fascines, and tanks and infantry rolled swiftly down
the slope to Graincourt, beyond which were the double row of trees
along the Route Nationale No. 29, the Bapaume-Cambrai road, and the
heavy mass of Bourlon Wood. Eight 6-pounder tanks advanced in line
direct upon Graincourt, firing every gun they could bring to bear. Two
German field-pieces concealed near the village were happily spotted
by Charles Baker from the dust thrown up by the blast of their first
discharge, and a few 6-pounder rounds drove away the gunners. By one
o’clock Graincourt was captured. Still pushing on, tanks and infantry
entered Anneux. This village was not wholly cleared that afternoon, for
the 62nd were now exhausted. They had made the biggest advance of any
division--4¹⁄₂ miles from their original front; but they would be the
first to acknowledge that the tanks alone had made this possible, and
had led them throughout. Some of G Battalion even had not finished yet.
They crossed the Bapaume-Cambrai road and entered Bourlon Wood. There
was little or no opposition: the great wood, which was to be the centre
of such desperate fighting during the next week, appeared to be empty
of defenders. It is certain that with a brigade of fresh infantry it
could have been occupied and consolidated that evening. “The possession
of Bourlon Ridge”--to quote Sir Douglas Haig’s despatch--“would enable
our troops to obtain observation over the ground to the north,
which sloped gently down to the Sensée river. The enemy’s defensive
lines south of the Scarpe and Sensée rivers would thereby be turned,
his communications exposed to the observed fire of our artillery, and
his positions in this section jeopardised. In short, so great was the
importance of the ridge to the enemy that its loss would probably cause
the abandonment by the Germans of their carefully-prepared defence
systems for a considerable distance to the north of it.” Bourlon Wood
itself, at the southern end of the ridge, was also on the highest part,
and dominated the remainder. We could have captured it with ease on the
evening of the 20th, and continued the advance next day, but there was
no infantry capable of this final effort. The tanks unsupported could
not penetrate far into the gloomy wood, still less attempt to hold it;
and after a while they withdrew.
[Illustration: Battle of Cambrai. Bourlon Wood and Village, with
Bapaume-Cambrai road in front.]
The first day’s battle, in fact, was now at an end. It was after
four o’clock, and the November twilight was falling. In the eastern
outskirts of Anneux and Masnières, our furthest points of penetration,
street-fighting was still in progress; and at Flesquières, far behind,
the stubborn garrison continued to resist, although almost completely
surrounded; but all around this isolated conflict the routine tasks
of consolidation and clearance and preparation for the morrow were
already in full swing. The meagre infantry reserves--some three or
four brigades,--masses of belated cavalry and endless columns of guns,
were pushing forward through the dusk; and everywhere the tanks were
rolling home to their rallying-points. Except for the unfortunate check
at Flesquières, the day had been one series of startling triumphs. In
ten hours three defence systems, believed to be all but impregnable,
had fallen like things of buckram: an area of ground as large as the
whole Ypres salient, containing a dozen villages and hamlets, had
been overrun; and 7000 or 8000 prisoners, with upwards of 100 guns,
already were in our hands. Great masses of material had been captured;
quartermasters’ stores, field post-offices, canteens, cinema theatres,
hospitals--all these were among the miscellaneous acquisitions of that
day. The surprise had been overwhelmingly complete, and the German
infantry, with few exceptions, had been routed with an ease that had
no precedent in the war, because the correct use of the determining
factor had no precedent either. The panic spread far to the rear, for
in Cambrai and beyond all was confusion and dismay.
These great results had been gained at a relatively trifling cost to
ourselves; and it is impossible to reflect upon this beginning without
deploring the inadequate resources which caused it, in the end, to
remain no more than a brilliant but disappointing fragment. There is
no need, however, to go into this subject again. We have seen already
that there were no fresh reserves available, or none to speak of. Sir
Julien Byng had in hand a few brigades of infantry, tired but hitherto
not engaged, a couple of hundred tanks, whose stipulated work was more
than accomplished, and whose crews and supplies alike were exhausted,
and an entire cavalry corps which practically had done nothing at all.
There should also perhaps be included the French troops on his right,
and the divisions engaged in the subsidiary attack at Bullecourt, which
had been highly successful; but none of these were in a position to
reinforce him to a degree comparable to his opportunities. With another
three or four divisions, instead of three or four brigades, behind
his main battle front, there would have been some chance even of the
optimistic schemes of exploitation being realised without any miracles
by the cavalry. There were still thirty-six hours before the enemy
could hope to collect his own reinforcements.
What, in the meantime, of the cavalry, who were to be galloping for the
Sensée? The great proportion of these troops, whose talk (in Amiens or
Boulogne) was always of speed and dash and initiative, and for whose
benefit, that these qualities might be utilised, the special tanks had
cleared wide passages in the wire, had arrived upon the field four
hours late. Any one who has seen cavalry on the march trying to find
their way anywhere by the use of a map will understand readily how
this occurred; and it is probable that these laggards, even in such a
_débâcle_, would very soon have ceased to be of use as mounted troops;
but they could have fought very usefully on foot, as they were forced
to do when they did arrive. One small unit, a squadron of the Canadian
Fort Garry Horse, less pedantic or more skilled in map-reading than its
regular colleagues, pushed early to the front, managed to cross the
Canal de L’Escaut by an extemporised bridge, rushed the half-finished
Beaurevoir-Masnières line on the slope beyond, and dispersed some
infantry and captured a battery behind it. This quite exceptional
feat may be held to prove that cavalry are still the great winners of
battles that they were in the time of Turenne. It remains, however, an
isolated performance; and the Canadians in the end met their inevitable
fate. All their horses were killed or wounded, and they were reduced to
fighting, like any infantrymen, behind the bank of a sunken road. Their
gallantry, skill, and good fortune only served to emphasise the case of
the numerous regular regiments who were unable to achieve anything at
all.
It is necessary to descend now from the sublime to the ridiculous, and
to consider briefly the condition of the nine tank battalions at the
end of this first day’s fighting, to the success of which they had
mainly contributed. “By 4 P.M. on the 20th November,” to quote ‘Weekly
Tank Notes,’ “one of the most astonishing battles in all history had
been won, and as far as the Tank Corps was concerned, tactically
finished, for no reserves existing, it was not possible to do more than
rally the now very weary and exhausted crews, select the fittest, and
patch up composite companies to continue the attack on the morrow.”
I have pointed out before the actual physical exhaustion, due to
extreme heat, cramped quarters, jolting, and other causes, entailed
in any prolonged operation in a tank. Of the machines which rallied
on the evening of November 20th nearly all had been running for at
least sixteen hours. Some had covered distances undreamt of in any
previous tank action. All were out of petrol, water, and ammunition,
and many had mechanical troubles that needed attention. The crews
to a man were dog-tired, but before they could think of rest every
remediable want had to be satisfied. Petrol and water tanks must be
refilled, expended ammunition replaced, and minor repairs effected.
For the brigade and battalion staffs there was the task of calculating
losses and effectives, and of arranging for the formation of composite
companies for the continuation of the battle next day. There was not an
additional man or tank to be had: all had been in action; and, as the
quotation above points out, the battle of Cambrai tactically was at an
end for the Tank Corps. It had done all and more than it had promised
to do, but there remained the necessity of continuing to help the no
less exhausted infantry to round off, if possible, the first day’s
victory. The losses in personnel had been considerable, and in tanks,
from various causes, very serious. The 1st Brigade alone had nearly 40
tanks hit and disabled, mostly on the Flesquières ridge. It is doubtful
if half of the original 378 fighting machines were now available, and
for immediate use the proportion was far smaller. Nevertheless, early
on the morning of the 21st, detachments from all three brigades were
in action again. On the right, tanks of F Battalion moved out from
Marcoing against the Beaurevoir-Masnières line, but the infantry, a
fresh brigade unaccustomed to tanks, failed to co-operate, and the
attack was a failure. Twenty-five tanks of B and H Battalions of the
2nd Brigade, with infantry of the 51st Division, rushed Cantaing,
Noyelles, and Fontaine-Notre-Dame. Cantaing was carried by tanks alone,
and handed over to the infantry by noon. Fontaine, which is virtually
an outlying suburb of Cambrai, was occupied after severe fighting
later in the day. In the meantime detachments from D and G completed
the capture of Anneux, and carried a trench line to the north of it.
Tanks once more pushed up the grass drives in Bourlon Wood, and once
more had to return through lack of support. The wood was now occupied
in force by the enemy, and was full of machine-guns. With the close
of the day the original time limit of forty-eight hours expired; but
the Commander-in-Chief, for reasons which he explains in his despatch,
decided to allow the operation to continue. Great progress had been
made, the enemy was badly shaken, and the situation in Italy, where
the disaster of Caporetto had occurred, required further efforts to
pin down the German reserves. Some additional divisions, including
the Guards and two detailed for the Italian front, were at this late
hour given to General Byng, and he was ordered to proceed with the
attack. The 22nd, therefore, was spent mostly in reorganisation, and
in preparing for a renewal of the battle. This involved a reshuffling
of tank units among others. The centre of interest having shifted to
Bourlon Ridge and its neighbourhood, the 3rd Tank Brigade was attached
to the 3rd Corps, and proceeded to trek northward from Villers-Plouich,
where all available tanks had concentrated. Further evidence of the
importance of the northern area was forthcoming in the afternoon, when
the Germans, whose own reserves were coming up, drove the 51st Division
out of Fontaine-Notre-Dame. Nearly 60 tanks of the 1st and 2nd Brigades
were collected for the attack on the 23rd. A furious struggle took
place in Fontaine, lasting throughout the day. Eight times the tanks
of the 2nd Brigade pushed through the village under an intense hail of
bullets and grenades from the upper stories of the houses. As soon as
they withdrew, the infantry, who had followed, were driven out again,
and at length were unable to give any support at all. Field-guns had
been brought into the village, and 11 tanks were hit and left there
when the assault finally was abandoned. The 1st Brigade, however,
admirably followed by the 40th Division, succeeded at last in clearing
Bourlon Wood and village, in spite of the fact that G Battalion’s
tanks were delayed till noon by bad traffic control holding up their
supplies. There was very severe fighting in the wood and village, the
tanks expending every round of 6-pdr. shell and most of their S.A.A.
The village itself could not be held, but the great wood remained in
our possession. Further to the west, about Mœuvres, on the Canal du
Nord, progress was also made.
The Tank Corps was now fought virtually to a standstill. Rest and
recuperation were imperative for officers, men, and machines, or for
what was left. “On the 25th and 27th November further attacks were
made by tanks and infantry on Bourlon and Fontaine-Notre-Dame with
varying successes, but eventually both these villages remained in the
hands of the enemy. During the attacks which had taken place since the
21st November, tank units had become terribly disorganised, and by
the 27th had been reduced to such a state of exhaustion that it was
determined to withdraw the 1st and 2nd Brigades. This withdrawal was
nearing completion when the great German counter-attack was launched
early on the morning of the 30th November.... It is an interesting
point to remember that in this battle the attacking infantry were
assisted by 690 officers and 3500 other ranks of the Tank Corps, a
little over 4000 men or the strength of a strong brigade, and that
these men replaced artillery wire-cutting, and rendered unnecessary
the old preliminary bombardment. More than this, by keeping close to
the infantry they effected a much higher co-operation than had ever
before been attainable with artillery. When on the 21st November the
bells of London pealed forth in celebration of the victory of Cambrai,
consciously or unconsciously to their listeners they tolled out an old
tactics and rang in a new--Cambrai had become the Valmy of a new epoch
in war, the epoch of the mechanical engineer.”[21]
[Illustration: Disabled Tank in Fontaine-Notre-Dame, November 1917.
(German Photo.)]
[Illustration: G Battalion Tanks at the Shooting-Box, Bourlon Wood,
November 1917.
(German Photo.)]
IV.
On 30th November, as everybody knows, the Germans launched two
tremendous attacks on the north and south-east flanks of the pronounced
salient which we now held in front of Cambrai. On the north, from
Bourlon to Mœuvres, where the main blow was delivered, it ended in a
sanguinary repulse. Far away to the south at Gouzeaucourt, however,
where the line was very attenuated in consequence of our preoccupation
with the Bourlon area, a very serious breakdown occurred. Assisted
by a great number of low-flying aeroplanes and preceded by a short
but intense bombardment, the attack for a time carried everything
before it. Villers-Guislain and Gonnelieu were carried at the first
rush, and by 9 A.M. Gouzeaucourt itself, the Headquarters of the 29th
Division, was captured. It was a repetition on a smaller scale of our
surprise ten days before. Hospitals, stores, and dumps of every kind
of material, together with a great number of guns, were lost in the
first three or four hours, and the roads westward were choked with
stragglers and escaping transport. The nearest Tank Brigade to the
danger point was the 2nd, concentrated about Fins railhead. A Battalion
had rejoined, and the whole brigade was preparing to entrain for
Plateau station and the winter quarters at Bray. Rumours of the attack
arrived early, but it was not until 9.55 that a telephone message came
through from the 3rd Corps. Although all the machines were more or less
dismantled and totally unfit for action, within three hours 36 from A
and B Battalions were moving toward Gouzeaucourt, followed two hours
later by a reserve of 20 from H Battalion. The Guards having recaptured
Gouzeaucourt, the tanks patrolled beyond as a screen. On the following
morning a composite detachment from A and B helped the dismounted
troopers of the 5th Cavalry Division to clear Gauche Wood, but attempts
on Villers-Guislain and Gonnelieu--the latter by the Guards and tanks
from H Battalion--were eventually held up. The tanks, however, did
tremendous execution among the enemy, who was in great force, and this
spirited rejoinder stopped effectively any further attempts by the
Germans to advance. The rapidity with which these tank counter-attacks
were organised and carried out with stripped and unready machines,
and in circumstances of peculiar difficulty, was in itself highly
creditable. It provided also decisive evidence on a point hitherto
doubted by sceptics--the value of tanks in such an emergency.
As a result of the German surprise, the Cambrai Salient was contracted
and Bourlon Wood abandoned. There was no further fighting for the Tank
Corps. The 1st Brigade remained for a dreary fortnight in a defensive
position at Dessart Wood, passing the nights in towing heavy guns back
from Villers-Plouich. The other two brigades had withdrawn to Bray, and
the 1st followed to Meaulte in the latter half of December.
NOTE.--Two authoritative German comments on the battle of
Cambrai show how fully the enemy realised that he had been
saved from a great disaster by our lack of faith in tanks.
Hindenburg, in his ‘Memoirs,’ writes as follows: “By neglecting
to exploit a brilliant initial success they had let victory
be snatched from them, and indeed by troops which were far
inferior to their own both in numbers and quality.... Moreover,
his High Command seemed to have failed to concentrate the
resources required to secure the execution of their plans
and their exploitation in case of success. Strong bodies of
cavalry assembled behind the triumphant leading infantry
divisions failed, even on this occasion, to overcome the last
line of resistance, weak though it was, which barred the way
to the flank and rear of their opponents. The English cavalry
squadrons were not able to conquer the German defence, even
with the help of their tanks, and proved unequal to decorating
their standards with that victory for which they had striven so
honourably and so often.”
General Otto von Moser, commanding the 14th Reserve Corps
during the battle, points out that the British “failed because
they luckily had not the dozen or two dozen divisions at hand
to exploit the undeniable success of the 20th November.”
CHAPTER XIV.
MISCELLANEOUS. THE GERMANS AND THE TANK: THE FRENCH ARTILLERIE D’ASSAUT.
I.
The battle of Cambrai having converted not only ourselves but also
the enemy to a belief in the tactical and moral value of the new arm,
it will be convenient at this point to deal with the German attitude
toward tanks and the measures adopted to cope with the latter.
It often is assumed that the German conversion was yet more grudging
than our own; that until Cambrai they refused to admit that tanks had
any value whatever; and that even after that battle they remained for
some time very sceptical about the new doctrines. But I think these are
only half-truths. I think the Germans realised far sooner than we did
the moral influence of the attack by armour, while failing perhaps to
appreciate until it was too late the complete tactical revolution it
was bringing about. In the end they became more bigoted converts than
any British soldier outside the Tank Corps itself. I spent six months
with the Army of Occupation in Cologne, and I found everywhere the same
bitter feelings about tanks. “Deutsches’ Tod” they were called--the
Death of Germany. In private conversation, as well as in public print,
they were coupled with the blockade as one of the two chief factors in
the downfall of the country. With that extraordinary but quite sincere
inability to understand any point of view but their own, the authors
of the Belgian atrocities, the inventors of chlorine gas, the first
people to poison wells, one and all are inclined to regard the use of
tanks as a brutal and unjustifiable measure, worthy only of savages. A
nation so illogical should be capable, through sheer thick-headedness,
of going very far.
The early appreciation by the Germans of the moral effect of tanks is
manifest in their repeated efforts to belittle them. The brave Michael
was always being assured in published orders that these machines were
worse than useless. “The infantry must not let itself be frightened
by tanks. The fighting capacity of the tank is small owing to the
bad visibility, and the shooting powers of the machine-guns and guns
cramped and inaccurate as the result of the motion. It has been proved
that tank crews are nervous and are inclined to turn back or leave the
tank.... The hostile infantry follows tanks only half-heartedly....”
(Order issued to the 7th Cavalry Division, 26th September 1917.) The
Mark II. tanks captured at Arras, and the Mark IV.’s left behind
after the Cambrai withdrawal, were used to demonstrate the inherent
weaknesses of the invention and the extreme discomfort endured by the
crews. It was found, however, that with all this the Higher Command
was unable to infect the German soldier with its own lofty contempt
for tanks. The brave Michael persisted in his delusions, and was so
wrong-headed even as to ask why the enemy was allowed a monopoly of
these engines of war. It must be remembered that by the autumn of 1917
the French St Chamond and Schneider machines had been used in some
numbers and with considerable success in Champagne, so that the German
infantryman saw himself threatened everywhere by the new weapon; and
he knew perfectly well that as an individual he was entirely helpless
against it, whatever might be the general outcome of a battle in which
it was employed. He could not acquire the detached outlook of the
Great General Staff at Spa. And it was in consequence of this feeling
in the subordinate ranks that, before the battle of Cambrai, the
Great General Staff stultified all its own published convictions by
authorising the construction of German tanks. There can be no doubt
that this measure, half-hearted as it was, arose out of some sort of
pressure from below. The Higher Command was still unconvinced, but it
was necessary for the encouragement of the less intelligent to make
a pretence of conversion. A good deal of talk, a little work, and
the eventual appearance of a few German tanks behind the line would
counteract these mischievous apprehensions--or so it was hoped.
The German Tank Corps bore all the marks of an indifferent, if not
inimical parentage. In the beginning it was quite a small affair, and
any subsequent attempts to enlarge it to adequate proportions came too
late or were hampered by lack of means. An official German document
states that only 15 machines were ever completed. Ten more apparently
were under order in the autumn of 1918, by which date 25 captured
British Mark IV. tanks had also been included in the new unit. The
total of effectives (40) was divided into eight sections--or, as the
Germans happily named them, _Sturmpanzerkraftwagenabteilungen_. (One
would think this mouthful alone sufficient to deter recruits.) There
were three sections of German tanks and five of British, each section
consisting of five machines. An M.T. Testing Company stationed near
Berlin instructed the crews and tested all tanks before issue.
The original German _Panzerkraftwagen_ was a clumsy machine, based, it
is said, on stolen drawings of the French St Chamond type. It weighed
approximately 40 tons, was 24 feet long, 11 feet high, and 10 feet 6
inches wide. On good ground it could travel for a short distance at a
speed of 8-10 miles an hour. It was propelled by two 100-h.p. German
Daimler engines, each driving a single track, which permitted of a
one-man control, as in our Mark V.’s. The interior was divided into
front and rear compartments joined by narrow gangways on either side
of the central engine casing. In front were one 5.7 cm. Q.F. gun
(equivalent to our 6-pounder) and two heavy machine-guns, and in the
rear four more machine-guns. The crew consisted of an officer and no
fewer than fifteen or sixteen men, who must have crowded the narrow
quarters intolerably; and as three branches of the service--artillery,
infantry, and technical--were represented, each ignorant of the other’s
duties, there was much friction between them. The tank was heavily
armoured, especially in front, where the plating was 1³⁄₁₆ inches
in thickness, and would keep out common shell from a field-gun at a
moderate range; but the roof was very thin, and the whole machine was
so roughly put together that wide crevices around the gun-ports made
it unpleasantly vulnerable to the splash from machine-gun bullets.
There was room in places for the bullets themselves to enter. Being
built on the ordinary tractor principle, with a very low clearance
from the ground and a long flat tread, the tank could neither cross a
considerable trench nor surmount any serious obstacle. There was no
unditching apparatus. The only improvement on our design was the sprung
track, which reduced wear and shock, and in so ponderous a machine was
a notable innovation. Observation was exceptionally bad. The officer
and driver sat above the engine, their heads and shoulders in a central
cab which rose two feet above the roof, and as the latter projected
forward for ten feet, it hid from them all the ground immediately in
front.
In every respect, in fact, excepting the sprung tracks, the
_Panzerkraftwagen_ was clumsy and inefficient to a degree.
Notwithstanding its one-man control, the officers of the new unit
preferred to handle the British Mark IV.’s, even during trials on level
ground; and for all practical purposes there was no comparison between
the two in general utility and handiness. And while the machine itself
was mistrusted, and with justice, another and unforeseen difficulty
was soon apparent. The higher command had talked more cleverly than it
knew. It had belittled all tanks so persistently, had made so strong an
argument out of the perils and discomforts of all tank warfare, that
the brave Michael, now that he had his own engine of destruction,
showed no enthusiasm for using it. The German tank crews, in fact, were
thoroughly afraid of their Frankensteins; and their rare appearances
in action were marked almost uniformly by that discretion which seemed
naturally to them by far the better part of valour. In some cases they
ditched their machines deliberately before any further harm could
overtake them. Only at Villers-Bretonneux did the German-made tanks
achieve any success--the counter-attack at Niergnies six months later
was carried out by captured British Mark IV.’s.
[Illustration: German Tank, “Adalbert.” (German Photo.)]
[Illustration: French Heavy Schneider Tank, carrying 7.5 field-gun.
(German Photo.)]
II.
German anti-tank measures in the early days followed obvious lines,
such as the use of armour-piercing bullets and direct field-artillery
fire. There was also employed on a few occasions a 1-pounder
automatic gun of the “Pom-pom” type. One of these weapons was found
in Kitchener’s Wood, in the Salient. It is possible that the wider
Hindenburg trenches were constructed with a view to discomfiting tanks.
The battle of Cambrai, however, besides demonstrating what tanks could
accomplish in a general way, given good conditions, demolished also the
Hindenburg fetish, and the shock of this discovery produced a crop of
reports and suggestions on the subject. Units were asked for statements
as to their experiences in the battle. One division (believed to be the
119th, holding the Fontaine-Notre-Dame sector from the 23rd November
onwards) reported as follows:--
“The division came into the Cambrai battle on the 22nd
November, and since that date has fought on several occasions,
and always successfully, against British tanks. Its experiences
are borne out by the statements of several British tank crews,
including the captain of a company of tanks.”
These prisoners, by the way, appear to have been unnecessarily
communicative. The report, after describing the method of attack and
the size and armament of tanks, continues:--
“German defence and defensive measures were weak. Losses on
both sides scarcely worth mentioning.... Pace (of tanks)
three or four miles per hour. They may surmount practically
all obstacles. One tank in Fontaine climbed up a steep
orchard, broke the trees, crossed two well-built 5-foot high
garden-walls, and, in turning, knocked down the corner of a
house.... Serious obstacles are constituted by trenches at
least 13-16 feet wide and 10 feet deep. Also by marshy ground.
Ploughed land is easily negotiated; also barricades. _The
building of obstacles does not pay. It is better to attack
tanks energetically_.... Tanks must be heavily fired at (by
artillery) during their advance, even if there is no likelihood
of hitting them. The main thing is to prevent the infantry from
following the tanks. The infantry must be made to fear the area
where the tanks are. In point of fact, the British infantry was
soon one to two miles behind the tanks, and at Fontaine did not
follow them at all.”
This is an interesting confirmation of a point already referred to. The
report goes on to remark that--
“... as actual anti-tank defence, only special guns situated
in the forward zone, which put the tanks out of action by fire
over open sights, are suitable. Each direct hit kills part of
the crew, and often sets the tank on fire. Detachments situated
further to the rear have no knowledge of the situation, and
often arrive too late.
“Such guns must, on principle, be situated well forward; then
the enemy will not succeed in a surprise attack.
“The O. i/c Defence Troops must be made responsible for the
siting of the anti-tank guns.
“Guns mounted on lorries do excellent work if the roads are
good.
“_Infantry._ The front line must only make a gap to let through
tanks not put out of action, and take cover; they must not
retire. Tanks must be dealt with _behind_ the front. The chief
object is the _repulse of the enemy infantry_. The tank captain
said, ‘_Tanks can gain ground, but can never hold it alone._’
This is a great point to remember when discussing them.
“Isolated commands in rear should be detailed for anti-tank
defence.
“_Means of Defence._ The chief one is the armour-piercing
bullet. It is feared by the tank crews because it goes clean
through the armour-plating, causing a long flame, and often
setting fire to the petrol-tank.
“The tank is best attacked from the rear. House-to-house
fighting against tanks is very favourable to infantry. The men
take cover in the houses, let the tank pass, and then fire at
it from the rear at close range with rifles and M.G.’s.
“The 46th I.R. accounted for four tanks in Fontaine in this way.
“_Hand Grenades._ Are useless singly; they only have effect if
several are tied together and thrown under the tank, but this
is very difficult.
“_T.M.’s._ Light T.M.’s can be made effective with flat
trajectory fire. Used singly they have good results.
“Anti-tank defence must be discussed and practised, when the
tanks lose their terror. Men fought for four hours violently
against eight tanks which penetrated into Fontaine, and of
which only two were able to return (four were accounted for by
infantry and two by artillery); moreover, eleven derelict tanks
are lying just outside our lines.
“MULLER-LOEBNITZ, Maj.,
for C.G.S.”[22]
It will be seen that the Germans continued to magnify the powers of
the armour-piercing bullets--a curious error, as the captured tanks
must have shown its comparative inefficacy against the plating on the
Mark IV.’s. Probably the captured personnel exaggerated the effect of
splinters and the ordinary bullet-splash round the gun-ports. It is
interesting also to note the remarks about the petrol-tank. This was
always considered by the enemy to be the tank’s weak spot, although in
fact no more vulnerable in itself than any other.
Soon after Cambrai the Germans were devoting their whole energies to
preparations for their own great offensive, which was launched in the
following spring, and defensive measures of all kinds were secondary
considerations for the time being. But when the three successive blows
on the Somme, the Lys, and the Aisne had come at length to an end, and
were countered, with startling rapidity and effect, by the French and
British attacks on 18th July and 8th August 1918, the enemy was aroused
very roughly to a realisation of his peril and of the power of the
weapon he had affected to despise. The 8th August, in particular, was
entirely a tank victory--a greater and more brilliant Cambrai; and the
astonishing collapse of the defence threw the Great General Staff into
a panic from which it never was allowed to recover. From this date to
the end a persistent refrain, rising at length to a frantic crescendo
of warning and exhortation, runs through all the orders issued to the
German armies, and the burden of it is tanks, tanks, and again tanks.
A few extracts, taken at random, from captured German orders,
prisoners’ statements, and similar channels of information, will show
very clearly the disillusionment and alarm which spread through the
armies after the rout of Von Hutier and Von der Marwitz in front of
Amiens. During the Arras operations at the end of August, for example,
documents were secured which showed that divisional anti-tank officers
had been created. A similar regimental appointment was recommended.
The divisional anti-tank officer was not to be employed for any other
purpose, and was to be given the utmost assistance by all ranks and
units. Further, a G.H.Q. Routine Order laid down that officers and
other ranks who had done good work in repelling tanks were to be
mentioned in Army Orders, and that specially meritorious acts were to
be rewarded by decorations. About the same time an order was issued
from the headquarters of the Crown Prince’s group of armies which ran
as follows:--
“According to reports received from G.H.Q. during the recent
fighting on the Second and Eighteenth Army fronts, large
numbers of tanks broke through on narrow fronts, and, pushing
straight forward, immediately attacked the battery positions
and headquarters of divisions. In many places no defence could
be made in time owing to the fact that batteries which had
their guns dug in were insufficiently mobile and were only
ready to open fire too late to defend themselves against the
tanks, which attacked them from all sides. Anti-tank defence
must be developed on the lines of those experiences.”[23]
Among prisoners’ statements, again, we find that various N.C.O.’s all
agreed that “tanks always create a moral effect on infantry, however
often they have seen tanks, or have been told by officers that they
will be quite safe if they take cover and let the tanks pass on. _It is
recognised that infantry can do nothing against tanks._”[24] On 25th
August the 38th German Division was adjured to pull itself together
and show a better front to tank attacks. “The troops themselves
will await a tank attack with calmness. The first essential for the
infantry is that they should keep their heads.” A month later we find
General Von Wrisberg endeavouring to encourage the civilians at home.
Speaking for the Minister of War in the Reichstag, he remarked, “the
American armies also should not terrify us. We shall also settle
with them. More momentous for us is the question of tanks. We are
adequately armed against them. Anti-tank defence is nowadays more a
question of nerves than of material.” Soon after General Von Wrisberg
had spoken, the second battle of Cambrai began. The tanks once more
proved too much for the nerves of the German infantry, and prisoners
provided the usual illuminating confirmation of this. It appeared that
in spite of all exhortations “the German infantry still considers
that as soon as the tanks have broken through their line, further
resistance is useless.... The officers gave as their opinion that
tanks were a ‘brilliant invention,’ and wished that the Germans had
more of them. Lack of material, however, stood in the way.... A number
of intelligent N.C.O.’s (Sergeant-Majors and Sergeants) ... stated
that tanks invariably had a considerable moral effect on infantry,
however often they might be told that they had only to let them through
and the artillery would deal with them.”[25] In the same month a
German Corps Order lays down that “_Messages concerning tanks have
preference over all other telephone calls, including messages regarding
aeroplanes._”[26]
For some time past Ludendorff had been growing more and more concerned
over this new warfare. In a report on the battle of 8th August, he
gave as the first reason for the defeat, “the fact that the troops
were surprised by the massed attack of tanks, and lost their heads
when the tanks suddenly appeared behind them under cover of natural
and artificial fog.” This, of course, was no more than the truth; but
it was a novel confession for the Great General Staff to make, and
indicated the grave apprehensions which the disaster had aroused, for
there could be no guarantee against the troops losing their heads a
second time, or a third. “Nerves” play an increasing part in official
German cajolings and extenuations from now to the end, but this
obnoxious and unsoldier-like word was never used before the tanks
caused it to become a normal feature in every apologia. Ludendorff,
once awake to the new danger, took vigorous although quite useless
steps to combat it by practical measures in the field. These we
will consider next, but before concluding this sketchy selection of
documentary evidence, one final and authoritative witness remains to be
heard--the Great General Staff itself. A short time ago, Colonel Bauer,
who had been head of the Artillery Department at headquarters, and
who is credited by German public opinion with having been the special
confidant and political inspirer of Ludendorff, issued a pamphlet
professing to give the General Staff’s version of the events which led
up to the Armistice. Throughout September and October, it appears,
Ludendorff made repeated demands for peace while the armies were still
intact, pointing out that it was necessary to reckon on an increasing
deterioration of the military situation. At the end of September Von
Hindenburg agreed to lay before the new Government just formed under
Prince Max of Baden a true statement of affairs. On 2nd October the
representatives from General Headquarters met the party leaders of
the Reichstag, and presented to them the report. It began with this
striking passage:--
“The chief army command has been compelled to take a terribly
grave decision, and declare that, according to human
probabilities, there is no longer any prospect of forcing
peace on the enemy. Above all, two facts have been decisive
for this issue. First, the tanks. The enemy has employed them
in unexpectedly large numbers. Where, after a very liberal
clouding of our positions with artificial mist, they effected
a surprise, our men’s nerves were often unequal to them.
Here they broke through our first line, opened a way for
their infantry, appeared in the rear, created local panics,
and threw the control of the fighting into confusion. When
they had once been identified our tank defence weapons and
our artillery quickly settled with them. Then, however, the
misfortune had already happened, and solely the successes of
the tanks explain the large numbers of prisoners which so
painfully reduced our strengths, and brought about a more rapid
consumption of reserves than we had hitherto been accustomed to.
“We were not in a position to oppose to the enemy equal masses
of German tanks. Their construction would have exceeded
the resources of our industry, which was strained to the
uttermost, or other more important things would have had to be
neglected.”--‘Daily Telegraph,’ 21st July 1919.[27]
This confession, coming from such a quarter, needs little comment.
It seems to justify all the arguments by which I have tried to show
how tanks, when at length properly employed, determined not only the
duration, but also to a large extent the actual result, of the war.
Yet, as I write, there appears to be every probability that no tank
corps will be included in the post-bellum army! The cavalry, useless
and inefficient, is of course to remain at full strength; infantry
and artillery are to be cut down to a minimum to provide money for
ameliorating the lives of coal miners; and the Tank Corps, as an
unnecessary extravagance, is in danger of total abolition. Truly we are
a remarkable people.
III.
After the 8th August the Germans began feverishly to devise anti-tank
measures of every kind. It is doubtful if the immense fronts which
modern armies occupy can ever be protected satisfactorily by artificial
means against whole-hearted tank attacks; and in any case the Germans
were allowed no time to perfect such stationary defences. Field
artillery remained to the end the best anti-tank weapon. Special guns
were now brought forward near the front line, to remain silent until
the moment of attack, when they were to concentrate on tanks. Our
barrage, however, usually accounted for most of these advanced pieces
before they could do much harm, while the remainder were overrun by
the tanks in the first rush, which always took place at dawn. More
dangerous were reserve guns which moved up to selected positions
further back as soon as the attack started. “Finally, all German
batteries, including howitzers, had general instructions to plan their
positions in such a way that advancing tanks would be subject to a
direct fire at about 500 or 600 yards’ range. In the event of a tank
attack the engagement of our machines was now to be the first call
upon the artillery, to the exclusion of counter-battery or any other
work.”[28]
The only novel weapon of offence introduced was the anti-tank rifle.
This was a huge affair, 5¹⁄₂ feet long, and provided with biped legs
and an ordinary wooden stock. It fired armour-piercing bullets of .530
calibre and had no magazine. “It was obviously too conspicuous and too
slow a weapon to be really effective against tanks, though the steel
core could penetrate the armour of British tanks at several hundred
yards’ range. The chief disadvantage of the anti-tank rifle, however,
was that the German soldier would not use it. He was untrained in its
use, afraid of its kick, and still more afraid of the tanks themselves.
It is doubtful if more than one per cent of the A.T. rifles captured in
our tank attacks had ever been fired.”[29]
A great variety of fixed obstructions were set up in village streets,
on roads, and at other suitable points. None of these gave us any
serious trouble. Usually they could be avoided. The road obstacles,
in fact, comprising craters, barricades of carts filled with bricks,
and concrete blocks, allowing only a narrow passage which could be
closed with railway iron, seem primarily to have been intended to hold
up whippets and armoured cars. Land mines, on the other hand, which
were used rather extensively, while generally ineffective, served to
impose caution on any tank commander who knew of, or suspected, their
existence. They generally took the form of high-explosive shells with
light fuses, buried in rows a few inches below the surface of a road
or across some other likely defile, and fitted with a simple wooden
device which the weight of a tank pressed down upon the nose-cap, so
detonating the fuse. One or two large mine-fields were laid, in which
a more elaborate apparatus was used. Oddly enough, it was one of our
own mine-fields, prepared before the March retreat and afterwards
forgotten, which caused the only serious disaster tanks ever suffered
from this form of defence.
Two more unusual types of obstacle came within my own experience.
Along the valley which runs between the first and second Hindenburg
Lines from Pronville to Inchy-en-Artois, on the Canal du Nord, was the
dried-up bed of a stream called the Hirondelle. Its banks were lined
with stout willows, and where the gaps between these were wide enough
for a tank to pass through, the Germans had planted lengths of railway
line, upright but inclining forward, the ends embedded in concrete
blocks sunk in the ground. As this part of the line was taken in
reverse by the capture of Quéant, tanks had no opportunity of testing
this obstacle. I think the rails would have been pushed over with
ease, but the process might have held up the tanks for a few dangerous
minutes in full view of the second Hindenburg Line. In the main street
of Inchy itself were two massive blocks of concrete 6 feet high,
with the usual narrow passage between, and each furnished with half
a dozen of these inclined iron rails, which rose to the house-tops.
This barricade would have stopped any tank. More interesting than this
defence scheme, however, was the elaborate but unfinished stockade
at Achiet-le-Grand. The Arras-Bapaume railway curves across most of
this region on a high embankment. This in itself was not generally
unsurmountable, but tanks in the act of climbing over it would stand
out as magnificent targets for the German batteries, which then were
posted on the other side. At one point, just north of Achiet-le-Grand
station, a rise of ground caused the embankment to fall away to nothing
for two or three hundred yards, and attacking tanks, it was thought,
naturally would make for this crossing. In front of it, therefore,
parallel to the line, the Germans began a really formidable anti-tank
stockade. It was made of lengths of railway line and stout telegraph
poles, three rails or two poles being lashed together, fixed in cement
bases, and buried in the ground, above which they rose to a height of
4 feet. Inclining forward, these stakes were planted 7 feet apart in
several rows, each row covering the spaces of the one in front. It was
found that tanks could force a passage through this _abattis_ only
by approaching it obliquely and crushing down one row of stakes at a
time, a slow process which would have exposed them helplessly to the
batteries close beyond. In the attack on this position on 21st August
1918, when a great number of tanks were knocked out along the railway,
the stockade was not attempted. There was a similar form of obstacle on
the Bapaume-Cambrai road, and there may have been others.
Taken as a whole, these various artificial impediments inevitably
proved a failure. There was no time for the Germans to cover every
vulnerable point in such a fashion, and isolated obstacles were useless
against a tank attack on a wide front. In any case, the principle of
passive defence was bound to be fatal in the end; and the Germans,
realising this, were at work when the war finished upon an instrument
which they hoped would replace all these makeshifts. This instrument
was the “Tuf” or _Tank und Flieger_ machine-gun, a huge Maxim firing
armour-piercing bullets of 13 mm. diameter. This formidable weapon
must have been deadly against our Mark IV.’s and V.’s, for its stream
of heavy bullets would have gone clean through the armour. Profound
importance was attached to its speedy production, in which sixty
factories were engaged, and it was given priority over submarines and
aeroplanes (another testimony to the German fear of tanks). Major
Williams-Ellis, in ‘The Tank Corps,’ gives the following interesting
details of the fate of this invention:--
“No less than 6000 of these guns were to be in the field by
April 1919, and delivery was to begin early in the previous
December--just a month too late. However, when the armistice
was signed the firms were already in possession of the greater
part of the stores and raw material for the manufacture of
the guns, a quantity of which were by then well on the way to
completion. Immediately after the signing of the armistice
all the factories, without exception, were instructed by
telephone to continue manufacturing the ‘Tuf,’ and about 20th
November they received confirmation in writing of this order,
and were instructed to keep on their workmen at all costs.
Our occupation of the left bank of the Rhine proved a serious
drawback to a continuation of the manufacture, as it completely
interrupted communication between several of the factories.
The Piaff Works of Kaiserslautern (Palatinate), and the great
Becker Steel Works of Crefeld, which played an important part
in the manufacture of the guns, had to close down, both being
on the left bank of the Rhine.
“The Minister of War, throughout the period of its manufacture,
asked for daily and minute reports as to the progress of the
‘Tuf.’ But once more, as ever in all that concerned tanks, the
Germans were several months too late. We were never destined to
face this particular weapon with the Mark V. The modern tank
fears it not at all.”
IV.
It may seem ill-mannered to relegate an account of the French Tank
Corps to the tail-end of a discursive chapter devoted mainly to the
Germans and their doings. But the subject of the _Artillerie d’Assaut_,
if treated adequately, would require a book to itself, and is, in fact,
outside the scope of this narrative. Considerations of space, already
becoming urgent, would alone forbid any detailed history. I wish merely
to outline very briefly here the inception and growth of the new arm in
the French service.
The French tank was evolved independently of our own. Its author may
be said to have been Colonel Estienne, of the Artillery. This officer,
observing in 1915 the Holt tractors used by the British Army, was
inspired by the same idea which Colonel Swinton and his colleagues
already were perfecting in England. At the end of the year Colonel
Estienne put his views before General Joffre. After an interview
with the latter, he approached the Schneider Engineering Company on
the subject, and drew up with them the design of the machine he had
in mind. In February 1916, Schneiders received a definite order to
construct 400 machines, and a little later a second firm was told to
build another 400 of a heavier type. These last were the St Chamond
tanks, driven by petrol-electric motors. An instructional ground was
established at Marly-le-Roi, and Colonel Estienne was recalled from
Verdun to command the new unit.
The design of these French tanks differed in an important feature from
our own. It is better, perhaps, to say that they remained in a more
primitive stage of evolution. The idea of the wheel, and the subsequent
modification which produced the unique shape and capabilities of the
British tank, does not seem to have occurred to the constructors of
the Schneiders and St Chamonds. Both these types were modelled on the
ordinary tractor, and in consequence worked under severe limitations.
Obstacles that were negligible to a British tank they found impassable.
On the other hand, they carried a far heavier gun than our machines,
the 75 mm. field-piece of famous memory. In appearance they were small
editions of the German copy, the _Panzerkraftwagens_. Their light
weapon was the Hotchkiss automatic rifle, carried on our Whippets and
Mark V.’s.
Ten companies, of 16 tanks each, were formed in April 1917, one company
only consisting of St Chamonds. In various actions during the year,
the Schneiders did excellent work, but the St Chamonds proved to be a
failure. In the meantime, still working on very similar lines to our
own, Colonel Estienne was evolving an idea for a light tank. The result
was the remarkable little Rénault machine, of which no fewer than
3500 were ordered in June 1917. If we had designed the better heavy
tank, the French made a leap ahead with the Rénault; and it is highly
interesting to see how national habits of thought appear manifestly in
this connection. Our bias, in any sort of constructional work, leans
towards the heavy, durable, and expensive article. We have a horror
of anything cheap and fragile. This inclination, together with the
ingenious design of the large tank, worked for good in the case of the
latter; but when we came to build what we called light machines, our
limitations were very apparent. The Whippet was nearly as conspicuous
and as costly as the Mark IV. or V., was far more vulnerable and
intricate, was incapable of surmounting any serious obstacle, and
possessed only one merit--superior speed. It was absurd to describe it
as a light tank.[30] Colonel Estienne and his colleagues, on the other
hand, determined to produce a little, simple, inconspicuous machine
which could be manufactured rapidly at a small cost, and which was to
be capable of performing, under modern conditions, the task of the
French _Fantassin_, or skirmisher. The Rénaults, in fact, were to be
used in clouds in front of the infantry, like armoured light troops. If
20, or 50, or 100 were destroyed, they could easily be replaced. They
were not expected to cross wide trenches or climb vertical obstacles;
this was the preliminary task of the heavy tank. While the Whippet was
a weak compromise between the two types, the Rénault was definitely
limited in its functions. It was experimental in the sense that all
tanks during the war were experimental. There was no time in which to
play about with various designs, and in consequence the accepted model
had many faults, but it was a strikingly successful experiment on
novel lines. In appearance, with its hunched-up shoulders topped by a
bell-shaped cupola, and its curving iron tail introduced to prevent it
from turning on its back, it looked like some fabulous cross between
a grasshopper and a scorpion. Compared with all previous tanks it was
ridiculously small--a mere toy, even, beside a Whippet. It carried two
men, a driver who sat on the floor, and a gunner who swung half-upright
behind him in a sort of leather sling and fired a Hotchkiss from the
cupola, which revolved. It had a Rénault engine of only 17 h.p., narrow
sprung tracks, passing over a big idle wheel in front and a small
driving sprocket behind, and could travel on good ground at a speed of
six to seven miles an hour. It was extraordinarily handy, and by means
of two levers which threw the tracks out of gear it could be spun about
like a top. Owing, however, to its light weight and springy motion, it
must have been extremely awkward to aim from while on the move.
Astonishing rapidity of production was one of the chief merits of the
Rénault. After the victorious counterstroke against the Château-Thierry
Salient, in which these little machines played a decisive part, whole
battalions, each of 75 tanks, became available at the rate of one a
week! This permitted of tired units being replaced speedily by fresh
ones. The French Tank Corps was established on the normal continental
infantry basis, in regiments of three battalions; and it was proposed
to form, in addition to the regiments of Schneider and St Chamond
heavies, thirty battalions (ten regiments) of Rénaults. By August 1918
the personnel of the Corps numbered already 14,600 of all ranks. During
1918, 3988 individual tank engagements were fought, to which number the
diminutive Rénaults contributed 3140.
It is impossible here to give details of any of these tank actions.
What is called the Battle of Soissons--the brilliant series of
operations from 18th July onward which inaugurated the combined allied
offensive--was the Cambrai of the French Tank Corps. After that date
tanks were employed wherever possible, not only on the main front,
but at St Mihiel and even in Flanders, where the 6th French Army was
sent to strengthen General Plumer and the Belgians; and a company of
Rénaults went as far afield as Salonika. “Finally,” to quote ‘Weekly
Tank Notes,’ “it may be stated that as there can be no doubt that the
18th July was the second greatest turning-point in the war, the first
being the Battle of the Marne in 1914, so can there be no doubt that
the Battle of Soissons would never have been won had not the French
possessed a powerful force of tanks whereby to initiate success. The
German General Staff, which should be the best judge of this question,
candidly admit that the French victory was due to the use of ‘masses
of tanks’; neither was the General Commanding-in-Chief of the French
Armies reticent, for on the 30th July he issued the following special
order of the day to the French Tank Corps--
‘_Vouz avez bien merité de la Patrie_,’
whilst General Estienne, to whom so much was due, received the Cravat
of the Legion d’Honneur and was promoted to the rank of General of
Division for the great services he had rendered to his country.”
In England, it seems, we do not know how to do these things--or at
least to whom to do them.
CHAPTER XV.
THE GERMAN OFFENSIVE. MEAULTE, BOUVIGNY, AND BÉTHUNE.
I.
A further expansion of the Tank Corps, as indicated already, was the
natural result of the Battle of Cambrai. The rejected proposal for
an 18-battalion establishment was now almost obsequiously adopted. A
little later, indeed, the War Office (dragging with it a reluctant
Treasury) rushed recklessly in where it had feared to tread before,
and sanctioned a still larger increase. Before all this had happened,
however, an outward and visible sign had testified to the dawn of a
new era. The tanks were formally manumitted from the paper control
of the Machine Gun Corps, and became in name what they had always
been in fact, a separate organisation. For reasons of simplicity and
common-sense I have written throughout of the “Tank Corps,” where a
pedantic conscience would have impelled me to speak of the H.B.M.G.C.,
for this change of nomenclature, with all that it implied, was not in
force until late in 1917.
Two new tank brigades, the 4th and 5th, were now to be formed
immediately in France. Pending the completion of these arrangements,
as well as of those for the disposal of the various units in the
coming year, the three old brigades, or what was left of them, were
concentrated for the winter between Albert and Bray, on the edge
of the Somme battlefield. There was much to be done before any of
the battalions would be fit for another offensive battle, and it
was suspected already that defensive rather than offensive measures
would be our portion for the next few months. In the meantime, Tank
Corps Headquarters, faced with the dazzling prospect of a great and
possibly indefinite expansion, made a simple calculation and found
that it was in danger of exhausting the resources of the alphabet.
Eighteen battalions, denominated alphabetically, would leave only
eight letters for future emergencies; while to continue the illogical
practice of numbering the companies consecutively throughout a
growing corps promised in the end a surfeit of figures as well. And
so another revolutionary translation came about. Letters and figures
changed places. Our old battalion designations, which had acquired
a sentimental significance, were abolished at a stroke, so that A
Battalion, Tank Corps, became the 1st Tank Battalion, and, what was
more harrowing, G became the 7th. This reform, however necessary, was
painful to the victims. It might mean nothing to the new battalions
forming in England, but we, in France, felt that we had lost our
individuality. It was as if the law, without obtaining my consent, had
decreed that I was to be called Smith or Jones. The old names, however,
are not dead. In any gathering of officers or men from the first three
brigades, you will find the battalions still spoken of as A or B, F or
G, and so on, as the case may be.
At the same time that this nominal change took place, the numerical
order of companies was abolished also. The three companies of a
battalion were known in future as A, B, and C.
I have explained how I came to be absent at Cambrai. Just before
Christmas I was released from convalescent quarters (cynically
so-called) at Barly, near Avesnes-le-Comte, where I had been living
with other unfortunates in the coldest château in France--an outwardly
imposing but actually gimcrack house like “Hardwick Hall, more glass
than wall,” and short of coal into the bargain. With some difficulty
(for R.T.O.’s and other dignitaries whose business it was to know such
things invariably were ignorant of the whereabouts of tank units) I ran
the 1st Brigade to earth in a camp of huts outside Meaulte, two miles
from Albert. I will not dilate upon the arctic winter we spent at this
unholy spot, beyond remarking that the camp, like all similar military
establishments, was built on the bleak northern slope of a hill.
There was no intervening shelter, so far as I could judge, between
us and the North Pole. We contrived, however, to exist cheerfully,
and indeed for a fortnight after Christmas almost too cheerfully. The
celebrations common to that season and to the New Year were involved
with others consequent upon the announcement of the Cambrai honours,
and the promotions and partings brought about by the expansion of
the corps. These last affected the 7th Battalion--as I hate to call
it--very materially. Colonel Hankey, to every one’s profound regret (a
feeling not so common as the conventional accounts of such departures
might lead the unsophisticated to suppose), left us to take over
the new 4th Brigade, carrying with him several others. Major Fernie
became Battalion Commander, and was succeeded in A (late 19) Company
by Winters. Major Broome left C Company to command another battalion.
There were a number of minor promotions, due to these changes and
to casualties; and Henriquez, of A Company, having become battalion
reconnaissance officer, his vacant post as company R.O. was offered to
me. The work had always appealed to me, and I was the more pleased with
the opportunity at the time because I believed then that most of my old
friends in C Company were leaving the battalion for more exalted posts
elsewhere.
Few incidents worth recording marked our stay at Meaulte. Heavy snow
fell, which added, in my opinion, to the general discomfort, and the
road up to the camp remained for weeks a corrugated and painful slope
of ice, down which one slid helplessly into the village. Fuel, in more
senses than one, was always a burning question, and next in importance
came that of leave, now six or seven months overdue. A driving school,
supplied with the few fit tanks the three battalions could muster,
was started at Bécordel, on the old front line near Mametz. Drafts of
officers and men came from the depot to replace casualties. And in
January began the reshuffling of units necessitated by the formation
of two new brigades. Of the old 1st Brigade the 7th Battalion only was
left. The 4th and 5th (late D and E) went to join the 1st Battalion
in the new 4th Brigade, under General Hankey, as he was now, and in
their place we received, with hot rum-punch and such other amenities
as the arctic conditions indicated, two fledglings from England--the
11th and 12th (K and L) Battalions. The former suffered from a surfeit
of Rifle Brigade officers, was rent always in consequence by internal
dissensions, and, thus handicapped, struggled rather obscurely through
its short active career. The 12th Battalion, to which I was posted
shortly before the Armistice, was more normal and human; and, after a
series of successful actions, wound up in a blaze of glory as the only
one of the five surviving tank units selected to represent the corps in
Cologne itself.
In February, amid half-incredulous rejoicings, the first leave
allotments reached the 7th Battalion. I came to England in the middle
of the month, returning in the first days of March to find our huts
stripped and deserted, a rear party packing up a residue of stores and
kit, and the main body of the battalion, with all the tanks, already
departed northward for the 1st Army area. I followed by lorry the same
afternoon. This was the last I saw of Meaulte, which then was full of
inhabitants and little injured by war. A month later it was in ruins
and occupied by the Germans.
II.
It was known by now that a German offensive on a large scale was
imminent, and might be directed at any one point, or at several
simultaneously, on the long front from Béthune to the Aisne. The move
northward of the 1st Tank Brigade was part of a defensive scheme for
the protection of the Bruay coal-fields, should the enemy make a direct
attack upon them from the Lens-La Bassée sector. The front allotted
to the Brigade extended from the La Bassée Canal to the Scarpe, and
was divided into three parts--one to each battalion. These battalion
fronts overlapped, while each unit was supposed to have some knowledge
of the whole brigade area. The 12th Battalion was responsible for that
part lying between the La Bassée Canal and Loos, the 7th Battalion for
that between Vermelles and Vimy, the 11th for the remainder of the
sector to a point south of Arras, where the 2nd Tank Brigade carried
on the defensive line. It was assumed from the first that if tanks
were employed at all it would be in a counter-attack, the probable
directions of the enemy’s offensive being (1) against the Hill 70
sector, (2) a frontal attack against the Vimy Ridge, and (3) a flanking
movement from the south. He occupied already so large a part of the
coal district that the repulse of any further attempt was essential;
and in the event of his capturing some vital point in the defence line
(such as Hill 70 itself), the tanks would be employed at once to assist
in driving him out. This being the general idea, little or no time was
to be spent at first in collecting information about the ground beyond
our front line. Reconnaissance was confined to the region between the
tank-parks and the main zone of resistance, known as the Black Line.
By the middle of the month this reconnaissance was in full swing.
Taken as a whole, the country was not bad for tank operations; but the
wide belt of shelled ground and crumbling trenches which marked the
old front line before Lens, the numerous large mining villages which
radiated out from that town, and the Vimy Ridge itself, so convulsed by
high explosive that only three possible tank crossings could be found,
presented difficult and dissimilar problems. A tank counter-attack in
this unique region must have been extremely interesting.
Had such an attack taken place, almost the whole battlefield would
have been spread like a map below our camp. I do not think there can
have been in France any point of view quite so remarkable, in the
circumstances, as the everyday outlook from the 7th Battalion’s huts
above Bouvigny-Boyeffles. This camp--it was a single row of Nissens,
occupied only by the officers--was situated halfway up the bold
ridge which ends to the southward in the famous spur of Notre Dame
de Lorette, overhanging the rubbish-heap that used to be Souchez. In
front of us there was nothing but the immense flat plain of Lens and
Douai. On a clear day we had only to step out of our huts and look over
a hedge garnished with a screen of camouflage netting; and before us,
across a stubble-field and the roofs of Boyeffles village, there rolled
away to north and east and south-east the fruitless battlefields of
three and a half years--Vimy and Liévin, Loos and Hulluch, La Bassée
and Neuve Chapelle. And, for a background, this astonishing panorama
took in Mont Rouge and Mont Noir and Kemmel Hill, thirty miles distant,
near Ypres, the low ridge that covered Lille from view, the towns of
Bailleul, Armentières, and Béthune, the score of wretched suburbs
about Lens, with more rising ground ten miles behind, the numberless
_crassiers_ and towers of the coal-fields, the smoke of trains on the
Lille-Douai railway, the huge bulk of Drocourt Fosse behind which
Douai itself was hidden. With my glasses, on many fine evenings before
sunset, while standing at the back of my own hut, I have distinguished
the church and the individual houses of Mons-en-Pevèle, a little
village on a hill twenty-three miles from where I stood, and at least
fifteen beyond the nearest point of the German lines. Nearer at hand
in this crowded scene were other familiar landmarks--the churches
of Harnes and Carvin, behind Lens, the fallen “Tower Bridge” of
Loos, the white water towers of Fosse 21 and 22, the huge red-brick
building with its three steel spires which had been the works of the
Metallurgique Company. And everywhere, far and near, rose the black
_crassiers_--the slag-heaps--of the coal-mines. Some of these were
long and dwarfish, as you may see them in Lancashire, but those which
took the eye were pyramidal, like colossal sable sugar-cones. Beside
them were the skeletons of iron buildings, each with its tower and
wheels. The foreground of all this was a jumble of white and red--white
where patches of incongruous chalk were turned up along the miles of
trenches, old and new, from Liévin to Loos, and red with a million
shattered houses in the miners’ _cités_ which clustered about Lens--St
Pierre, St Auguste and St Laurent, Calonne and Maroc, Angres and Avion.
Lens itself, lying on low ground by the Souchez river, was hidden from
our camp.
The men of the 7th Battalion were billeted in Bouvigny village, close
to the officers’ huts. Battalion H.Q. took over the principal house in
Boyeffles, a few hundred yards away at the foot of the ridge. The tanks
were elaborately concealed on the very summit, amid the trees of the
Bois de Bouvigny, a straggling wood which ran along the crest almost to
the site of the demolished chapel of Notre Dame de Lorette, where the
French line had run in the early days of the war, and where one still
came across skeletons and rusted rifles three years old. North of us,
in the Bois d’Olhain, were the 1st Brigade headquarters and the 12th
Battalion, both in huts. The 11th Battalion was at Mont St Eloi, on our
right. The troops holding this front were the Canadian Corps. During
the past year they had captured Hill 70, Liévin, and a number of other
suburbs of Lens, and their front line now ran through the outskirts of
that dreadful town, reeking of poison gas and corruption. It was held
only by German outposts, in many places occupying the half of a ruined
house of which the other moiety was held by the Canadians; but it could
not be taken permanently until Sallaumines, a suburb on a hillock
immediately behind, was in our hands. The Canadians, always energetic,
and especially anxious to round off their work by the capture of Lens,
were full of schemes by which Sallaumines was to be carried with
the help of tanks, but none of these materialised. While the German
offensives burst upon us and drove past us to north and south, the Lens
sector was privileged to remain the quietest part of the whole British
front.
My new work as Reconnaissance Officer made me only too familiar with
this region. For two months I did nothing but explore it. To begin
with, I took part in a preliminary survey with Henriquez, Beale
of B Company, and Jack Brown of C. (Gordon had left us to start a
Reconnaissance School at Le Tréport.) This business presupposed
ability to ride a motor-bicycle--all R.O.’s being provided with these
abominable machines. I learnt eventually to ride mine with a certain
amount of confidence and spirit; but to the end I knew nothing about
its internal mechanism, and did not want to. I was so fortunate as
to possess a draughtsman who understood petrol-engines, and I left
the upkeep of my bicycle in his capable hands. Having with its help
acquired a general knowledge of our area and of the routes we decided
to follow if called upon to move, I proceeded to initiate the officers,
N.C.O.’s, and drivers of A Company into these mysteries. In this work
I had the aid, and, what was better, the congenial companionship, of
Maelor Jones, who was the assistant R.O. of the company. Day after day
he and I tramped about the melancholy region behind our line, exploring
roads, examining bridges, selecting lying-up points, repeating every
journey half a dozen times with our parties of learners, like a pair
of Cook’s couriers. “On your left you now see Fosse 16, _dit de
Lens_; beyond is Fosse 7, _de Béthune_. That handsome edifice far in
front--it is not advisable to try to reach it--is the Metallurgique
factory at Wingles....” I have never been so heartily wearied of any
piece of country as I became of the Lens coal-fields. I came to know
by name and to loathe at sight every pithead, every road, every clump
of derelict red-brick houses. And yet, with all this repetition and
monotony, the work and the place had unusual points of interest. It is
the worst of a book on any set subject, that the writer cannot be as
irrelevant as he would wish, for I should like to write now at some
length about those two months. I should like to write of Bully-Grenay,
where one could buy almost anything, and where children played about
in streets that stank of poison gas; of Les Alouettes, where a woman
(apparently the sole remaining inhabitant) took in washing and kept a
chicken-run amid a battery of 8-inch howitzers; of the family of Aix
Noulette, in whose house (rebuilt largely of biscuit-tins and brown
paper) I ate so many omelettes; and of that exposed portion of the
Souchez road where Jack Brown and I were sniped by a 5.9 at a moment
when my wretched bicycle refused to climb a gentle slope on anything
higher than bottom speed. But as these various adventures led to
nothing in the end, space does not permit of any further discursions.
The tanks, for whom all tribulations were undergone, were never called
upon in this sector, although, before we had finished, we had extended
our reconnaissance southward until we knew Souchez and the whole Vimy
Ridge, with its craters and its tunnels, as well as we knew Piccadilly
or Hyde Park--in the case of some of us, a good deal better.
In the meantime, startling events were happening elsewhere, and from
our sort of peninsula we watched with increasing bewilderment and
anxiety the great tide of the German offensives sweeping past on both
flanks. On the morning of March 21, every one heard the roar of a
heavy bombardment. It was known next day that the enemy was making
rapid progress south of the Somme. For nearly a week the news became
daily more disheartening. The four other Tank Brigades involved in the
general debacle had lost nearly all their tanks, and were fighting as
machine-gun units. And then, on the 29th, the Germans launched their
expected attack against the Vimy Ridge and the northern part of the 3rd
Army front. It was a costly failure--so costly north of the Scarpe that
no further attempt was made against the ridge. But while the result
was in doubt, detachments of the 7th and 12th Tank Battalions were
hurried down to Roclincourt, in front of Arras, with Lewis guns, and
took up a defensive position there. This party was known to us as the
Oppy Expeditionary Force. Full of warlike zeal, but ignorant of the
situation and even of its own whereabouts--for it arrived in the middle
of the night, and was pushed immediately into holes and corners along
the Roclincourt Ridge--it passed several anxious hours of darkness
in the mistaken belief that a bloodthirsty and victorious enemy was
close at hand. As a matter of fact, he was still four miles away, and
never approached any nearer. The strain was broken with the dawn, amid
shouts of laughter, by the appearance of a Decauville railway train
which puffed deliberately across the front which the Lewis gunners were
holding so tenaciously. The attack having definitely collapsed, the
detachment returned on the 29th.
Throughout this exciting week, filled with appalling rumours, our
reconnaissance continued more busily than ever. The activities of
the 7th Battalion were now concentrated on the Vimy Ridge, which we
explored from end to end. The 11th Battalion, some of whose tanks were
now in Roclincourt, was extending its own reconnaissance far to the
south of Arras. As the 3rd Army, conforming to the retreat of the 5th,
withdrew its right and centre, there seemed an increased likelihood
that the enemy would attempt the third alternative mentioned earlier in
this chapter--a flanking attack through Arras against the rear of the
Vimy Ridge. His reoccupation of Monchy-le-Preux and Orange Hill, in
consequence of our withdrawal, enabled him once more to overlook the
reverse slope of the ridge. Arras was shelled daily, and nearly all its
inhabitants were removed; and villages far behind suffered from the
German artillery. On account of this threat, and of the crippled state
of the 2nd and 3rd Tank Brigades with General Byng, the 12th Battalion
was transferred early in April from Olhain Wood to Simencourt, north
of the Arras-Doullens road. The tanks trekked the whole way, by roads
and across country--a distance of nearly twenty miles. Concentration at
Simencourt was completed by the 10th April. The 11th Battalion, with
its Headquarters and some tanks still at Mont St Eloi, was now in the
centre of our increased brigade frontage. The 7th Battalion, having
become the most northerly tank unit, would be the first involved in
any developments in the La Bassée area; and such developments, of a
startling character, were at hand.
During the reconnaissance of the Vimy Ridge one had been able to
follow to some extent the progress of the German advance north of the
Somme. From points about the southern end of the ridge, near where the
road from Arras to Lens passes the crest and drops abruptly toward
Vimy village, I watched through my glasses on successive mornings the
dappled clouds of smoke pushing westward like the trail of some great
conflagration. Viewed thus from a flank, the new salient appeared even
more pronounced and ominous than it was in reality, especially as the
Germans were shelling busily many places far in our rear. And when one
climbed to the summit of the ridge and looked eastward over the wide
flat plain south of Lens, everything was normal; a few brown puffs of
dust where our occasional shells were bursting, the distant smoke of
German trains, the black company of slag-heaps, and, far away but often
very clear, the three spires of Douai. It was a singular contrast, and
one felt like a privileged spectator watching, from a high gallery,
the two halves of some gigantic tableau representing the extremes of
modern war. But, as it happened, the tableau was incomplete. There was
a third scene about to open, and one which our unrivalled situation at
Bouvigny allowed us to witness without stirring from our camp, until we
were drawn into the fringe of it ourselves.
III.
In the first days of April we were busy with what was known in the
Tank Corps, from a remark by General Elles, as the “Savage Rabbit”
scheme. The military outlook was gloomy, and the communications
from those in authority were unusually pessimistic; and among other
omens was a secret précis of instructions to be followed in various
possible emergencies, including a prolonged retreat, and even a rout.
The “Savage Rabbit” act was an application of tank warfare to such
unpleasant circumstances. Tanks, instead of being held in hand for
counter-attacks or concerted rearguard actions, were to be scattered in
a long line and hidden--remaining hidden, in the event of a disaster,
until our infantry had retreated through them and the enemy was
close at hand, when the machines would appear from their holes, like
“savage rabbits,” and sacrifice themselves to hold up the pursuit.
This was a nice encouraging proposition; it was also a very faulty
and wasteful method of using tanks, and could only be done once. I do
not know who was responsible for it. Very fortunately there never was
any need to carry it into practice, although the 12th Battalion and
others actually took up their positions of concealment. In our case,
it meant stringing our tanks out along the base of the Lorette Ridge,
from Bouvigny to Souchez. Especial attention was to be paid to the
latter place. A feature of the new tactics employed so successfully by
the Germans in their offensive was the skilful use of valleys, or any
sort of low ground, for the purpose of infiltration. It was thought
now that if they advanced from the direction of Loos and Hill 70 (the
first alternative previously mentioned), and succeeded in reaching the
foot of the Lorette and Vimy Ridges, they would endeavour to turn both
these obstacles by penetrating between them up the Souchez Valley.
Souchez, where the French suffered so terribly in 1915, blocks the
quite narrow gap that separates the Lorette spur from the northern and
highest end of the Vimy Ridge; and through it ran several vital roads
to Ablain St Nazaire, Carency, and Arras. Two sections of A Company
(6 tanks) were therefore detailed to hold it at all costs. The tanks
were to be hidden close to the roads, so that, in the event of the
place being lost, they could swing across them and be blown up to form
obstructions. For several days I was exploring the country behind
the Lorette Ridge for routes by which the tanks could be taken into
Souchez. Hiding-places were selected about the village (which had been
destroyed with quite exceptional completeness), and also others for the
remaining two sections along the road from Souchez to Aix Noulette, on
the eastern face of the ridge. But on the day when these preparations
were finished, and nothing remained but to move the tanks to their
posts of sacrifice, another scene of our local tableau opened with a
shattering crash; and our eyes and thoughts were diverted instantly in
the opposite direction.
The 12th Battalion, as we have seen, moved south from the Bois d’Olhain
about this time. Its last company trekked on the 8th April, and the
following day came the new German blow along the Lys. The attack was
expected, and seems to have been launched in moderate force, and with
no very ambitious designs; but that fatality (or fatuity) which on
several occasions during this period marked our dispositions, had
dictated that a Portuguese division should still be holding our line in
front of Estaires. The Portuguese infantry, utterly worthless troops,
fled at once, casting away their arms--except a few who retained
theirs long enough to shoot down some of our own people who tried
to stop them. The artillery, on the other hand, behaved better, in
some cases keeping their guns in action to the last. The Germans, in
the meantime, found in front of them a wide gap, and pushed through
it. One battalion penetrated--most of the way in column of route--for
three or four miles without firing a shot, when its commanding officer,
suspicious of this extraordinary luck, went on ahead to reconnoitre
and was captured by the 51st Division, which was hurrying up from
support. It was said that we had been so rash as to rely on the
Portuguese holding out for an hour; but they did not hold out for five
minutes. And from this period also dates the rumour that the famous
Army Order about our “gallant allies” had been formally cancelled.
In any case the mistake was made, and brought on its heels a most
disastrous retribution. In ten hours Von Quast’s 6th Army had punched
a hole 12 miles wide and 5 deep in our defences; and in front of him
consternation and chaos were rolling onward like a flood.
From our huts on the slope above Bouvigny this new battlefield lay
visible in its entirety. It was twelve miles away, but from our
elevated site it was easy with good binoculars to follow the course
of the advance. The country north of the La Bassée Canal is utterly
flat, drained by innumerable small streams and ditches, and covered
with orchards and villages, then full of prosperous people and hardly
touched by war. It had been a quiet front since Neuve Chapelle. Even
Armentières, two miles behind the line, was an inhabited town, with
shops and cafés open, until the Germans began to shell it in earnest
shortly before 21st March. And now, evening after evening, we used
to gather with our maps and field-glasses behind our row of huts and
watch the great wedge of burning villages pushing farther and farther
westward behind Béthune. Those evenings were exceptionally clear, so
that far across the smoking plain the church tower of Bailleul was
visible against the grey background of Mont Rouge. Bailleul was a
charming little town, with a wonderful red-brick belfry to its Hotel
de Ville, and one of the best officers’ clubs in France. Within a
fortnight it was in ruins.
Certain dates I cannot remember, and I have no diary or other aid
to memory, but it must have been on the 11th or 12th that an urgent
message came through demanding Lewis-gun detachments. All the gunners
in the battalion, with a proportion of officers and 70 Lewis guns,
the whole under Major Norton, the second in command, with whom was
Winters of A Company, left that same evening by lorry. By dawn next
day they were in the line at Robecq, in front of St Venant. There
were rumours that the rest of us, with the tanks, would be moving
somewhere by train. On the evening of the 13th or 14th, those of us
who were left in A Company held a sort of guest night, interrupted
by a bombing raid--the last guest night I attended until the war was
over; and the following morning we received orders to trek after dark
to Hersin station, to entrain for the north. The tanks at this time
were in Noulette Wood, at the foot of the ridge, having moved down from
the Bois de Bouvigny on the crest in order to take part in various
training schemes with the Canadians. All that afternoon Jack Brown and
I were marking out with small metal flags, painted white, a route from
Noulette Wood to Hersin. It was after six when we returned to camp, and
already growing dark. I was met by the news that only B and C Companies
were entraining--the former for Lillers and the latter for Aire. I had
got to lead A Company by road to a wood near Vaudricourt, south of
Béthune. A route was indicated roughly on the map, but none of us knew
the country. We were, of course, very short-handed, having about half a
dozen subalterns and our three drivers per tank; and all the tanks had
their sponsons unbolted and pushed in, preparatory to entraining. The
Major being away at Robecq with the Lewis-gun detachment, the conduct
of affairs fell to Moore, the second in command of the company, Rudd,
the only remaining section commander, and myself.
I packed a few things in a haversack, ate a cold supper, filled a
flask, and reached Noulette Wood in a box-car about nine o’clock. I
knew there was no immediate hurry, as the depleted tank crews had to
pull out and bolt all the sponsons again. As a matter of fact, it was
after ten when we moved off. The night was clouded and pitchy dark, as
it usually is on these occasions, and our supply of electric torches
was miserably small. The distance to be covered--about nine miles--was
not excessive; but I knew the difficulties that attend a company of
twelve tanks moving along an unknown route on a black night, and I
was prepared for a very tedious journey. And in fact no other trek
that I can remember, except our mule fight on the St Julien road, left
me so thoroughly exhausted and foot-weary. We made only one mistake,
missing in the darkness a short-cut out of Sains-en-Gohelle, which cost
us half a mile; but until dawn we could see practically nothing, all
the electric torches gave out, and the leading tanks, as necessarily
happens in a column of a dozen, had to be halted continually to let
the rear ones close up. What with scouting ahead in inky blackness for
cross-roads and turnings, imperfectly studied on the map by the light
of a match or an expiring torch, and trotting up and down the column to
give warning of misleading features or to find out the reason for some
delay, I must have covered nearly double our nine miles that night; and
as I had been all the day on my feet, the latter may be excused for
giving unequivocal signs of wear. We did not, however, cover our full
distance. Dawn broke while we had still some way to go, and at eight
o’clock, when we came to an excellent sunken road near Houchin, a mile
short of Vaudricourt, we decided to call a halt. The country was open,
and we were getting rather too near the line by Béthune to make it
advisable to move tanks about in daylight. We camouflaged the machines
in the sunken road, took off our boots, and had some breakfast.
Our ultimate destination we knew to be Fouquières, a village on the
outskirts of Béthune, and it seemed the obvious thing now to make
one bite of the remaining cherry that evening, and pass Vaudricourt
without stopping there. It had been given us only as an approximate
halting-place. After breakfast, therefore, Rudd and I walked--or
staggered, to be correct--on to Fouquières, to find a lying-up point
for the tanks, and if possible billets for ourselves. There were a
number of small woods and plantations about the village, but all were
occupied in force by transport and ammunition trains of the 1st Corps,
which held this part of the line. Billets seemed unobtainable, for the
whole neighbourhood was crowded with troops. We found a fair piece
of cover for the tanks under the trees of a road which led down to a
tributary of the Lawe river, and then we searched the village for food,
coming to rest eventually in a cottage where they gave us omelettes and
cheap champagne. We subsisted very largely upon this diet for the next
three or four days.
The tanks moved on to Fouquières that evening, except one which broke
down in the main street of Douvrin and remained there for some time,
to the endless joy of the inhabitants, who had never seen these
machines before. At the foot of the road where the others parked up
was a large white house belonging to the _Maire_ of Fouquières. It was
full of officers, including the headquarters of a company of the 11th
Tank Battalion which was in the line at Givenchy with Lewis guns. We
managed to find floorspace here for the night in a sort of hall on the
top floor, into which opened innumerable doors. These were opening
and shutting all night, as the occupants of the rooms into which they
led came and went (and trod heavily upon us in transit) on mysterious
errands of their own. However, we slept, after a fashion, and, as it
fell out, we remained in this house for a fortnight.
The Major turned up next day with our gunners from Robecq. Thrust into
an attenuated and almost solvent line, whose elements included every
sort of man who could hold a rifle, with little artillery, no trenches,
and the vaguest idea of the general situation, the detachment had
passed a very unpleasant three days and nights, and had suffered a good
many casualties, mostly in B and C Companies, who lost three or four
officers killed or missing. The three companies were now concentrated
again, but strung out on a very wide front, with C far away at Aire,
B at Lillers, and ourselves at Béthune. Battalion headquarters, being
very comfortable at Boyeffles, remained there, far from us all. The
reason of our sudden move to these three towns was the celebrated
“Delta” scheme, as, for purposes of concealment, it was called. I would
not inflict upon any reader the details of this exasperating project,
for they were never the same for two days together, and it came to
nothing in the end. The general idea (if the words can be applied
to so amorphous a conception) was to ease the communications of the
troops in the Givenchy sector and relieve the pressure on Béthune, from
which the Germans were distant only a few kilometres to the north and
north-west. In the very beginning we got as far as Y-day: everything
was ready: we had reconnoitred hurriedly that strange, almost untouched
country beyond the La Bassée Canal, where a few stray cattle still
wandered in orchards thick with blossom, where the empty houses still
showed the litter and confusion of their owners’ sudden flight, and
where no one knew where the front line lay: tank routes were worked
out, bridges examined, and conferences held with corps and divisional
pundits who seemed to know nothing about anything; and then the whole
thing was cancelled (perhaps very wisely), and, in all its subsequent
fluctuations, was never so advanced again. For another month we
wrestled with its kaleidoscopic changes. The proportion of tanks to be
employed rose from one battalion to the whole brigade, and frontages
and objectives were shuffled like counters. After a while we felt that
the whole thing had become a sort of confused and academic dream, and
we ceased to take any interest in it.
This period in many respects was very novel and interesting. It was
our first experience of what, in fact, was a phase of open warfare,
with all its alarms and hopes and general uncertainty. The Germans
were busy farther north, about Kemmel and Bailleul, but at any moment
some new blow might be struck at Béthune. A few days after we reached
Fouquières, indeed, an attempt was made to cross the canal on rafts
opposite Hinges, and was repulsed. Béthune by now, of course, was a
dead town, its shops closed, its inhabitants fled, its houses crumbling
daily under shell-fire. At Choques, the big railhead just behind, two
tanks of the 12th Battalion, with three of the new Whippets, had been
posted to hold the roads against a raid by armoured cars. Hinges, north
of Béthune, on the only hill in that level country, in whose pleasant
château the 11th Corps headquarters had rested somnolently for upwards
of two years, was a mere collection of empty ruins on our front line
by the canal. The corps had fled hurriedly to Roquetoire, behind Aire.
Our own post, Fouquières, was left more or less at peace for a while.
Only a few high-velocity shells fell about it at intervals. It swarmed
with people, for scores of refugees from the lost area were still
living with the inhabitants. And presently its turn came also. As the
shelling grew more persistent, its people were evacuated; and these
unfortunates, with their box-mattresses and other cherished goods piled
on waggons or hand-carts, went to swell the great flood of fugitives
that streamed westward.
Everything we wished to learn about this country we had to find out
for ourselves. The maps were bad, and no one knew anything. I remember
trying to obtain some information and some better maps from the 1st
Corps Intelligence Officer. He could give me neither. He admitted
quite frankly that while he had masses of data concerning the country
between our old line and the German frontier, of the Béthune district,
at his very door (the Corps headquarters had been at Hesdigneul, a mile
and a half from Béthune itself for many months), he knew nothing at
all. Another curious sidelight upon army methods, at least during this
confused period, was thrown by some inquiry I made about the “Delta”
scheme at the 1st Division headquarters at Gosnay. We were attached
to the 1st Division for operations, and for a fortnight past had been
drawing rations from it, yet the G.S.O. 1, whom I interviewed, did
not even know that there were any tanks in the neighbourhood...! I
have noticed so often in France that while brigade staffs, who lived
near the line, in considerable danger and in touch with the fighting,
always seemed to have their wits about them, the staffs of divisions
and corps, long accustomed (at a distance) to trench warfare, became
atrophied and absorbed in mere details of routine. It used to be said
that prolonged trench duties would render infantry unfit for the sudden
emergencies of attack or open warfare; but I think in many cases it was
the higher formations who were in danger of succumbing to the spell.
A feature of this time which impressed me very strongly was the
magnificent behaviour of the French population. To many Englishmen the
French are still incomprehensible, vain, greedy, untidy (that fatal
sin!), and altogether rather absurd. We are, of course, ourselves very
like our spiritual kinsfolk the Germans in some ways, and especially
in our inability to understand, or wish to understand, any Latin
race. A common complaint in France was the extortionate prices put
on everything for our benefit. Apart from the fact that this largely
was our own fault, it is true that the French, for centuries a very
poor people, have learnt habits of thrift that sometimes merit an
uglier name; but we should have stopped, before crying out about it,
to ask what our own behaviour would have been toward a French army
settled in England for upwards of four years. Can any one imagine
our shopkeepers carrying gratitude so far, after the first altruistic
burst of thankfulness, as to restrict their profits or even limit
them to reasonable bounds? I cannot picture this myself. And, on the
other hand, can any one imagine our people working as diligently
and suffering as patiently as the French peasantry in the war zone?
Again I, for one, cannot. And these peasants, or shopkeepers, in the
country districts were almost all women. There were young boys with
them, and a few old men; but men between eighteen and fifty years
of age you never saw at all. There were none of those sturdy and
indispensable farm hands who were exempted in droves in the English
counties. And when some great disaster came, such as this German
advance of which I am writing, you saw these homeless and ruined folk
at their very best--patient, courageous, and courteous even in their
despair. While in England prosperous tradesmen were selling goods at
100 per cent profit, saying only in extenuation, “It is the war,” the
same phrase was being uttered in an infinitely finer spirit by the
refugees of France, long broken to such tragedies. You met some woman
leaving her home, pushing before her a hand-barrow loaded with her
poor possessions; and if you commiserated, there came the inevitable
answer, accepting an inevitable occurrence with a resignation that was
far removed from apathy--“C’est la guerre, monsieur....” I remember
a little incident of this time which illustrates, more clearly than
pages of generalities, the spirit that one found in these people. When
Fouquières was shelled and the inhabitants removed, our own quarters
in the _Maire’s_ house became so unpleasant that we departed also,
tanks and all, to Hesdigneul. A day or two later I rode over to the
house to settle some business of a billeting certificate. It had been
raining heavily, and the road where our tanks had been lying, churned
up by their tracks, was deep in mud. As I was coming away, the mud
clogged my rear wheel, between the tyre and the mud-guard, stopping
the bicycle just as I passed a little party of women and children who
were escaping from the _Maire’s_ farm with a few household treasures
on their backs. (The _Maire_ himself, by the way, unlike most of his
admirable class, had abandoned his flock long before.) Of the women in
this party one was very old, and all were tired, heavily laden, and
in tears. But as soon as they saw me poking about under the mud-guard
with a stick they dropped their bundles, seized each a piece of wood,
and ran up to help. Even the old woman was brandishing a twig and
instructing the rest with a torrent of words. Before the little job
was finished, the tears were forgotten and we were all chattering
and laughing; and when I thanked them and rode away, they were still
smiling and crying out as they shouldered their pathetic bundles, as if
there were no such things as war and ruined homes.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE GERMAN OFFENSIVE (_continued_).
ANNEQUIN: AND THE TANK CORPS IN RETREAT.
I.
Having left Fouquières for Hesdigneul, where our tanks were parked up
against the wall of the churchyard, A Company headquarters now occupied
part of an immense farm--a great quadrangle of barns, stables, and
living-rooms, with an attractive garden and one of the most magnificent
kitchens I have ever seen. Two old ladies, with their niece (who had
been educated in England), managed the establishment, the men of
the family being as a matter of course in the Army. One of them, in
fact, had been killed. They were cousins of the people who owned our
battalion headquarters at Boyeffles; and the niece was provoked to
one of her rare speeches when some one, in the usual English manner,
referred to her relatives’ house as a “château.” “Ce n’est pas un
château!” she said indignantly. “C’est une maison seulement ...!”
Before we came these kind people had suffered the infliction of an
R.A.F. mess, whose members as usual got drunk every night and broke the
furniture; and it took us some days to persuade them that there were
Englishmen who knew how to behave. After that we were very good friends.
During our stay here, which lasted for about three weeks, a variety
of nebulous schemes ran through their brief careers. One, due to a
sudden panic, involved the defence of Béthune against some expected
onslaught. The tanks were to take up positions on the canal quay,
guarding the precious bridges. Our enthusiasm for this was a little
damped by the discovery one day that our proposed lying-up point, a
parade-ground on the outskirts of the town, had been uprooted by a
deluge of 8-inch shells. Behind these projects, like some tiresome
genie, there hung always the egregious “Delta” operation, in one or
another of its endless shapes. And then, of all things, came a fresh
scare about the distant sector south of Arras, more than twenty miles
away; and I spent three days with Henriquez, Beale, and Jack Brown
on motor-bicycles or in a box-car, hunting for tank routes between
our old Bouvigny area and such remote places as Bailleulmont and Pas,
beyond the Arras-Doullens road. On one of these happy jaunts Henriquez
led us inadvertently in the Ford car to within a few hundred yards of
Hébuterne, where the front line then ran. The road was pitted with
large shell-holes, but I have never seen any one perform such miracles
with a Ford, or any other car, as did our driver when he discovered
our mistake. We rushed into Monchy-au-Bois at about thirty miles an
hour, and having climbed out there to adjust our dislocated limbs,
were welcomed by a sudden deluge of high-velocity shells. There were a
number of French troops in this neighbourhood, and also the remains of
the 2nd Tank Brigade, whose few surviving machines were still scattered
thinly behind the left of the 3rd Army, in accordance with the “Savage
Rabbit” policy. Practically speaking, the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 5th
Brigades were now organised as Lewis-gun units, with a small backing
of Whippets and worn-out Mark IV.’s, for 200 of the latter had been
lost in the retreat. It was because the 1st Brigade, alone unaffected
by the disaster, and mustering nearly 100 tanks, was the only striking
force left to the Tanks Corps, that our reconnaissances covered at this
period an area extending from La Bassée to Auchonvillers, near the
Ancre. We might be needed anywhere at any moment.
The first phase of the German offensive, however, had come virtually
to an end. The battle of movement below Arras was solidifying, as it
were, in front of Amiens. The third phase, about to open upon the
_Chemin des Dames_, would affect the mass of the British forces only
indirectly. But the second phase, begun on the Lys as a distraction
and since exploited with vigour, was not (to our knowledge) definitely
finished. It had extended northward to the Salient, where we had lost
all the ground won at such a terrible cost in the previous autumn;
the Germans were on Kemmel Hill, in the ruins of Bailleul, and along
the outskirts of the great wood of Nieppe; and now developments were
expected immediately south of the La Bassée Canal. At this time--about
the middle of May--when the 7th Tank Battalion had been for five
weeks extended from Aire to Béthune, the 12th Battalion was still in
the neighbourhood of Simencourt, and the 11th, so far as I remember,
in its old quarters at Roclincourt and Mont St Eloi. ‘Weekly Tank
Notes,’ which erroneously places the 7th at Molinghem, makes out the
11th to have been between Busnes and Robecq, but I think only the
Reconnaissance Officers, working on the “Delta” scheme, came up to this
area.
The final stage of the Amiens battle had brought German tanks into
the field for the first time. There were only three of them, but they
did so much damage before they were driven off that a thorough tank
scare ran through the Army, and imaginary machines were detected in
scores at every point of danger. It was now believed that the Germans
intended to use them in an attack along the La Bassée road with the
idea of reaching Béthune by turning the obstinate point of Givenchy
from the south. An increased shelling of our back areas seemed to
indicate that something was in the air; and the 7th Battalion, already
in the neighbourhood, was ordered suddenly to concentrate farther east,
between Cambrin and Vermelles, in readiness to repel any attempt.
The day before these orders reached A Company at Hesdigneul, the
German artillery provided us with a new sensation. The village had not
been shelled since our arrival; but it housed, in its enormous château,
the 1st Corps Headquarters, and this, I think, must have been the
attraction for the appropriately colossal gun which suddenly disturbed
our rustic peace. We were having tea in the farm when the whole place
was shaken by a shattering crash from outside. No one paid much
attention at first, as it sounded like the detonation of one of our own
heavy guns, of which there were two or three on railway mountings in
the neighbourhood; but the excitement in the village soon brought us
out to see what had happened. It was then apparent that we were being
shelled, and by something of uncommon size. A great pall of black smoke
was drifting away from a field close at hand, where an observation
balloon had its quarters, and I found immediately afterwards a steel
splinter, some eight inches long, in our courtyard. Several more
of these alarming explosions followed during that evening, and the
discovery of the complete base of a shell proved the offending weapon
to be of 17-inch calibre--the heaviest long-range gun then in use by
any army.
The following morning there came the orders for our move. We were to
proceed that night to Sailly-Labourse, on the Béthune-Lens road, near
Annequin. I hurried off on the bicycle, over the very worst cobbles I
have ever encountered, to find the 3rd Infantry Brigade Headquarters at
the Château des Prés, outside the village. This journey was notable for
two incidents: the roads were so atrocious that my engine shook loose,
causing the chain to fall off; and, as a consolation, I discovered
some tins of Sullivan’s cigarettes in a Church Army canteen in
Verquigneul--corn in Egypt, indeed, with a vengeance. The brigade staff
in the Château des Prés had heard nothing about any tanks, but this
was only to be expected. There was a wide dry moat round the château
garden, where the machines could be hidden during the night, and on my
way there and back I mapped out the latter half of the approach route,
which Maelor Jones was reconnoitring from the Hesdigneul end. Before
sunset the tanks were backing out from the churchyard wall, and having
seen them started I pushed off once more for the château, to meet there
some lorry loads of petrol and other stores. Rather than face again
the medieval cobbles of the more direct route, I went round by Béthune
and so through Beuvry on the Lens road. Béthune in those days was
always rather eerie, with its deserted streets and ruinous shuttered
houses and shops: it called to mind the empty town of Semur in that
charming story of Mrs. Oliphant’s, ‘A Beleaguered City’; and there were
times--during a bombardment, for example--when it was worse than eerie.
It was being bombarded spasmodically that evening, and I did not linger
to sentimentalise. At the Château des Prés I found that the brigade had
at length been formally notified of our coming. This château, until
the month before, had been one of the most eligible headquarters, for
its advanced position, in all France. It was never shelled, it had all
its furniture, and even all its window glass. But now this Utopian
age was no more; the grounds were pitted with shell-holes, the trees
were lopped and splintered, and all the windows were broken. The
cellars had been sand-bagged, and every other preparation made for an
enforced reversion to underground life. And that evening I received an
unpleasant reminder of these altered circumstances, for as I walked
down the terrace steps about eight o’clock on my way to meet the tanks,
a shell came whistling over the roof and burst half a dozen yards
in front of me on the gravel path. Very fortunately for me it burst
forward and away from me, scoring a sort of fan of smoking grooves in
the grass border. It was, in fact, an incendiary shell, presumably
intended for the village, for a second burst some distance away, and
the third fell among the houses. As I ran for shelter out of the smoke
of the first explosion, heads appeared at the château windows, and a
voice inquired inevitably, “Where did that one go to?”
This interruption was short-lived; and after a precautionary wait
I walked off through Sailly-Labourse to find the tanks. They were
fairly well up to time, but to get the twelve of them into the château
moat was a tedious process. The moat was lined thickly with trees
and bushes, which gave admirable cover in the daytime, but added to
the difficulties of introducing tanks on a dark night. No lights, of
course, could be used. It was after one o’clock before everything was
settled satisfactorily, and Maelor Jones and I could accompany the
Major to the comparatively luxurious shelter of a cellar in the château
lodge.
After five or six hours’ sleep we were washing and shaving, with the
usual inadequate resources, when the Colonel’s car drew up outside. At
the same time there arrived, in an evil hour for himself, poor fellow,
a Reconnaissance Officer named Saul from the 12th Battalion. Having
been familiar with the Annequin area as a private in the infantry, he
had been sent to put his knowledge at our disposal. While I finished
my perfunctory toilet in the lodge, Saul and Maelor Jones strolled on
together to the garden at the back of the house, where the servants
we had brought with us were preparing some sort of breakfast. As I
followed a couple of minutes later, a shell burst in the garden, which
was full of brigade details and our own people. We all ran like hares
for cover, and I remember seeing a dozen pairs of heels flashing
upwards as their owners, including the Colonel and other dignitaries,
leaped into the moat. I was in time to slide down after them, on top of
a kettle and a primus stove, just as the second shell arrived somewhere
in the neglected flower-beds behind me. This visitation, like that of
the previous evening, was intended for Sailly-Labourse, to which it
passed on as soon as the German gunners had corrected their range; but
the initial miscalculation cost us both Maelor Jones and Saul, who were
wounded by the first shell--the former in the hand, and the latter more
seriously in the leg and arm. Poor Saul had not been in the place five
minutes. Fortunately, as a brigade headquarters, the château contained
a telephone and a doctor; and in a quarter of an hour the two victims
were in an ambulance on their way to the nearest dressing station.
Sailly-Labourse was a little over three miles from the front line. A
mile nearer to the latter, across an open stretch of untended fields,
was Annequin village and fosse, the former a straggling collection of
houses joining on to Cambrin on the La Bassée road. Annequin Fosse,
beneath which the Major and I were to live like troglodytes for the
next three weeks, resembled nothing so much as a chessboard and a
disproportionately large pawn, side by side. The chessboard was a
walled square filled with miners’ cottages in symmetrical rows, the
streets crossing at right angles. Beside it, on a flat base of slag,
was the pawn--one of those pyramidal crassiers I have spoken of,
perhaps 150 feet high. It was the nearest one of its type to our front
trenches; and from the summit where signallers, flash-spotters, and
other details lived in holes dug out of the black slag and reinforced
with iron and sandbags, one obtained an admirable bird’s-eye view, not
only over the German lines directly in front, but also right across
the rear of the new salient north of the canal. This exceptional
observation-point, so far forward, must have been invaluable to us
and a serious hindrance to the enemy. At the base of the pyramid,
practically invulnerable beneath twenty feet of ground, and another
twenty of coal refuse, were the dug-outs which housed the brigade
holding the line. The latter, for a breadth of two or three miles
opposite Annequin, had not changed since it crystallised there at
the end of 1914--the only sector of our whole front possessing
this distinction; and both Annequin and Cambrin had been inhabited
throughout, until the increased shelling before the German offensives
drove the people away. As late as the middle of March, when our
field-guns were firing (and drawing fire) from behind the wall which
enclosed the miners’ cottages, children were playing in the streets a
few yards away.
The 1st Division, then holding this sector, had the 2nd Infantry
Brigade north of the canal at Givenchy-les-La-Bassée (not to be
confused with the Givenchy south of Lens), and the 1st Brigade south
of the canal at Cambrin and Annequin. The 3rd Brigade was in support
about Sailly-Labourse. Having seen Maelor Jones and Saul despatched in
the ambulance from the Château des Prés, the Major and I walked over
to the Fosse to arrange with the 1st Brigade Staff the disposition of
our tanks, two sections of which were to move to their final points of
concealment that night. We found the brigade very sceptical about the
suspected German tanks, and quite confident of repelling any ordinary
attack. The 2nd Brigade had just dealt in an adequate fashion with a
renewed German attempt on Givenchy. It was agreed, however, that one
of our sections should be hidden among the houses of Annequin, and
the other among those of Cambrin. Two sections remained in reserve at
the Château des Prés. On our right B and C Companies, coming by train
from Lillers and Aire to the railhead near Fouquières, were to take up
positions between the Fosse and Vermelles. The Major and I were invited
to live with the Brigade Staff in the dug-out beneath the slag-heap.
That night the two sections moved quietly into their new positions. Of
the three tanks in Cambrin, one was screened elaborately with branches
in the garden of the house used as the Support Battalion headquarters,
while the other two lay up in the yard of the schoolhouse. All were in
a position to move out at a moment’s notice and block the La Bassée
road, which ran straight through the village. In Annequin, the other
three tanks were hidden behind the miners’ cottages. A little later
a third section was brought up in front of Annequin, and camouflaged
against the embankment of a railway which served the mine.
We remained here for three weeks, until the beginning of June. Our
life was very idle, not uncomfortable, and in many ways unusually
interesting. Every morning the Major and I used to walk through
Annequin to Cambrin to visit the tanks, and with that our duties
usually were finished for the day. The brigade mess, in a baby Nissen
hut, protected by layers of slag at the base of the crassier, was
an uncommonly good one, and its members were charming. In similar
huts lived some of the officers, including the Colonel commanding
an artillery brigade; the General and the rest of the Staff, with
ourselves, having our quarters underground, where the various offices
also were situated. The weather turned exceptionally fine, with a
blazing sun; and the shadeless neighbourhood of the great slag-heap,
which radiated heat like the rocks of Aden, became so intolerable at
times that we were driven below to the cramped dug-out, which was
always cool. Lack of reading matter was a serious trial, as the nearest
inhabited towns, such as Nœux-les-Mines and Barlin, were only squalid
mining centres; and as a shopping resort Bruay was little better.
The last time I rode into Bruay the Germans were shelling it, the
shops were closing down, and harassed A.P.M.’s and military police
were endeavouring to expedite the departure of some of the surplus
inhabitants.
Our chief diversions at Annequin were climbing the slag-heap (on top
of which two old 15-pounder guns had now been hoisted), visiting the
tanks and billets of B and C Companies, running over occasionally to
Hesdigneul, where we kept up a rear headquarters at the farm, and
eating and sleeping a great deal. It was so unusually hot for May
that we spent most of our time in shirt sleeves. A less attractive
feature was the rather persistent shelling to which the neighbourhood
was subjected. The expected attack never materialised; but the German
artillery had frequent bursts of zeal. A field battery, in camouflaged
pits in the open, a couple of hundred yards from the Fosse, came in for
a great deal of attention, as did another battery in Annequin village;
while the railway embankment beyond was shelled so heavily on one or
two nights that some tanks of B Company, which were hidden there,
were withdrawn. The G.S.O. 1 of the Division had a narrow escape on
this same railway one morning, a shell knocking him down and killing
his orderly. Cambrin was gassed every night, and an obnoxious German
balloon which looked straight down the La Bassée road was apt to turn
the gunners on to the village if people walked too openly about the
street. At this time the inhabitants used to come back to fetch some of
their belongings. One man had the temerity to drive up in a cart, and I
saw him afterwards careering back towards Beuvry at a gallop, pursued
by angry puffs of smoke and dust. After we had been living in the Fosse
for about ten days, the 1st Brigade was relieved by the 3rd, and on the
following morning, as I was returning with the Major from the usual
round of inspection, high-velocity shells began to fall thickly about
Annequin. We hurried in considerable disorder to the dug-out in the
Fosse, where we found every one in a state of consternation. The new
Brigadier, also on his way back from his first tour of the trenches,
had been caught in the bombardment and wounded, with one of his
staff--the latter seriously.
During all this time the unfortunate town of Béthune, which was only
three miles away and in full view from the Fosse, was being shelled
persistently. I happened to be watching it through my glasses when the
church tower, which had been hit many times, was finally demolished.
A great cloud of white dust billowed up over the houses, and when it
cleared away the familiar landmark was gone. After a while, the Germans
began to use incendiary shells, and the half-ruined town caught fire.
All day the smoke hung over it, and every night, until we left, there
was the glare of burning.
Toward the end of our stay a minor disaster, averted only by a miracle
from becoming very serious, befell B Company, always unfortunate. The
battalion was visited one afternoon by General Elles, who accompanied
our Brigadier and the Colonel round the tank positions. The day was
brilliantly fine, and the three cars which brought the cortège raised
great clouds of dust along the roads. One cannot help attributing what
followed to this rather characteristic neglect of precaution, for
the whole country, being absolutely flat, was under observation from
hostile balloons, which as usual were up. B Company’s headquarters
were established in a solitary and conspicuous house on the main
Béthune-Lens road, near Noyelles, immediately opposite the buildings
of a small pithead called Puits No. 12, where two reserve sections
of tanks were concealed. The visitors’ cars drew up at this house,
and when the inspection was over, drove off again at a great speed,
trailing behind them clouds of dust which must have been visible
for miles. One cannot have all one’s hostages to fortune returned
intact--especially when one has offered other people’s. The august
party left at 4.30; and before five o’clock Puits No. 12, deluged
suddenly with 8-inch howitzer shells, was blazing merrily. Two tanks
were hit at once, set on fire, and burnt out. The other four, by a
combination of extraordinary pluck and still more extraordinary good
fortune, were started up and driven away from the flaming buildings
and the rain of shells without injury to a single officer or man. When
the affair started I was down in that apartment of our dug-out which
the Major and I shared with the Brigade Gas Officer. Intercepting a
frenzied telephone message from B Company, I ran up on deck (as one
may call it) with my glasses, and for the next half-hour watched the
shelling and the conflagration, which was only 1000 yards away. Within
an hour the pithead buildings were mere smoking cinders, the iron
wheel-gantry had collapsed, and I could distinguish amid the glowing
wreckage the blackened shapes of the two burnt-out tanks.
The last incident worth noting of this interlude at Annequin was
connected with the third German offensive, on the Aisne, launched on
27th May. The following evening, during dinner, we were startled by a
sudden terrific racket of machine-gun and rifle fire. Running out to
see what had happened, we found a German aeroplane circling impudently
round the peak of the crassier, like some eagle round Ben Nevis, while
its pilot, paying no attention whatever to our bullets, was casting
overboard sheafs of pamphlets! These productions announced, in perfect
English, the capture of thousands of prisoners and hundreds of guns on
the Chemin des Dames, and were signed by Ludendorff. Having delivered
his load, the German waved his hand, circled away, and drove swiftly
upward across the lines and out of our sight. He was a very plucky
fellow, and deserved our bad shooting.
We were now nearing the end of these rather humiliating adventures.
The first week in June marked for us the beginning of that period of
transition from constant alarms and ever-changing schemes of defence
to the opposite tactics of attack, which were to end only with the
war. Summoned suddenly one evening to battalion headquarters, still
at Boyeffles, I was told to reconnoitre next day a route by road to
Enguinegatte, a village behind Aire, whither it appeared A Company was
to trek at once to commence training with the Canadian Corps. I spent
that night in our old quarters at Hesdigneul, where the 17-inch gun,
still spasmodically active, did its best to speed a parting guest by
dropping one of its huge shells so near that the glass of my window was
shattered and fell upon me as I lay in bed. When I left next morning,
after an imperfect rest, the two old ladies and their niece were also
packing up. The 17-inch gun, and several gas-shells in their garden,
had persuaded them of the propriety of a temporary removal.
Enguinegatte, the scene (at a less complicated period of warfare) of
the famous battle of the Spurs, lies almost at the end of the longest
and straightest Roman road to be found even in France. From Arras to
Thérouanne, just beyond our destination, there are nearly forty miles
of this abominable highway, straight as a die, except for two modern
and insignificant detours to negotiate precipitous hills. By the
route the tanks had to travel from Annequin, striking this road near
Bruay, the distance was thirty miles, and this, entirely over roads,
was ruinous to the machines. Somebody estimated that the journey cost
£7000 in damaged tracks and rollers alone, for our one company. (B and
C Companies were returning to Bouvigny to train with other Canadians
there.) However, we arrived at Enguinegatte eventually, although not
until I was heartily tired of the Roman road, up and down which I was
riding, on my bicycle or in the Major’s car, for the best part of
three days and nights. The village itself was charming, unspoiled by
troops, quiet and unsophisticated, and set amid a really beautiful
country of rolling hills, woods, and corn-fields. I had the most
comfortable billet I ever secured in France. The weather throughout
was gorgeous; and if the rehearsals with successive battalions of
Canadians became for us somewhat tedious in the end, we suffered in a
wholly admirable cause, which bore good fruit two months later. We were
far away from any interference, and could do very much as we pleased.
A ten days’ interlude at Le Tréport, camouflaged as a rest cure _cum_
reconnaissance course under Gordon, where Jack Brown, Ritchie of B
Company, and I sat about on the cliffs above Mirs and read trashy
literature, was a sort of gilding to the lily. Le Tréport was rather
amusing at this time, because the camp was full of “Bolos” dislodged
at last from their limpet-like grip at Bovington, and now fighting
tooth and nail to secure fresh posts as instructors at the depot and
elsewhere. The rest of us, of course, were hoping to see them posted to
fighting units, so long as the latter were not our own. This, indeed,
was the whole object of the belated clearance at Bovington; but in most
cases, I regret to say, it was not achieved. Only after the Armistice
did the majority of these people rush valiantly forward, demanding to
be sent to Cologne.
Altogether, in spite of a few slight internal dissensions in our
company at Enguinegatte, I look back upon that June as the most restful
and pleasant month I spent in France. I returned from Le Tréport
to find the tanks gone by road to Erin, a few details packing up at
Enguinegatte, and the rest of the company already back in our old
quarters at Bouvigny.
II.
Before we come to begin the last phase of the war, as it was influenced
by the Tank Corps, something must be said as to the four southern
brigades in the March retreat and after.
The 1st Brigade, as we have seen, worked with the 1st Army, covered
Arras, and was so fortunate as to escape all direct implication in the
disasters of March and April. Next to the south came the 2nd Brigade,
in the neighbourhood of Bapaume. Farther south again was the new 4th
Brigade, working with the 5th Army around Peronne. The 3rd Brigade was
in G.H.Q. Reserve at Wailly and Bray, and was in process of equipment
with Whippet machines, but only one battalion, the 3rd, had received
these novelties. The 5th Brigade consisted as yet only of a nucleus,
one company of the 13th Battalion, without tanks, also at Bray. The
losses in tanks at Cambrai had not yet been made good, as no more Mark
IV.’s were being built, and the new Mark V.’s were not available till
later; and the three equipped brigades mustered between them only about
220 heavy tanks and 50 Whippets fit for action. A number of training
machines were at Wailly, Bray, and Aveluy Wood, near Albert.
The cyclonic advance of the Germans on the 5th Army front resulted
in the 4th Brigade being sacrificed wholesale on the first two or
three days, at the end of which time it had virtually no tanks left.
In the frightful confusion of the rout, tank battalions, companies,
and sections were pushed in anyhow to do as best they could, lost
touch with each other and with the brigade headquarters, and fought
independently a series of actions, which it is all but impossible now
to disentangle from the general obscurity. The 5th Battalion, having
fought at Hervilly Wood, Roisel, and Epehy, among other places, on
the 22nd March, rallied seventeen tanks at Cartigny that night, and
tried to withdraw across the Somme by the bridge at Brie. The bridge
was destroyed prematurely, and fourteen machines, being almost out
of petrol and unable to escape, were blown up by their crews. The
remaining three got across at other points, and were lost in action
next day. The 5th Battalion, now without tanks, was hastily reorganised
into Lewis-gun detachments. The 4th Battalion, after managing to retain
some tanks a little longer, was in the same state before the end of
the month, and the 1st Battalion was reduced to half a dozen worn-out
machines and some converted supply-tenders. By the 28th the brigade had
185 crews (including the 13th Battalion nucleus) fighting in the line
with Lewis guns. Everything else had been lost--tanks, stores, and even
the kit of the officers and men; and the casualties in personnel had
been heavy.
On the 3rd Army front the 2nd Tank Brigade was in action on the
afternoon of the 21st, when tanks from the 8th Battalion took part in
a counter-attack which recaptured Diognies, but failed to hold it.
Twenty-four hours later, farther to the left, twenty-five tanks of the
2nd Battalion counter-attacked without infantry to check the German
advance on Beugny and the Bapaume-Cambrai road. The tanks came under
concentrated artillery fire as soon as they crossed the road, and
several were knocked out at once. The remainder put a field battery
out of action, surprised the German infantry massing for an assault,
and drove them back in confusion beyond Vaulx-Vraucourt and Morchies,
which our troops reoccupied. Only five tanks rallied, however, and
128 officers and men were lost. The rest of the battalion personnel
was formed as Lewis-gun detachments, and fell back upon Bray on the
24th. In the meantime, the 8th Battalion, losing nearly all its tanks
in attempts to cover the infantry withdrawal about Bus and Barastre,
was also converted into a machine-gun unit. The remaining battalion,
the 10th, fought a series of rearguard actions through Sapignies and
Achiet-le-Grand to Bucquoy, sacrificing most of its tanks.
The 3rd Tank Brigade, in G.H.Q. Reserve at Bray and Wailly, was soon
involved in the general mêlée. Out of the two battalions at Bray,
the 3rd and the 9th, one composite battalion was formed and equipped
with forty-eight Whippets, the remainder of the personnel becoming
yet another Lewis-gun unit. The 6th Battalion at Wailly seems to have
had an easier time than most of the others, and to have preserved a
large proportion of its tanks, which may be explained by the fact
that it remained behind the left wing of the 3rd Army, which was
never seriously shaken, and retreated only so far as was necessary to
conform with the centre and right. On the morning of 21st March the 6th
Battalion’s camp was shelled heavily, and the whole of its orderly-room
staff was killed. The battalion withdrew to La Cauchie on the 25th, and
was transferred to the 2nd Brigade a week later. The 3rd Battalion’s
Whippets, in the meantime, had made their first appearance in action
on the 26th about Serre and Hébuterne, routing considerable numbers of
the enemy without suffering any loss themselves; and they were fighting
again at Bouzincourt on the 31st. They were found particularly useful
for that kind of patrol work which the peculiarities of the situation
had thrust upon such tanks as were left--closing temporary gaps in the
line, holding up attacks, and gaining information,--doing, in fact,
those duties which in the old days were performed by cavalry.
The result of ten days’ continued fighting and retreat was that the
Tank Corps practically was without tanks, always excepting, of course,
the 1st Brigade. Of the personnel of the other brigades 75 per cent
had been in the line as Lewis-gun detachments. About 200 tanks had
been lost. The big camp at Bray had been destroyed before evacuation,
and a number of Whippets lying there under repair had to be blown up.
Brigades and battalions, like all other units in the Army, were in a
state of complete disorganisation, and the casualties, especially those
incurred in the Lewis-gun units, were an added source of anxiety to
Tank Corps Headquarters, owing to the few reinforcements available. The
first steps taken toward reorganisation were hampered by the German
attack on the Lys, as the 4th Brigade, which had just been withdrawn
to the Bermicourt area to refit, was sent north to the 2nd Army front
with Lewis guns, and remained fighting about Meteren and Wytschaete
until the end of April. Then came the startling news that owing to
the difficulty of finding sufficient infantry drafts in England,
the Tank Corps was to be cut down from six brigades to four, which
would mean the disbanding of the incomplete 5th Brigade in France
and of the 15th, 16th, 17th, and 18th Battalions at home. Happily,
this disastrous proposal was never carried out in its entirety. Two
battalions at Bovington were reduced for a time to cadres, and a third
was equipped with armoured cars; but the successes in July and August
once more converted the harassed weathercocks in authority. All was
changed again. The six-brigade establishment was not only revived but
augmented; and while the cadres were made up to strength and rushed out
to France, another six battalions were authorised to be formed.
The immediate task of reorganisation after the retreat was further
complicated by the uncertainty as to whether the retreat itself was
finished. The force of the initial German blow, which had driven us
thirty miles backward in a week, expended itself in the first days of
April, but only from temporary exhaustion and difficulties of supply.
With Amiens almost in his grasp, the enemy was certain to make another
effort as soon as he had found his second wind. It was necessary, in
consequence, to maintain as large a force of tanks as possible with
our battered armies; and a hurried reshuffling of units left skeletons
of the 2nd, 3rd, and 5th Brigades, re-equipped with old machines sent
up from Erin, within call of the threatened point. The expected
blow fell on 23rd April, along the whole line south of the Somme,
but was not very vigorously delivered, and was successful only at
Villers-Bretonneux. Here the Germans employed for the first time their
own tanks, and the latter’s performance, limited and half-hearted as it
was, proved what might have been done with more faith and perseverance.
The appearance of the three clumsy machines was enough for most of the
garrison of Villers-Bretonneux. Nearly the whole of the large village
was carried, 2000 prisoners were taken, and tanks and infantry pushed
on toward Cachy and the Bois de l’Abbé. In the latter place was lying a
section of the 1st Tank Battalion. Moving out at 8.30 in the morning,
to help some infantry in the trenches about Cachy, two female tanks of
this section sighted a German tank about an hour later, and at once
engaged it. Exposed to the enemy’s 6-pounder guns, to which they could
make no effective reply, they were both knocked out; but the third
tank of the section, a male, now appeared, and there ensued the first
genuine contest between these machines. The German seems to have been
outmanœuvred, although his one-man control should have given him an
advantage over the awkward secondary gears of the Mark IV. The latter
attacked him on his blind side, so to speak, where his single gun would
not bear, hit him three times with 6-pounder shells, and drove him into
a sandpit, where the clumsy tank became ditched. The two other German
machines were now coming up, but after a very perfunctory pretence of
engaging our solitary male, turned about and escaped. The victor, while
in pursuit, was hit and disabled by a chance shell from a field-gun.
Villers-Bretonneux was brilliantly recaptured by the Australians the
same night.
The same morning a composite company of Whippets started out at 10.30
to clear up the situation east of Cachy. “Whilst proceeding round
the north-east of this village, they suddenly came upon two or three
battalions of Germans massing in a hollow preparatory to making an
attack. Without a moment’s hesitation the seven Whippets formed line
and charged down the slope right on to the closely-formed infantry.
Indescribable confusion ensued as the Whippets tore through the German
ranks. The enemy scattered in all directions. Some threw themselves
on their knees before the machines, shrieking for mercy, only to be
run over and crushed to death. In a few minutes no less than 400
Germans were killed or wounded. The Whippets having now completed their
task--viz., “Clearing up the situation,” returned, one machine being
put out of action by artillery fire on the journey home. In all only
five casualties amongst the crews were suffered during this action. The
two most remarkable features of this little engagement are: firstly,
the helplessness of some 1200 to 1500 infantry against 7 tanks manned
by 7 officers and 14 other ranks; and, secondly, that the tanks left
their starting-point, which was three and a half miles from the scene
of action, at 10.30 A.M., covered ten miles of ground, fought a battle,
and were back home again at 2.30 P.M.[31]
It was reported at the time that when the Whippets returned their sides
and tracks were dripping with the blood of the Germans who had been run
over--a pleasant touch, but not authenticated.
There were two other tank actions on this front on the 25th and 28th,
the latter with the French Moroccan Division at Hangard Wood. This
last was a failure, largely because the barrage came down _beyond_ the
German line instead of in front of it. A final minor engagement on May
2nd marked the end of this semi-defensive phase of the campaign. The
Amiens front settled down more or less to what used to be described as
“peace-time” warfare: the Germans turned their men and guns southward
to the Aisne; and the Tank Corps was engaged in no further operations,
with one exception, until July, when the whole spirit of our tactics
was happily changed, and a series of small offensives preceded the
great attack on 8th August.
CHAPTER XVII.
HAMEL, MOREUIL, AND THE THIRD BATTLE OF THE SOMME.
I.
On the night of the 22nd-23rd June, a night raid of peculiar interest
was carried out against the village of Bucquoy, north of the Ancre.
Five platoons of infantry and five female tanks of the 10th Battalion
were employed. The notable features were the use of tanks at night,
and the remarkable skill and success with which they were hidden for
a fortnight within a few hundred yards of the German outposts. One
section of four tanks was camouflaged right in the open, the machines
side by side and covered by their nets, in a slight depression not
half a mile from the village. Another four tanks were driven into old
gun-pits by the side of the Bucquoy-Hennescamp road, even nearer to
the enemy. Here the two sections remained for nearly fourteen days,
waiting for a favourable opportunity with the full moon. Various causes
postponed the enterprise, but at length the conditions were considered
propitious, and the five tanks required moved yet farther forward after
dark into a sunken road skirting the eastern gardens of Bucquoy, of
whose main street one side was held by our outposts and the other by
those of the enemy. But now the moon failed, and again the raid was
cancelled. Those responsible for it do not seem even to have thought
of the danger of leaving tanks indefinitely on the edge of No Man’s
Land. For two more days and nights the five machines actually remained
in this preposterous position without being discovered. Movement by
day was almost impossible, and extreme care had to be exercised at
night. Finally, on the night of the 22nd, the raid was carried out. The
infantry, after all this hesitation and consulting of omens, were held
up almost at once by trench-mortar and machine-gun fire, and although
reinforced, got no farther; but the five tanks pushed on right through
the village, passed their objectives, killed a number of the enemy and
started a serious panic, and returned undamaged. The darkness gave
them little trouble, and, on the other hand, afforded them valuable
protection from the trench mortars. Their experience, and the careful
preliminary work carried out by the Reconnaissance officers, were of
great service to the 7th Battalion when we attacked over the same
ground two months later.
A more important action was fought on 4th July on the old
Villers-Bretonneux battle-ground. It was the first definite offensive
on our part since the German blow in March, and it also introduced the
Mark V. tank. This machine, identical in shape and armament with the
Mark IV. (except that the Hotchkiss light gun replaced the Lewis),
possessed great mechanical improvements, primarily in the adoption of
epicyclic gears, which enabled one man to drive and steer the tank, and
abolished the dilatory business of gearsmen and secondary levers. Three
men, in fact, were released for other work, while the tank’s power of
manœuvre was greatly improved. Fitted with a 180 h.-p. Ricardo engine,
in place of the Daimler, the Mark V. had increased speed, five to six
miles an hour, and could be turned as easily as the Whippet. Other
modifications included a second cab for observation on the roof, where
the manhole was situated in the earlier types. The only serious fault
was bad ventilation, which, with the more powerful engine, raised the
heat inside to a pitch that at times became unbearable.
The object of the attack on 4th July was the recapture “as a necessary
preliminary to any operation to disengage Amiens,”[32] of the spur
which runs northward from the Villers-Bretonneux plateau toward the
junction of the Somme and the Ancre at Corbie. The objectives included
Hamel village and wood and Vaire Wood, and were strictly limited.
The infantry to be employed was the 4th Australian Division, and a
subsidiary object of the operation was to restore the confidence of the
Colonials in tanks--a confidence which had been quite unnecessarily
shaken by the failure at Bullecourt in the early spring of 1917, when,
as a matter of fact, it was the tanks that had a grievance. That there
should be no failure through lack of means on this occasion, the
whole of the 8th Tank Battalion and two companies of the 13th (sixty
machines in all) were allotted to the Australians. As soon as the
attack was decided upon, training with the infantry was put in hand at
Vaux-en-Amienois, the 5th Tank Brigade Headquarters, and a good mutual
understanding was cultivated. The Australians, clinging still to old
prejudices, insisted on the tanks following the first wave of attack
instead of preceding it; but this adherence to a bad system did not in
effect matter at all, as the Mark V.’s took the lead almost at once on
the day of action, and remained ahead of the infantry throughout.
Zero was at 3.10, just after dawn. The final rather intricate
approach-marches of the five tank companies, from Hamelet and Fouilloy
to the starting-points behind the infantry, were covered by the noise
of low-flying aeroplanes. At eight minutes before zero the tanks moved
forward again, crossed the remaining 1000 yards in twelve minutes, and
at zero, plus four minutes, the barrage lifted and they advanced with
the infantry. The attack was a complete success. In an hour and a half
the whole affair was over: Hamel village and the woods were carried,
an advance of 2500 yards on a front of 7000 had been made, and 1500
prisoners, with 2 field-guns and 171 machine-guns, were in our hands.
Our casualties were under 700, most of them walking wounded, and 5
tanks hit and disabled; 57 tanks reached their final objectives, and
55 had rallied by 11 A.M. All the disabled machines were salved during
the two following nights, some of them being towed 9000 yards, so
that the enemy was without any knowledge of the new type beyond what
he had discovered in action; and this must have been the reverse of
encouraging. The increased manœuvring powers of the Mark V. astonished
the Germans as much as they delighted the Australians. A feature of the
action was the number of machine-gun emplacements overrun and flattened
out by tanks at the request of the infantry--an entirely satisfactory
process of elimination. The German machine-gunners fought in many cases
with extreme bravery, continuing to fire until the very moment before
their guns--and perhaps themselves--were crushed into the earth by the
tanks; but the unexpected rapidity of movement shown by the latter, as
compared with the deliberate actions of the Mark IV., continually took
them by surprise. The results of the attack, in short, were that the
Australians were satisfied with the tanks, that the tank crews were
satisfied with the Australians, which was quite as important, and that
a sure foundation had been laid for the greater partnership of the 8th
of August.
A fortnight later the 9th Tank Battalion, temporarily attached to the
5th Brigade for the purpose, took part at very short notice in an
operation south of Amiens with the French 9th Corps. The third great
German blow, between Soissons and Rheims, had in its turn exhausted
its momentum; but to all the world it seemed still in the full tide
of victory when, on 18th July, with a rapidity founded on exact
calculation, Foch’s counter-attack, led by hundreds of Rénault tanks,
fell on the flank of the new Salient from the Aisne to Château-Thierry,
and the last phase of the war had begun. The second battle of the
Marne, or the battle of Soissons, whichever it is called, was the
first of that series of Allied offensives which for the next four
months were to succeed one another without a pause up and down the
whole immense front from the Woevre to the sea. Five days after it
began, Debeney’s 1st French Army carried out a small attack north of
Montdidier, with the double object of occupying the German reserves in
that region and of capturing the heights which overlook the river Avre
at Aubvillers and Mailly-Raineval. It was for this operation that the
9th Tank Battalion was lent. It proved a complete success, although
the casualties in tanks and personnel were rather heavy, and it was of
interest chiefly on two accounts: firstly, the excellent way in which
the French infantry combined with the tanks, although only two or three
days of sketchy training, handicapped by difficulties of language, were
possible beforehand; and secondly, for the speed with which the tanks’
share in the battle was arranged and carried out. The project was
discussed for the first time on 16th July at the 4th Army Headquarters.
An hour and a half later, General Elles and General Courage (commanding
the 5th Brigade) interviewed the French Army commander, General
Debeney, and arranged with his Staff the general outlines of the
move and the action. The next day the 9th Tank Battalion, far away
near Bus-les-Artois, received orders to trek on the 18th to Rosel,
a distance of nearly ten miles across country. Entraining at Rosel,
it detrained at Contay on the 19th, and that evening trekked another
two and a half miles. During the three following nights a farther
distance of twelve miles was covered in stages, the final lap, on
the night of the 22nd-23rd, bringing the battalion into action with
thirty-five machines out of forty-two, most of the absentees being old
Mark IV. supply-tanks. During this period troops of the 3rd French
Division, which was to supply the infantry for the attack, underwent
a brief course of training with tanks at Vaux-en-Amienois, while the
Reconnaissance Officers of the 9th Battalion hurriedly surveyed the
battlefield.
After the action, in which 15 tanks were disabled by artillery fire and
54 officers and men were killed or wounded, General Debeney visited
the battalion and expressed in very warm terms his appreciation of its
services. The 3rd French Division conferred upon it a rare distinction
in the form of its own divisional badge, which every officer and man of
the 9th Battalion now wears on the left sleeve.[33]
II.
Even before the French counterstroke of 18th July, the first plans for
an attack by the restored 4th British Army south of the Somme were
under discussion. Limited originally to the recapture of the old Amiens
defence line, the scheme expanded until it assumed the dimensions of
a full-dress battle--involving at least a dozen infantry divisions,
a cavalry corps, and four brigades of tanks on our part, and, on our
right, the 1st French Army and part of the 3rd. Our objective, roughly,
was the important railway which ran southward from Peronne through
Chaulnes and Roye, which meant an advance in places of from twelve to
fifteen miles.
Notwithstanding the reinforcements which had been poured into France
in the past two months, so ambitious a programme, to be completed
within three or four days, could mean only one thing--another tank
operation on a large scale, or, in other words, a second Cambrai.
Tanks were the only arm which could hope to produce such a result in
so short a time. And yet, if we hunt through the official account of
the battle and its antecedents, we find the determining factor hardly
mentioned. We read of “the brilliant and predominating part taken by
the Canadian and Australian Corps in this battle....” And again, of
“the fine performance of the cavalry, ... the dash and vigour of their
action....” Far away, at the very end of a despatch which takes us to
the Armistice, we find this significant sentence, which seems to have
slipped in by mistake: “_The whole scheme of the attack of the 8th
August was dependent upon tanks...._”[34]
The italics are my own, and I will not labour again, in face of this
belated confession, over the old arguments and manifest facts which I
have reiterated so often already. I will add only one remark, that the
very fact of the omission by name of the Tank Corps in accounts of all
the attacks which it led and determined from 8th August to the end of
the war, is a tacit (and, I am sure, quite unintentional) admission of
its influence. It had become, although no one would confess it openly,
so essential a factor that its recognition was reserved for those
concluding paragraphs in a despatch which praise conventionally every
branch of the service, from the Artillery and Engineers to R.T.O.’s and
Sanitary Squads.
Zero day, fixed in the first place for 10th August, was put forward
two days at the end of July. The Canadian Corps, borrowed from the 1st
Army, and in the best possible condition after the first genuine rest
it had known since its original contingents landed in France, was on
the right of our line, from a point opposite Moreuil to above Hangard.
With it was the 4th Tank Brigade, consisting of the 1st, 4th, 5th, and
14th Battalions, the latter newly arrived from England. On the left
of the Canadians, extending past Villers-Bretonneux to the Somme, was
the Australian Corps, with its old friend the 5th Tank Brigade, now
made up of the 2nd, 8th, 13th, and 15th Battalions, the last being
also a new arrival. On the left of the Australians, again, was the 3rd
Corps, to which was attached the 10th Tank Battalion by itself. The
9th Battalion was still refitting after its action with the French,
and would not be available for several days. This made a total of nine
tank battalions, with a tenth in reserve, all except two being equipped
with Mark V. machines. The two exceptions, the 1st and 15th, had for
their sins a still later novelty known as the Mark V. One Star. This
was a thoroughly bad invention, being merely a Mark V. lengthened by
about six feet, and designed to carry infantry or machine-gunners as
well as its crew, these passengers being deposited at suitable points
in the enemy’s country. It offered an enormous target, and if its
supernumeraries survived the journey, and were not shot in getting out,
they were usually incapable, through sickness or coma brought on by
their prolonged confinement inside, of doing any useful work.
In addition to this total, there remained the 3rd and 6th Battalions of
the 3rd Tank Brigade. Both these units were now equipped with Whippets,
and were attached to the Cavalry Corps, which was charged with the
usual magnificent schemes of exploitation, as though machine-guns
and magazine rifles had never been heard of. There was also the 17th
Battalion of Armoured Cars, attached to the 5th Tank Brigade, but
intended to work with the Whippets and cavalry.
It will be seen that for the purposes of this operation the 2nd Brigade
had ceased temporarily to exist, its units being distributed among the
others. The 1st Brigade was still absent from the main theatre of war.
Its three battalions were at Merlimont, practising gunnery, hoping to
draw Mark V.’s, and preparing for the next offensive between Arras and
the Ancre, in which they were to have their fill of fighting.
The number of tanks to be employed on the 8th August was 435, including
96 Whippets, but excluding the armoured cars. Again, as at Cambrai,
there was virtually no reserve of tanks. On the second and subsequent
days composite detachments had to be organised in the field. The
country immediately in front was good, and still covered in part
with growing corn, but east of the line from Roye to Frise, on the
Somme, if they ever got so far, was the old shelled area. This,
however, was easily negotiable by heavy tanks in dry weather. The
preliminary arrangements were modelled on those of Cambrai--profound
secrecy, reconnaissance carried out with every possible precaution,
and no artillery preparation or activity beyond the normal until the
barrage fell at zero. The Australians had been training with tanks
at Vaux-en-Amienois, and the Canadians, after their work with the
1st Brigade at Bouvigny and Enguinegatte, at Cavillon with the 9th
Battalion.
[Illustration: _Third Battle of the Somme._]
III.
Considerable anxiety was caused by the capture, on the night of
4th August, of an Australian outpost near the Roye road, as not
only would this reveal to the enemy the extension of the Australian
front over ground hitherto occupied by the French, but there also
was a possibility of damaging information being extracted from the
prisoners. The latter, however, refused to disclose anything beyond
their names and units, their demeanour being held up as an example
of soldierly behaviour in the German reports on their examinations.
On the afternoon of the 7th, Y-day, another alarm occurred. Eighteen
supply-tanks, allotted to the 4th and 5th Australian Divisions, were
hidden in a small plantation north of Villers-Bretonneux. A chance
shell burst in the middle of these machines, which were fully loaded
with food, petrol, and ammunition; a fire was started, which drew upon
the plantation a heavy bombardment; and 15 of the tanks, with all their
stores, were destroyed. This calamity led naturally to a suspicion
that the tanks had been discovered, but happily it proved unfounded.
The Germans believed that only an ordinary dump had been exploded. The
coming attack remained entirely unsuspected: the enemy, indeed was
so misled by various artifices behind the 1st and 2nd Army fronts,
including an early and conspicuous concentration of tanks near St Pol,
that he made every preparation against a counter-offensive in Flanders
and on the Lys.
During the night of the 7-8th, a heavy ground mist rose over the Somme
battlefield, and became so dense by daybreak that tanks and infantry
completed their assemblage and moved into action by compass. It aided
the surprise, however, and was attributed in part by the discomfited
Germans to a non-existent device which they described as an “artificial
fog.” The only artificial element was the usual smoke barrage included
in the artillery programme, which no doubt helped to increase the early
obscurity and confusion. When, at 4.20 A.M. on the 8th, there appeared
suddenly out of this veil more than 330 heavy tanks, followed closely
by lines of skirmishers and then by the main waves of assault, the
German front for twelve miles, from the Somme to Moreuil, was rent like
a cobweb. A four-minute deluge of shells was the only warning, for, as
the barrage lifted, the tanks and infantry were close at its heels.
The advance went with a greater swing even than that of Cambrai, for
the two Colonial Corps were neither tired nor weak in numbers, and the
Mark V.’s were swifter and more handy than the leaders in the earlier
battle. Von Hutier’s 18th Army, composed in part of rather indifferent
troops, made no fight at all during the morning. So rapid was the
advance that within two or three hours the majority of the German
field batteries were overrun and captured; the Albert-Montdidier road,
beyond Marcelcave and Demuin, was crossed before noon; officers and
men were made prisoners in their messes and billets; and one entire
divisional staff was taken. While the heavy tanks were crushing such
sporadic resistance as was offered during this first phase by isolated
posts and villages (Marcelcave, it may be noted, was captured by a
tank single-handed, whose commander obtained a receipt for it from
the Australian infantry), the armoured cars had rushed ahead down the
two straight Roman roads which diverge from Amiens upon Noyon and St
Quentin. Mark V.’s hauled the cars over No Man’s Land and cleared
away some trees and other obstacles on the roads immediately beyond,
after which the machines had a clear run before them. As they were a
unit of the Tank Corps and manned by tank personnel, their exceptional
opportunities and exploits deserve notice. General Sir John Monash,
commanding the Australian Corps, gives the following account of the
cars’ experiences on the St Quentin road:--
“It has already been foreshadowed that the experiences on that
day of the contingent of fifteen armoured motor-cars under
Lieut.-Colonel Carter would form sensational reading, and the
story of 8th August would not be complete without at least a
brief reference to their exploits.
“It was nearly midnight when Carter, with a staff officer, got
back to Corps headquarters to render their report. They were
scarcely recognisable, covered as they were from head to foot
with grime and grease. They had had a busy time. The substance
of what they had to tell was taken down at the time almost
verbatim, and reads as follows:--
“‘Got armoured cars through to Warfusée-Abancourt. When we
reached the other side of No Man’s Land we found that the road
was good, but a number of trees (large and small) had been shot
down, and lay right across it in places. Obstacles removed by
chopping up the smaller trees and hauling off the big ones by
means of a tank. Pioneers helped us to clear the road all the
way down. We did not come up to our advancing troops until they
were almost near the Red Line.
“‘When we got to Blue Line we detached three sections to run
down to Framerville. When they got there they found all the
Boche horse-transport and many lorries drawn up in the main
road ready to move off. Head of column tried to bolt in one
direction and other vehicles in another. Complete confusion.
Our men killed the lot (using 3000 rounds), and left them
there; four staff officers on horseback shot also. The cars
then ran down to the east side of Harbonnières, on the S.E.
road to Vauvillers, and met there a number of steam waggons;
fired into their boilers, causing an impassable block....
“‘Two other cars went to Proyart and found a lot of troops
billeted there, having lunch in the houses. Our cars shot
through the windows into the houses, killing quite a lot of
the enemy. Another section went towards Chuignolles and found
it full of German soldiers. Our cars shot them. Found rest
billets and old trenches, also with troops in them. Engaged
them. Had quite a battle there. Extent of damage not known, but
considerable. Cars then came back to main road. We were then
well in advance of Blue Line.’
“The consternation and disorganisation caused by the sudden
onslaught of these cars, at places fully ten miles behind
the enemy’s front line of that morning, may be left to the
imagination. It was a feat of daring and resolute performance
which deserves to be remembered.”[35]
The Whippets were greatly handicapped by being attached to the Cavalry
Corps. The latter, moving rapidly forward in the early morning toward
the line, complained that the tanks could not keep up. As soon as
it came to fighting, however, the situation was reversed: it was
the cavalry that could not keep up with the Whippets, or indeed do
anything at all. “By noon on the 8th August, great confusion was
developing behind the enemy’s lines, and by this time the Whippets
should have been operating five to ten miles in advance of the
infantry, accentuating this demoralisation. As it was, being tied
down to support the cavalry, they were a long way behind the infantry
advance, the reason being that, as cavalry cannot make themselves
invisible on the battlefield by throwing themselves flat on the ground
as infantry can, they had to retire either to a flank or to the rear
to avoid being exterminated by machine-gun fire.”[36] One sentence in
this quotation sums up the whole case against cavalry. If the Whippets
were idle because “being tied down to support the cavalry they were
a long way behind the infantry advance,” what, in Heaven’s name, was
the use of the mounted arm? The latter in theory, and if it was to
justify its existence at all, should have been a long way in front,
instead of a long way behind. Cavalry behind an infantry attack are
merely an annoying encumbrance, blocking up roads, losing their way,
and behaving, at the same time, as if they alone are winning the
battle. Colonel Buchan, tactful at the expense of accuracy, permits
himself to say that “the whole British cavalry performed miracles,
advancing twenty-three miles from their points of concentration.” This
is merely silly, for the points of concentration were far away to the
west of Amiens. Sir John Monash, on the spot, and speaking from bitter
experience of the uselessness and presumption of these archaic cohorts,
tries to find excuses for them and writes with great moderation, but
his conclusions tally with those of every other unprejudiced observer.
He says:--
“The Cavalry Corps would appear in the battle area also,
with all preparations made for a rapid exploitation of any
success achieved. The utility of the cavalry in modern war,
at any rate in a European theatre, has been the subject of
endless controversy. It is one into which I do not propose to
enter. There is no doubt that, given suitable ground and an
absence of wire entanglements, cavalry can move rapidly, and
undertake important turning or enveloping movements. Yet it
has been argued that the rarity of such suitable conditions
negatives any justification for superimposing so unwieldy a
burden as a large body of cavalry, on the bare chance that it
_might_ be useful, upon already over-populated areas, billets,
watering-places, and roads.
“I may, however, anticipate the event by saying that the First
Cavalry Brigade was duly allotted to me, and did its best to
prove its utility; but I am bound to say that the results
achieved, in what proved to be very unsuitable country beyond
the range of the infantry advance, did not justify the effort
expended, either by this gallant brigade or by the other arms
and services upon whom the very presence of the cavalry proved
an added burden.”[37]
The Whippets were peculiarly unfortunate in being so shackled on this
particular day. Such opportunities lay before these machines as never
fell to them again. Within two or three hours of zero the enemy, on
a wide front, was thoroughly demoralised and in flight, with most of
his field batteries captured; and there lay ahead, occupied by his
headquarters, transport and stores, a great stretch of good undulating
country served by numerous roads in fair condition. It was the day of
days for Whippets. The armoured cars, few in number and confined to
roads, did great things; but for a light fast tank the opportunities
were endless. Colonel Buchan is in error when he says that the tanks
employed that day were “mostly of the Whippet type,” for, as we
have seen, there were only ninety-six of the latter. Yet if these
had been let loose on roving commissions, the haul of prisoners and
guns, and the general demoralisation of the enemy, would have been
far greater even than was the case. With extraordinary ineptitude,
the two battalions were dragged about at the heels of Cavalry Brigade
headquarters, a position which alone shows an abysmal misunderstanding
of their functions. Elaborate tactics for their co-operation with
horsemen had been drawn up, but as the horsemen, when they attempted
to advance in any numbers, were checked almost at once by a few
machine-guns, the bulk of the Whippets merely cruised about them in
exposed situations without being able to strike an effective blow.
A few, more fortunate, were set free for their proper tasks, and
showed what might have been accomplished had all been handled in so
bold a manner. Some came into hot fighting about Cayeux Wood, Le
Quesnel, Guilleaucourt, and Harbonnières, along the Amiens-Chaulnes
railway, and, by cutting telegraph and telephone wires, increased the
enemy’s confusion. One, “Musical Box,” of the 6th Battalion, had
an extraordinary career. Passing through the advanced infantry line
and a few cavalry patrols two or three hours after zero, it engaged
a field battery which had already knocked out two Mark V. tanks.
Sweeping round behind the guns, it drove off the crews and pursued
them, killing or wounding nearly all. Turning north toward the railway
near Guilleaucourt, the tank then busied itself with various parties
of fugitives, moved on again after a short halt, entered a German
hutted camp where troops were hurriedly packing up their kits, and
accounted for about sixty of these; continued in chase of fresh bodies
of infantry retiring eastward, shot the drivers of several motor
and horse vehicles, and finally got among some horse and transport
lines near Rosières, where an immense amount of damage was done. The
little tank, being entirely alone, far ahead of its fellows and of
the infantry, was subjected to continual machine-gun fire, and petrol
was pouring down the sides and into the interior from riddled tins
carried on the roof. The petrol fumes, together with the intense
heat, obliged the crew to breathe through the mouthpieces of their
box-respirators. Eventually, about three o’clock in the afternoon--for
the “Musical Box” was in action continuously for nine or ten hours--the
tank was hit by a field-gun and set on fire on the eastern side of
the Harbonnières-Rosières road, beyond our farthest objective for
that day. The officer, Lieutenant Arnold, managed to drag out his two
men, who were overcome with the smoke and fumes. The clothing of all
three was on fire. Endeavouring to escape, after rolling in the grass
to extinguish the flames, the driver was killed, and Arnold and the
second man were captured and brutally ill-used. The full story of this
remarkable exploit was only known after Arnold’s release at the end of
the war.
The heavy tanks had met with most trouble on the two wings. On the
left the enemy’s stubborn defence of the Chipilly Spur, overlooking a
loop of the Somme, held up the 3rd Corps until the next day, and the
5th Tank Brigade had forty machines knocked out, mostly by enfilade
artillery fire from this flank. Those which passed this danger point,
however, did remarkable work, which included the capture of the 51st
German Corps headquarters, with most of the staff, near Framerville,
where the armoured cars helped. The Mark V. Stars of the 15th Battalion
in many cases delivered their unhappy loads of machine-gunners on the
final objectives, but the great size of these machines made them such
excellent targets that a disproportionate number were knocked out,
their crews and passengers being too often burnt to death inside them.
The survivors of the infantry who were carried in them were emphatic in
their determination to have nothing further to do with this method of
transport in action.
The 4th Tank Brigade, working with the Canadians on the right, also
suffered considerable losses in the early part of the day, owing to
Debeney’s Frenchmen being held up for a time along the Avre valley.
The little stream of the Luce, close behind our front line, had to be
crossed without the enemy’s knowledge, and had caused much anxiety,
as on account of its position and the necessity for secrecy, adequate
reconnaissance of it was impossible. All the tanks, except two, crossed
in a dense mist without a hitch and undiscovered by the Germans.
Everything went with a rush at first, and there were few casualties;
but in the second phase of the attack, until the French broke through
the resistance about Moreuil and were able to bring their left level
with the Canadians, tanks and infantry had a hard time at Beaucourt
and Le Quesnel, where the enemy brought field-guns into close action
with great boldness and success. One company of the 1st Tank Battalion,
caught by a battery in enfilade near Le Quesnel, lost in a few minutes
nine out of eleven Mark V. Stars, all of which were burnt out with
heavy casualties to their crews and to the hapless infantry volunteers
on board. One tank commander swung his machine round and steered
straight for the battery, but this desperate and gallant act was
useless. He was killed, with most of his crew and passengers.
Such incidents, however, were only local set-backs in what, as a whole,
was a victory without parallel. On a twelve-mile front we had advanced
at one point to a depth of seven miles. Twenty-four hours after zero
16,000 prisoners and over 200 captured guns had been counted. Amiens
and its railways were freed, and the enemy’s chief means of lateral
communication in this sector, the Chaulnes-Roye line, already was
within range of our field-guns. Only at Chipilly, on the left, had
there been any permanent check; and that flank was in its proper
alignment the next day. The greatest result of all, however, coming as
it did upon the battle of Soissons and Von Boehn’s retreat, was the
profound moral effect wrought upon the German soldier. In this respect
the 8th August stands pre-eminent. Ludendorff himself testifies that
“August 8th was the black day of the German Army in the history of
the war. This was the worst experience I had to go through....” And
immediately, in public and secret documents, he proceeded to point the
moral. The tanks alone had done this thing; and to combat tanks every
nerve must be strained and every effort directed. On 11th August,
while the battle was still in progress, he issued an urgent and secret
order:--
“Troops allowed themselves to be surprised by a mass attack of
tanks, and lost all cohesion when the tanks suddenly appeared
behind them, having broken through under cover of a mist,
natural and artificial. The defensive organisation, both of the
first line and in the rear, was insufficient to permit of a
systematic defence.... As a weapon against tanks the prepared
defence of the ground must play a larger part than ever,
and the aversion of the men to the pick and shovel must be
overcome at all hazards.... Especially, there must be defences
against tanks. It was absolutely inadmissible that the tanks,
having penetrated into our advance line without meeting with
obstacles or anything, should be able to push on along the
roads or beside them for miles.... The principle that a body of
troops, even when surrounded, must defend their ground, unless
otherwise ordered, to the last man and the last cartridge,
seems to have fallen into oblivion ... a large proportion of
our ranks fight unskilfully against tanks. A tank is an easy
prey for artillery of all calibres....”
Then followed a summary of the various anti-tank measures which I have
already described. All this was too late, however; it was shutting
the door after the steed--in this case the German soldier’s nerve and
heart--was irrevocably gone. And Ludendorff must have known, ever since
Cambrai, that against a massed tank attack, supported by good infantry,
no army in the world could stand.
Five days later, on 16th August, Sir Henry Rawlinson added his
testimony in a Special Order to the Tank Corps.
“The success of the operations of 8th August and succeeding
days was largely due to the conspicuous part played by the 3rd,
4th, and 5th Brigades of the Tank Corps, and I desire to place
on record my sincere appreciation of the invaluable services
rendered both by the Mark V. and the Mark V. Star and the
Whippets.
“The task of secretly assembling so large a number of tanks
entailed very hard and continuous work by all concerned for
four or five nights previous to the battle.
“The tactical handling of the tanks in action made calls on the
skill and physical endurance of the detachments which were met
with by a gallantry and devotion beyond all praise.
“I desire to place on record my appreciation of the splendid
success that they achieved, and heartily to congratulate
the Tank Corps as a whole on the completeness of their
arrangements, and the admirable prowess exhibited by all ranks
actually engaged on this occasion.
“There are many vitally important lessons to be learned from
their experiences. These will, I trust, be taken to heart by
all concerned, and made full use of when next the Tank Corps is
called upon to go into battle.
“The part played by the tanks and Whippets in the battle of 8th
August was in all respects a very fine performance.”
About 100 tanks had been knocked out or otherwise disabled in the
first day’s fighting. In the next day’s advance 145 took part, mostly
formed as composite companies, the evil effects of the absence of
any reserves being felt once more. The 10th Battalion helped the 3rd
Corps to clear the Chipilly Spur and the difficult gullies which
abounded in that region, while the 4th and 5th Brigades fought in
Framerville and Rosières and Bouchoir. A few Whippets cut loose from
their leading-strings and penetrated as far as the devastated area of
the old Somme battlefield; but most of these machines remained tied
to the ineffective wanderings of the cavalry, who displayed their
usual _penchant_ for collecting in valleys where they were certain to
be shelled. Another 39 tanks were hit on this day. In the meantime
Humbert’s 3rd French Army had attacked south of Montdidier. On the
10th Montdidier fell, and we were on the edge of Lihons and within
3000 yards of the railway station of Chaulnes. Sixty-seven tanks were
engaged in this fighting, of which 30 were disabled by shell-fire.
Another 40 machines were in again on the 11th, when Lihons was captured
in part and Humbert was on the edge of the much-talked-of Lassigny
_massif_, familiar to Mr Belloc’s numerous readers; and with this the
share of the Tank Corps in the battle of Amiens came to an end. The
battle itself was virtually over. The old tactical ideas of hammering
for weeks at one point had vanished with the acceptance of the new
doctrines of tank warfare. The devastated area had now been reached:
the objectives aimed at had been won; and with the enemy thoroughly
awakened and obsessed with the danger south of the Somme, the time had
come for another blow in the new style in a different quarter.
Some idea of the wastage in tanks involved in a battle of this
description, and of the infinite advantages we might have gained if we
had possessed an adequate supply of these machines, may be gathered
from the following figures and dates. In the four days’ fighting, a
total of 688 tanks had been engaged. No fewer than 480, including
supply-tanks, had been handed over to salvage. The few remaining
fighting machines needed a thorough overhaul before they would be fit
for another battle. There were left the 9th Battalion, with 27 tanks,
which had rejoined the 4th Brigade; the 11th Battalion, with 42, which
had been rushed down from the 1st Brigade to the Somme area, but had
not been used; the 7th and 12th Battalions, still with Mark IV.’s (42
apiece), and the 16th Battalion, with another 42 Mark V.’s, just out
from England. With the 9th Battalion brought up to strength, this
would give 210 tanks as an untired reserve on 12th August. The next
offensive, for which three whole brigades were needed at the very
start, was due for the 21st of the month, or in little more than a week!
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE GREAT ADVANCE: FROM BUCQUOY TO BAPAUME.
I.
I can now take up again my own thread in the story and follow it
through to the end.
In the first week of July I returned from Le Tréport to Enguinegatte,
where, as I have said, I found all the company but a few headquarters’
details already gone back to our old camp and billets at Bouvigny. I
followed the next day. Our tanks had trekked across country to Central
Workshops at Erin to be handed in. B and C Companies, in Noulette
Wood, were waiting to entrain for the same purpose; and then the whole
personnel of the battalion was going to Merlimont for Hotchkiss and
driving courses preparatory to drawing its quota of Mark V.’s. The 11th
Battalion was already there, and the 12th, which was to follow, was
to become a light battalion with Whippets. Such, at least, were the
arrangements. In practice, however, things fell out very differently.
On 18th July I came home on leave. Returning on 1st August, I caught
the influenza and a particularly unpleasant bombing raid at Boulogne,
and from there proceeded to Merlimont, where I expected to find the
battalion. I found however, only A Company. B and C had drawn their old
tanks again, and returned to Noulette Wood, where they were engaged in
some mysterious business which turned out to be part of a scheme to
delude the enemy into the expectation of an attack on the Lens front.
At Merlimont I went straight to bed in a hut where I was deluged with
sand every time the door opened, and remaining there three days saw
little or nothing of the place--in which I do not think I lost much.
The day after I began to totter about again in that gentle melancholy
which influenza induces, there came the usual twenty-four hours’ notice
to move. All our hopes, it appeared, had come to nothing. Owing to
Labour troubles at home--the old story--and in view of the certain need
of heavy replacements after the battle of Amiens (then just beginning),
the supply of Mark V.’s and Whippets was insufficient to equip the
whole Tank Corps. In our brigade, therefore, while the 11th Battalion
was to draw its forty-two machines of the new type and be rushed
forthwith to the Somme on the fruitless errand I have mentioned, the
12th Battalion and ourselves were to be re-equipped with our old Mark
IV.’s before leaving for some unknown destination. The 12th, which had
been training as a Whippet battalion, was particularly annoyed. In our
case, I think we came in the end to regard this misfortune as at least
a compliment. If any battalion could make the Mark IV. capable in the
field of rivalling its more powerful and handy successor it was “G”;
and in the end, both the 12th and ourselves, I think, not only rivalled
but excelled the performances of most of the Mark V. battalions. The
amount of work we got out of our obsolete machines was astonishing.
Some of them, almost falling to pieces for want of repair, were still
pressing on with the 4th Army, at the especial request of the Guards
and other infantry, until just before the Armistice, when they had
covered, including battles and all the gambits involved by treks and
approach-marches during the greatest advance since 1914, well upwards
of 100 miles.
We left Merlimont for the Bermicourt area by lorry on 7th August,
and were billeted in Blangy, next door to Erin, on the Ternoise. The
officers of the company occupied a couple of dormitories in the most
depressing institution imaginable--a huge dilapidated religious hostel
for the feeble-minded. Very mercifully there were only a few of these
unfortunates left at the time, mostly old men and women, with two or
three nuns who looked after the establishment; but I know of no place
more chilling and uncomfortable as a residence. We were here for a
week. While the Tank commanders and crews were away at Erin every day,
receiving their Mark IV.’s and equipment, there was little for me to
do. I took a few runners in map-reading classes, drew from the M.T.
workshops at Auchy a new combination Douglas and side-car to replace
my old one, which somebody had smashed up in my absence, and paid the
usual visits to Hesdin, a charming little town temporarily spoilt by
the British Army in general and the Tank Corps in particular. I also
visited once or twice the field of Agincourt, which lies on the hills
above the Ternoise. The country has changed very little, so far as one
can judge, since Henry V.’s insignificant army crossed the river near
Erin, climbed the steep ridge beyond, and stood at bay on the tiny
battlefield. The villages of Azincourt (as it is spelt) and Tramecourt,
between which the French knights were killed in thousands, and that of
Maisoncelles, where Henry established his headquarters on the night
before the battle, still lie invisible in their trees just as they were
hidden 500 years ago. The few fields which separate them are tilled now
as they were tilled then; and only a road, some iron palings, and a
signpost need to be obliterated to re-endue that fragment of landscape
with the air and spirit of the fifteenth century. It was an odd
contrast (if one may acknowledge such obvious reflections) to the vast
tormented battlefields to which we were returning.
The workshops at Erin (which would have startled Henry V.) were now
working full blast in consequence of the Somme battle. Stray crews of
almost every unit in the Tank Corps were there, drawing new or repaired
machines. A party of the 15th Battalion, just blooded at Proyart and
Framerville, and slightly above themselves in consequence, descended
upon our effete heads in the madhouse one evening. Our own orders to
move, couched in the usual cryptic form reminiscent of a dime novel,
reached us on the afternoon of 14th August. The message began in words
like these--“14 crows entrain Birmingham 2 P.M. 15th detrain Dublin 10
P.M. ...” Decoded into sense, this meant that the company would leave
Erin next day for Saulty Station, on the Arras-Doullens road. I had to
find the 1st Brigade advanced headquarters at Sarton, near Doullens,
and learn there the destination of the tanks. Having seen the latter on
their trucks at Erin, I pushed off on my bicycle on the afternoon of
the 15th with Lishman, the company equipment officer, in the side-car.
We ran the brigade to earth in a dilapidated house at Sarton about five
o’clock, discovered that the tanks were to lie that night in Bazèque
Wood, two miles from Saulty, and went on immediately to survey the
route between the two places. We found the wood full of dug-outs, which
promised some shelter for the night, and found also a branch of the
invaluable 6th Corps Club in marquees at Bavincourt, near by, where I
ordered dinner. Owing to various accidents, however, we were not free
to attend this very necessary function until 9.30, and with the tank
train due in at ten we did not dare to leave the station for so long.
The train, of course, chose to be abominably late. We sat and dozed and
hungered in the R.T.O.’s office until long after midnight; and it was
daylight before we had all the tanks camouflaged in the wood and could
begin to think of sleep.
B and C Companies had already arrived at similar hiding-places in
the neighbourhood. The following night, that of the 16th, the whole
battalion, with 42 tanks, moved on to Bienvillers-au-Bois, where there
was a company of the 3rd Battalion’s Whippets. Battalion headquarters
joined us next day and took over our most comfortable billets--which
were very primitive at the best. Bienvillers was a half-ruined and
wholly deserted village about four miles from our front line at
Bucquoy, with which place it was connected by a direct road through
Hannescamps and Essarts. It was surrounded by orchards in full leaf,
in which the tanks were hidden, and where there were also a number of
60-pounder guns installed for the coming offensive. The country to
the eastward was good, rolling, chalk land, forming a series of low
ridges between Bienvillers and Bapaume. Before the German withdrawal to
the Hindenburg Line in the spring of 1917, the front trenches had run
between Hannescamps and Essarts, both of which were entirely ruined.
The present front line, so far as it concerned us, now ran from north
to south as follows: east of Ayette, west of Ablainzevelle, through
Bucquoy, east of Puisieux-au-Mont, and so to Miraumont on the Ancre,
the enemy having just abandoned (on 15th August) the small salient he
had held in front of Puisieux and Serre. Viewed from the high ground at
Essarts, the landscape before us was divided with a curious exactness
into two kinds. North of a line drawn between Bucquoy and Puisieux,
although wasted, desert, and seamed with trenches, it still bore some
resemblance to a state of nature. Fragmentary houses were erect in
the villages, and the trees which invariably surround the latter in
north-east France seemed at a distance to be in fair preservation. But
south of the line the track of a hurricane--the first battle of the
Somme--had sheared everything away. Trees, houses, the very sites of
villages and farms, had vanished in a wholesale annihilation; and the
country westward to Bapaume and southward to the Somme was one vast
nondescript expanse of ruin, broken only by a few stumps or a cloud of
dust. This obliterated area determined, so far as tanks were concerned,
the front of the new attack, interposing a wide gap between the 1st,
2nd, and 3rd Tank Brigades, working with the 3rd Army to the north, and
the 4th and 5th Brigades which were to come into action again with the
4th Army a day or two later. The time was past when tanks were thrust
in, willy-nilly, over any kind of _terrain_.
The 3rd Army’s attack, to be launched on 21st August, was to extend
from Moyenneville to the Ancre--a frontage of 17,000 yards. The first
objective was the line of the Arras-Albert railway, which ran from
Moyenneville through Achiet-le-Grand to Miraumont. On the 22nd the
left of the 4th Army was to come into line between the Ancre and the
Somme, while on the 23rd, south of the latter, the Australians would
renew their advance, so that the offensive would become continuous
from Boyelles to the Amiens-St Quentin road. The battle of Bapaume, as
it is convenient to call the northern part of the combined operation,
was of particular interest in that it brought us against a new system
of defence adopted by the Germans--or rather an old system, tried
with success at Ypres, now revived in greatly altered circumstances.
The idea was defence in depth, the enemy’s front positions as far
back as the Arras-Albert railway being held very thinly, chiefly by
machine-gunners with a number of scattered and camouflaged field-guns
for anti-tank purposes. Behind the railway were his battery positions
and his main line of resistance. The main object of this arrangement
was to hamper the tank attack, the first phase of which would be
delivered as it were in the air, while the German batteries, instead
of being overrun at the start, as happened on the 8th August, would be
waiting 5000 yards in rear to deal with the second phase, which must
always be less coherent owing to loss of tanks, accidents to infantry,
and the general confusion that ensues once a battle has begun. On
21st August this defence in depth caused us undoubtedly a good deal
of anxiety and loss; but such a method can never be popular with that
minority of the defending troops which has to be sacrificed as a matter
of course in the advanced positions, and this disadvantage in the
end outweighed its merits. It was found before long that the German
soldier, whose _moral_ was deteriorating week by week, surrendered so
freely when left without artillery support far in front of the main
defence line that the whole purpose of the scheme was vitiated.
The Tank Brigades had been thoroughly reshuffled before the battle. The
2nd Brigade, on the left of the 3rd Army, consisted now of the 12th
and 15th Heavy Battalions and the 6th Light Battalion (Whippets). The
3rd Brigade, in reserve, had the 9th, 11th, and 14th Heavy Battalions.
The 1st Brigade in the centre was made up of the 7th and 10th Heavy
Battalions, the 3rd Light Battalion, and the 17th Armoured Car
Battalion. “In consequence of the enemy’s new system of defence and the
varying powers of the three marks of machines used by the 1st and 2nd
Tank Brigades, tanks were disposed in echelons as follows:--
1. Two battalions of Mark IV. tanks (7th and 12th) to operate as
far as the second objective.
2. One battalion of Mark V. and one of Mark V. Star machines
(10th and 15th) to operate against the second objective and
proceed as far as the Albert-Arras railways.
3. Two battalions of Whippets and one of armoured cars to operate
beyond the railway.”[38]
As no such advance as that of 8th August was contemplated, the railway
being the final objective for the first day, this employment of the
Whippets and armoured cars seems to have been a mistake. There was
little point in their disorganising the enemy’s forces in an area over
which we had no intention of advancing until the 23rd; and, on the
other hand, their appearance, unsupported, beyond the railway, would
put them at the mercy of the German batteries, by that time fully
prepared. And, in fact, a company of the 3rd Battalion lost most of its
tanks around Achiet-le-Petit (together with a number of armoured cars)
before even the railway was reached.
There was very little time for reconnaissance before the attack.
It was, of course, to be another surprise, based on tanks, but the
battalion commanders of the latter were only informed of the details on
the 18th. The 6th Corps on the left, with the 2nd Tank Brigade, was to
capture Moyenneville and Courcelles and the line of the railway beyond.
The 4th Corps, in the centre, with the 1st Tank Brigade, had to carry
first the villages of Ablainzevelle and Bucquoy, then Logeast Wood and
the German second line to Achiet-le-Petit, and thirdly, Achiet-le-Grand
and the railway. The 5th Corps, on the right, was advancing without
tanks along the edge of the obliterated area against the Dove Cot
at Beauregard and the village of Beaucourt. The 7th Battalion was
primarily interested in Bucquoy and Ablainzevelle. B and C Companies
were to capture the former, A Company the latter, after which one
section from each company was to push on with the Mark V.’s of the
10th Battalion as far as Logeast Wood and Achiet-le-Petit. Bucquoy was
a large village shaped like a badly drawn cross, one stroke of which
ran up the Ayette road, parallel to our front, while the other crossed
it at right angles along the road from Bienvillers and Hannescamps
to Achiet-le-Petit. The opposing outposts were both in the village.
Ablainzevelle, a more compact and much smaller place, lay 1000 yards
to the north-east, just beyond the Ayette road. The infantry with whom
we were co-operating in this first phase were two brigades of the
37th Division, in which I had served in the ranks in the early days
of the war. By a coincidence, my old unit, the 10th Royal Fusiliers,
which I had not seen since June 1915, was to take Ablainzevelle with A
Company’s tanks. In spite of the fact that the new German tactics of
defence in depth presupposed the holding of both these villages very
lightly, the infantry were extremely nervous about them. The 111th
Brigade would have it that Ablainzevelle was a warren of dug-outs
and tunnels and full of men. Personally, I do not believe there were
fifty Germans in the place. In case, however, it proved to be a second
Flesquières, six tanks (all we could get into it comfortably) were
to rush it from three sides, the other eight machines of the company
devoting themselves to the trenches and alleged strong-points to the
north and south. I spent a part of the 18th and 19th reconnoitring
Ablainzevelle from our forward lines along the Ayette road, and on the
first day the Major and I, having passed in front of our outposts by
mistake, found ourselves in the ditch beside the road which led into
the village from Bucquoy, and within 100 yards of the nearest house. We
could see straight up the road into the middle of the village, which
appeared to be as deserted and peaceful as any one could wish. There
were Germans hidden somewhere in the ruins, but I am sure that if it
had been desirable our people could have walked over any time after
dark and taken the place with very little trouble. The same applied to
Bucquoy and all similar advanced posts under the new German scheme of
defence.
[Illustration: Ablainzevelle, Logeast Wood, and Achiet-le-Grand.]
During the days before the attack the weather held gloriously fine with
hot sunny days and moonlit nights, and the front was very quiet indeed.
On the evening of the 19th, about dusk, we began to get the tanks of
A Company out of their orchard. By midnight all were well on their
way to the lying-up points we had selected. These were in the shallow
valley which runs north and south between Bucquoy and the high ground
about Essarts, and on the average were less than 2000 yards behind
the front line. Wright’s section, the farthest forward of all, was to
lie up in a sunken road which ran into the northern end of Bucquoy,
M’Chlery’s behind a bank alongside the road from Essarts to Ayette, and
Custance’s under a row of trees near Quesnoy Farm, behind M’Chlery.
Except for Custance’s row of trees there was no real cover whatever in
this neighbourhood beyond a few banks and sunken roads. From Essarts
to Bucquoy the ground was a trough of grass-land where once fields had
been. Besides our company, B and C were also to collect in the valley,
so that forty-two tanks would be lying in the open a mile from the
German outposts throughout Y-day. Behind us, over the Essarts Ridge,
was the 10th Battalion, whose Mark V.’s would move up at zero. The
12th and 15th Battalions on our left had the extensive shade of Adinfer
Wood for concealment. Tanks, however, if hidden from direct observation
and properly camouflaged, are as safe, or safer, in the open than in
some conspicuous mass of timber. They are invisible from the air and
extraordinarily difficult to locate even from close quarters on the
ground, as was proved when the brigade Intelligence Officer, who knew
the approximate positions of all our sections, could only find eight
tanks out of the forty-two. By 2 A.M. our three sections were disposed
of in their hiding-places without any disturbance from the enemy or
trouble from the tanks. Having seen them camouflaged and the crews
preparing to turn in for the rest of the night, the Major and I walked
back to his car, which was waiting behind Essarts, and returned to
Bienvillers for our own few hours’ sleep. The rest of that day, the
20th, we were busy about many things. We went out to the tanks again
after breakfast, and found everything well and the German artillery
as quiet as before. The section and tank commanders were going out
for a final reconnaissance that afternoon. I spent it in studying
maps and photographs in the R.O.’s office at Bienvillers, drawing up
operation orders with the Major, and making a few preparations for my
personal comfort during the battle. After an early dinner we set off
again about 7.30 for Essarts. As darkness fell, the whole countryside,
which had been so empty of life the night before, became filled with
quiet noises--the tramp of hoofs, the rattle of wheels, the voices of
men passing orders or warnings. Dozens of field batteries were moving
forward to take up their positions in front of Hannescamps for the
opening barrage, and the assaulting infantry were on the way to their
assembly trenches. The moon, which was almost full, rose intensely
bright--too bright for my liking.
Zero was at 4.55 A.M., and before midnight all the tanks of the
battalion were uncamouflaged and ready to move. The three sections of
A Company were to be formed up in line beyond our front trench--Very
Trench--at 4.40. To be on the safe side the route of each section
was to be taped to this point, a task which normally falls to the
Reconnaissance Officer; but as I could not be in three places at once,
it was decided that the taping should be left to the section commanders
and to Jukes, my assistant R.O., who had taken Maelor Jones’s place.
I wandered round with the Major, visiting each section in turn. One
startling incident disturbed these preliminaries. We were with Wright’s
section in the sunken road about midnight. He had no more than 1500
yards to cover, and there was no point in his starting at that hour;
but some limbers appeared in the road with ammunition which had to be
taken farther forward, and as the tanks blocked the way we started to
get them up the bank to one side. The first tank reached the top, with
some difficulty, for there was no room to swing in the road, and the
bank was 12 feet high and very steep. The moon was now blazing like an
arc-light upon everything, and the tank was silhouetted on a rise half
a mile from Bucquoy, the trees of which village, as well as those along
the Ayette road, were clearly visible. Everything was so brilliant,
in fact, that we ordered men to hold up the canvas horn covers to
hide the flashing of the tracks in the moonlight as the machine moved
along above the cutting. I was down the road again watching the second
tank endeavouring to climb out, when there came the whistle of a
shell, and the leading one on top was hidden in smoke. Several more
shells followed, all of which burst round the tank, and the crew came
flying out and down into the road. The shooting was so extraordinarily
close that we felt certain that the tank had been seen. Yet, after
about a dozen rounds, none of which actually hit her, the gun or guns
stopped firing. Apparently the shelling was meant for the road, which
the Germans must have known to be used for transport at night, for
after this a machine-gun opened on it at long range, and bullets came
zip-zipping into the grass of the bank. With this epilogue, however,
the incident closed, and the night resumed its normal quietude. We
backed the leading tank behind the crest, and got the rest out of the
way of the limbers by reversing them to the end of the sunken road. We
were taking no more risks in full view. As it happened, a mist began to
rise soon after and thickened so fast that all fear of our being seen
was at an end. Before morning it was a veritable fog, which, lasting
until ten o’clock, was to hamper seriously the first phase of the
attack. I spent an hour on an errand to C Company later on, and as I
was returning saw the Mark V.’s of the 10th Battalion drawn up in the
valley our tanks had just left. The mist was very dense when I rejoined
the Major at the 111th Brigade headquarters in a dug-out in Top Trench,
the support line. I remember getting some sleep here. Shortly before
zero runners came in from all three sections to report the tanks lined
up in No Man’s Land. We climbed up into the trench, to find we could
not see a hundred yards in front of us; and a few minutes later the
massed batteries behind broke the silence with an appalling crash of
sound, a torrent of shells whined overhead, and the attack had begun.
II.
For all we could see, we might have remained in the dug-out. The
fiendish uproar of the guns seemed to increase, if that were
possible--a modern barrage is one continuous throbbing blast of noise
beyond description--but, looking back, there was not even a flicker
of light to be seen from all those smoking muzzles. Dawn had broken,
and we could see one another, but that was all. Even Misty Trench
(appropriately named), only two or three hundred yards in front,
was invisible. No hostile shells seemed to be coming our way, but
it was true they might have been bursting quite near without our
knowing it. I cannot recall anything outside a London fog as dense
as that capricious mist which covered the whole battlefield during
the early morning of the 21st. The road in which Wright’s tanks had
been concealed cut through Top Trench close to where we were standing,
and presently the last section of C Company, detailed for the second
objective, came rolling along it out of the gloom. It was now full
day, and we could see perhaps a quarter of a mile at the most. Bucquoy
was still entirely hidden. A brigade staff of the 63rd Naval Division,
which was to pass through the 37th to attack the railway, had come up
to the neighbourhood of Top Trench, and its members were standing about
flapping maps, sending and receiving telephone messages, and cursing
the fog. Runners and despatch-riders were coming and going busily in
our vague radius of vision. There was a constant bustle about the
mouth of the dug-out, where the 111th Brigade was receiving reports
every minute by telephone from the headquarters of its battalions;
and inquiries here confirmed the impression that the first objectives
had been carried with ease, in spite of the mist. The latter was at
last thinning as the sun rose, and at length the trees of Bucquoy,
1000 yards away, became faintly visible, like ghostly and tattered
scarecrows. It was now, I suppose, about seven o’clock, and the Major
and I began to make our way toward Ablainzevelle. A few walking
wounded were straggling rearwards, and the endless torrent of shells
was wailing overhead; but there was nothing else to be seen or heard
of the battle. The northern end of Bucquoy, through which we passed,
reeked of gases and corruption, but the one or two dead bodies visible
had only too palpably been lying there for days. The Ayette road was
more forlorn than ever, and littered with a new layer of bricks and
branches. The appearance behind us of some cavalry, who rode into the
village with a great clatter and parade, indicated that the attack so
far had progressed satisfactorily. A little way up the Ablainzevelle
road we met the first tank returning, followed by several more. As I
had suspected would be the case, there had been little or no fighting
in the village. The fog had caused far more trouble than the Germans,
of whom hardly any had been seen. One machine-gun had kept firing
from a ruined house until a tank drove over it, one or two others had
loosed a few bursts before their crews fled, and then proceedings had
degenerated into a hunt for souvenirs. There were plenty of these, for
the attack had come as a complete surprise.
[Illustration: _Attack on August 21, 1918._]
We returned with these tanks to the rallying-point near Durham Trench,
behind the northern gardens of Bucquoy. All the machines detailed for
Ablainzevelle were accounted for. One had broken a track near the
village, and its commander, slightly wounded in an unromantic part of
his person by a stray bullet, was the only casualty to date. During the
morning all the remaining tanks rolled in except the three of Wright’s
section, which had pushed on to Achiet-le-Petit. No one, so far, had
met with any serious opposition, but all had difficulties on account
of the mist. One tank commander, at the request of the Naval Division,
had entered Logeast Wood and demolished some machine-gun posts there.
There was a little shelling of our neighbourhood, and of Bucquoy in
general, toward midday, and Jukes and I very nearly had our promising
careers cut short by a large projectile which landed in a road along
which we were walking in search of news or food--I forget which.
Jukes’s water-bottle was the only victim. After a scrappy lunch, having
learnt that Wright’s section had returned from Achiet-le-Petit and
rallied in a small copse between that place and Bucquoy, I set out to
find Battalion headquarters, which was to have established itself by
this hour in a trench east of the latter village. The mist had now
cleared, at an awkward moment as it turned out, for the 10th Battalion
and the Whippets. The day was brilliantly fine and even uncomfortably
hot, and as I reached the far side of Bucquoy, I could see very plainly
the battle in progress along the line of the railway. Achiet-le-Petit,
hidden in trees, had been taken by tanks and was firmly held, but to
the left smoke was billowing in clouds about Achiet-le-Grand and the
eastern end of Logeast Wood. I found the Colonel, Henriquez, and Smith,
the Adjutant, sheltering from the sun under some corrugated iron at the
appointed spot, where their trench--which was in fact the German front
line, there having been only advanced posts in Bucquoy--was cut by the
road from that village to Achiet-le-Petit. I got a little news from
them. B and C Companies, it appeared, had taken Bucquoy as easily as we
had taken Ablainzevelle; but the second German line, and in particular
Logeast Wood and Achiet-le-Petit, had given more trouble. The Mark
V.’s and Whippets, passing through our tanks, had been caught bunched
together near the railway as the fog lifted at ten o’clock, and had
been knocked about badly by the German guns. The Naval Division, losing
its direction, had wandered too far to the right, even across the
Achiet-le-Petit road, with the result that Achiet-le-Grand, which it
should have carried, was still holding out. Apart from this accident,
everything so far had gone well. I was told now to bring A Company’s
tanks through Bucquoy to some point east of the village. One of our old
camps of Nissen huts, mostly in ruins, lay immediately in front, and
having noted this as a suitable place to camouflage the machines, I
returned to lead them to it.
[Illustration: Bucquoy and Achiet-le-Petit.]
Before three o’clock we had the two sections hidden in the huts, which
we knocked down and then built up again over the tanks. We established
ourselves in the trench behind. The accompanying photograph, taken
five days before the attack, shows very clearly this region behind
Bucquoy. Our trench ran from the five-sided enclosure on the left to
the first elbow in the main road, where the trees are. Beyond are the
Nissen huts. Beyond them again is a small copse, beside the road, where
Wright’s section had rallied after taking Achiet-le-Petit. The latter
village is seen at the end of the road, having on its left the line of
trees along the road to Achiet-le-Grand. In the foreground is Bucquoy,
the distance between the two villages being about a mile and a half. C
Company had concentrated their tanks in the five-sided enclosure on our
left, while those of B Company were under some trees at the south end
of the village.
We were left here in peace during the rest of the day, only a few
heavy shells whining overhead at intervals into Bucquoy. Battalion
headquarters had returned to Bienvillers. It was blazing hot, and we
were plagued by innumerable flies. Our only protection from the sun
was a few small shelters in the trench wall--the dug-outs, of which
there were a good number, being filled to suffocation by the infantry
of the 37th Division, now holding this line as a support to the general
advance. When we were not trying to sleep, our chief occupation was
watching the struggle still raging in front of Achiet-le-Grand. We
looked straight up a shallow depression to Achiet Junction, which
stood on rising ground, so that, although it was two miles distant,
we witnessed the whole attack like spectators at a play. The infantry
had carried the line of the railway to north and south, but the Germans
still held out tenaciously in a little salient that jutted out westward
around the station, the brickworks, and a number of huts erected there.
Throughout the afternoon I saw at intervals with my glasses lines of
minute figures pressing forward up the slope into the smoke-clouds that
rose and eddied over Achiet; but they always came back, and in smaller
numbers. The station was still uncaptured at nightfall.
It was extremely cold that night for August. Jukes and I were huddled
together in a bay of the trench when the Major roused us at 3 A.M.
He had become anxious about Wright’s forward section in the copse
beside the road, and wished Jukes to walk across and bring the tanks
in to the Nissen huts, with the others, before dawn. As I was too cold
to sleep, I accompanied Jukes across to the copse. It was brilliant
moonlight again, with none of the mist of the previous night. There
was very little artillery fire in progress, and only the occasional
mutter of a machine-gun along the railway. The copse, when we got to
it, proved to be no more than a triangle of tattered hedge enclosing
half a dozen small trees. There were now in it six tanks: three of A
Company’s (Wadeson’s, Clegg’s, and another), one each from B and C,
and a supply tender. We found B and C’s machines already under orders
to withdraw, and in the act of uncamouflaging; and having woken up
our own people, we hurried them on with the same business, for the
eastern sky was brightening, and it takes some time to uncamouflage
a tank, stow everything away, and start up a cold engine. The crews
were sleepy and chilled, and half an hour had passed before the first
tank was under way. This was C Company’s machine. Then two of ours,
Clegg’s, and one commanded by an N.C.O., went off with Jukes, followed
by Borrisow of B Company. The tender was remaining behind, and our last
tank (Wadeson’s) refused at first to start up. While I was standing
beside it, looking toward the railway, where the trees along the road
between the two Achiets were now visible in the rapidly growing light
of a clear morning, a close line of black shell-bursts sprang up about
500 yards away--apparently a very well-spaced barrage along what had
been the German second line. The tank was just moving, to my sincere
gratification; but before even it was clear of the copse the barrage
had jumped forward and was falling all round us. The two tanks which
Jukes was leading vanished in a cloud of smoke, and I was certain that
one at least had been hit. I saw Borrisow crossing the road and making
at full speed for the shelter of Bucquoy. I led Wadeson after him, as
the shells at the moment were falling only on our side of the highway;
but as soon as we were across, with that malignity which so often seems
to inspire indirect artillery fire, the infernal things began to fly up
in front of us. In the twilight one could see the flash in the heart of
each black plume of earth and smoke. One shell cleared the cab of our
tank by inches and burst twelve yards ahead of us. Wadeson and I were
walking in front to direct the driver, and in the perturbation of the
moment it never occurred to either of us to get inside the tank, which
we might safely have done, there being enough light for us to pick out
our way through the flaps. We swung back presently on to the road, as
the ground to the left became obstructed with large craters and other
excavations of some sort, which reduced seriously our very moderate
rate of progress. The tank, in fact, from some mechanical fault, would
only crawl along on second speed. From the copse to our huts was no
more than a thousand yards, but this distance seems interminable when
one is condemned to walk at about one mile an hour through a heavy
deluge of 5.9’s. The shells followed us with the same uncanny accuracy,
and were crashing among the huts when we reached the latter. As we
turned in from the road I met Wright, the section commander, stumbling
about, half-blinded by blood from a wound in his head. I took his arm
and ran him down the road to the trench, and judged from the brisk
way he stepped out that he was not very badly hurt. Hurrying back, I
called in the crews. It was not the moment to keep them out in the open
camouflaging the tanks, which could be done later. As it was, I was too
late. Poor Clegg, having after all come safely through the journey,
was the first in, and was standing behind his tank helping his crew to
cover it with corrugated iron from a hut, when a shell burst at his
feet and killed him instantly.
The whole thing was a striking example of bad luck. The tanks could
not have been seen in that half-light, and the bombardment was a mere
speculation, aimed, I imagine, at the trenches we occupied east of
Bucquoy. It cost the 7th Battalion a heavier casualty list in officers
than any action it ever fought. For while in A Company Clegg was killed
and Wright wounded, almost at the same time a shell landed among B
Company’s tanks in Bucquoy itself, killing a tank commander, M’Lean,
and a gunner, and wounding another officer and several men. M’Lean,
a Canadian, was one of the best fellows I have ever met, and one who
hated war almost as much as I did. Throughout the series of operations
which began at Bucquoy and ended beyond Cambrai, the 7th Battalion,
always comparatively fortunate in casualties to personnel, had four
officers killed, of whom two lost their lives in this brief and
purposeless shelling on the morning of 22nd August.
III.
A Company’s trench was not actually hit during the bombardment, but
all who were in it were much perturbed by our predicament as well as
by their own. As the three returning tanks were hidden entirely for a
while by the smoke, most of us were given up for lost. The shelling
died down after about half an hour, when parties went out to bring in
Clegg’s body and to complete the concealment of the tanks.
The rest of the day passed quietly enough, so far as we were concerned,
until the evening. The 3rd Army was pausing, while the 4th Army came
into line between the Ancre and the Somme. On our front Achiet-le-Grand
was carried in the course of the morning, and the infantry was then
established along the whole line of the railway. A little information
reached us concerning the previous day’s events on our left. The 12th
Tank Battalion in their first battle had done all and more than was
asked of them, capturing Moyenneville and pushing on to the railway.
The Mark V. Stars of the 15th Battalion, which should have passed
through the 12th, lost all direction in the mist, and for the most
part wandered aimlessly about north of Logeast Wood without achieving
anything. As, however, the battalion (by one of those dispensations
peculiar to the Army) collected something like a dozen military crosses
for an ineffective performance which did not merit one, it had every
reason to be satisfied with its day’s work. It was fortunate, perhaps,
in that its tanks did not contrive to get very far forward, for the
10th Battalion, which played the same _rôle_ on the right, passing
through our Mark IV.’s to attack the railway about Achiet-le-Grand,
met with wholesale disaster. Of the company which went in, every tank
except one, I believe, was knocked out on or near the railway by the
German batteries beyond, eleven out of twelve officers being killed or
wounded. The 3rd Battalion’s Whippets, endeavouring to pass through the
Mark V.’s, were caught in line ahead on the Achiet-le-Petit road when
the mist lifted suddenly about ten o’clock in the morning, and most of
them suffered the same fate. Two got through Achiet-le-Petit and were
hit and burnt out beyond. The armoured cars had also paid the penalty
of other people’s convictions in the same neighbourhood. An area a mile
square around the two Achiets and the curve of railway between them
was in fact littered with derelict Mark V.’s, Whippets, and armoured
cars; and the result of this, as the 10th Battalion was very short of
tanks to begin with, was that the 7th now remained the only heavy unit
approximately up to strength in the 1st Brigade.
Some of our machines, however, were in need of an overhaul, and as
it was impossible to work on those of A Company in their exposed
position east of Bucquoy, we were ordered to withdraw after dark to our
original rallying-point near Durham Trench, west of the village. These
orders had just come through, at about seven o’clock in the evening
of the 22nd, when the enemy chose to repeat his display of the early
morning by bombarding our trench with 5.9’s. He was very accurate
on this occasion, the first shell landing full in the trench, and
all the others being unpleasantly near. As the dug-outs were full of
infantrymen, we had to sit hopefully on the trench floor and trust to
luck. For a quarter of an hour this shelling was very heavy, and caused
a number of casualties among those of the infantry who were crowded out
of the dug-outs, and also in C Company in their hedged enclosure to our
left. The trench was beaten flat in several places. After a while, as
this infliction might herald a counter-attack, the Major and I sprinted
vigorously up the trench to a dug-out where a brigade headquarters of
the Naval Division was established, hoping to get some news there.
We were met on the way by a panic-stricken rabble of signallers and
other oddments, who declared, with what little breath they had left,
that the Germans were in fact advancing and had recaptured Logeast
Wood. This did not sound probable; and on penetrating at length to the
brigade headquarters, wrapped in ideal calm and silence twenty feet
below the ground, we found the General having dinner amid an assortment
of telephones, and every one perfectly happy. Guy and Chaddock, of C
Company, were also there on the same errand of inquiry as ourselves. We
sat on the dug-out stairs for some time, drinking whiskies and sodas,
while telephone reports came through from the battalions in the front
line to the effect that everything there was normal; and being thus
assured that our tanks would not be needed to repair any disaster,
we climbed out again to find the shelling ceased and a blazing moon
rising once more above Bucquoy. Something else was blazing also--the
unfortunate supply-tank we had left in the copse that morning, which
had been hit and set on fire during the bombardment. Without any
further delay we got our tanks out of their shells of corrugated iron,
and in an hour or two were back near Durham Trench, where we made
bivouacs out of tarpaulin sheets for the night. C Company, having
received similar orders to withdraw to the west of Bucquoy, were also
concentrated at their old rallying-point.
While we were sleeping, the resumption of the general offensive,
due for the morning of the 23rd, was initiated by a brilliant night
attack made by the 12th Tank Battalion, with the 3rd Division and the
Guards, on Gommecourt and Hamelincourt, north of Achiet-le-Grand. The
two operations were quite distinct affairs, the villages, which lay
1000 yards beyond the railway, being nearly two miles apart. Both
were captured, with a number of prisoners and guns, the tanks doing
extraordinarily good work in the darkness. Three Military Crosses, one
D.C.M., and three Military Medals were gained by the 12th Battalion
in these actions, in which thirteen tanks were actually engaged. With
this successful prelude, the whole battle awoke again at dawn along a
front of thirty-three miles from Lihons, in the south, to Mercatel,
beyond the Cojeul; and while in a sunken road near Durham Trench we
shaved and washed in a leisurely manner beside our tanks, the guns
were roaring once more, and strings of German prisoners were already
passing by on their way to the cages. On this morning, in our sector,
the remaining tanks of the 10th Battalion helped the 37th Division to
clear Bihucourt, beyond Achiet-le-Grand: the 9th and 11th Battalions
of the 3rd Brigade co-operated in a successful attack toward Heninel;
and about midday fifteen Whippets of the 6th Battalion were engaged in
very severe fighting around Sapignies, Behagnies, and Ervillers on the
Arras-Bapaume road. Ervillers was carried, but the two other villages
held out until the 25th, when the 7th Battalion assisted at their
capture.
About five o’clock in the afternoon orders arrived at Durham Trench for
a move by the whole battalion at dusk to the railway embankment east
of Achiet-le-Petit. A Company led, C following on behind as we passed
again through Bucquoy. B Company took their own route from the south
end of the village. Owing to various breakdowns, due to the age and
general disrepair of some of our Mark IV.’s, the battalion now mustered
little more than thirty tanks. It proceeded along the east side of the
Achiet-le-Petit road. The Major and I went on ahead in the car to a
conference at the headquarters of a New Zealand Brigade near Achiet,
which we reached just before dark. The New Zealanders were attacking
Biefvillers, Grévillers, and Loupart Wood the next morning, and wanted
two sections of heavy tanks and some Whippets. Custance’s section of A
Company, with one from B, were detailed from our battalion, the whole
being under the orders of Rossi-Ashton, commanding B Company, for the
operation. As there was nothing for the Major and myself to do, we
were ordered to return to Bienvillers to get a good night’s rest while
we had the chance; and having seen the tanks on their way round the
north side of Achiet-le-Petit, we returned to the car and drove away.
We passed the Whippets coming up, and, behind Bucquoy, along the road
which two days before had been deserted, ran into masses of transport,
finally ditching the car in a shell-hole near Hannescamps, so that it
was after midnight when we reached Bienvillers.
A night in a camp-bed, followed by a bath and a comfortable breakfast
in our tarpaulin-covered mess, worked wonders, and we were on our way
back by eleven o’clock next morning. One could see very plainly by day
the changes wrought in these back areas by our advance. The Bucquoy
road was choked with cars, lorries, ambulances, and horse-transport,
moving under a cloud of dust. There was a Y.M.C.A. canteen established
in the ruins of Essart, and we saw actually an A.P.M. endeavouring
to control the traffic in that place. We were able to take the car
through Achiet-le-Petit itself, over indescribable roads, and so down
into the valley beyond, where our tanks were lying alongside the
railway embankment. Around Achiet were many relics of the tank attack
of the 21st, in the shape of burnt-out Whippets, armoured cars, and
Mark V.’s. South-east of the village the ground falls very steeply and
then rises to the railway, while the embankment over which the latter
runs is at this point quite thirty feet high and clothed with bushes;
and in the regular gulley thus formed there was now accumulated an
astonishing mass of men, animals, and material. Against the bushes of
the embankment were camouflaged the thirty-odd tanks of our battalion,
a few Mark V.’s from the 10th, and several Whippets. A battery of
4.5 howitzers was firing with an intolerable noise straight over our
machines from a distance of twenty yards, while on the slope behind,
which rose like a _glacis_ up to Achiet, were three or four field
batteries in action. Long lines of limbers and horses filled the lower
end of the valley, and the men of an infantry battalion in reserve were
lying in the grass higher up beside our tanks. Two infantry brigade
headquarters were established in the open here, so that there was a
great coming and going of despatch-riders and orderlies. All this
activity was crowded into a hollow 1000 yards long by 200 or 300 yards
wide--a magnificent opportunity for the German artillery. The day was
fine, and a hostile aeroplane could have seen everything from a great
height. The possibilities of the place seem, however, to have been
overlooked during the earlier part of the day, when the enemy was busy
with the level crossing a mile higher up at Achiet-le-Grand, which was
violently shelled.
[Illustration: _The Advance beyond the Arras-Albert Railway, August
23-29._]
That morning’s attack had been entirely successful--Biefvillers,
Grévillers, and Loupart Wood being taken after severe fighting, in
which three of our tanks and a Whippet were knocked out. Armoured
cars had endeavoured to exploit the success by pushing along the
road from Biefvillers into Bapaume, but had found the shell-fire
too heavy. Our casualties had been slight, and Custance and most of
his people were back again with the company, covered with dirt and
glory. The battalion was supplying another three sections (twelve
tanks) the following morning--the 25th--for two separate operations.
M’Chlery’s section of A Company was to help the 37th Division complete
its unfinished task at Sapignies and Behagnies; while two sections
of C, with seven Mark V.’s (all that the 10th Battalion had left),
were working with the 63rd Division immediately to the south against
Favreuil, Avesnes-les-Bapaume, and Ligny-Thilloy. Avesnes was a
suburb of Bapaume, and Thilloy was south of that town, on which we
were now closing on three sides. M’Chlery’s section came under the
orders of C Company for these operations. The battalion being no
longer at full strength, sections were borrowed in this way to make
up composite companies with the normal number of tanks, and the three
company commanders took it in turn to direct successive attacks. A
Company having two tanks at Durham Trench which should now be ready
again for action, I was sent off after lunch to order them up. My
combination Douglas had broken in half during our move from Saulty to
Bienvillers--the combined weight of the Major and myself, coupled with
the corrugations of a ploughed field which we were crossing, proving
too much for a war-time framework; and for this journey I borrowed
Henriquez’s 4-h.p. machine, from which the side-car had been detached.
Ridden as a solo, it was unfamiliar, powerful, and rather alarming;
but after the usual anxious moments in the dense traffic that now,
beneath a fog of dust, congested the Achiet-le-Petit road, I reached
our old rallying-point behind Bucquoy, delivered my message, and
returned. It was shortly after this, there being at the moment nothing
for me to do, that I climbed the railway embankment and strolled up
to the crest of the hill beyond, and so came to witness a singular
little comedy. From the crest one looked down a gradual slope of
grass, broken by a few trenches and gun-pits, to Loupart Wood, 1000
yards away, with Grévillers just beyond to the left on a farther ridge
which hid Bapaume. The Wood, as I have told, had been captured that
morning by B Company and the New Zealanders. Subsequently the Germans
counter-attacked and retook the eastern part, whereupon two tanks of
C Company had been hurriedly summoned to drive them out again. This
was accomplished; but both tanks were then put temporarily _hors de
combat_ while still in the Wood--one with a broken track and the other
with engine trouble. At the time, about 5 P.M., when I walked up from
the railway, these machines were still there, with their crews working
on them. Nevertheless, for reasons which I never discovered, the New
Zealanders had withdrawn again from the entire Wood, and were calling
for yet more tanks to deal with some alleged (and I believe wholly
imaginary) German machine-guns re-established there. Standing on the
crest of the hill above the railway, I looked down at this juncture
upon all the dispositions for a pitched battle--with nobody. Loupart
Wood lay dark and quiet on the Grévillers spur, while within it our
two tank crews worked on quite peacefully, entirely ignorant of their
desertion and of all this pother. In front of the Wood, in extended
order on the ground, were some New Zealand infantry and a battalion
of the K.O.S.B.’s, borrowed from the 5th Division to help in this
crisis. Behind the infantry a field battery had come into position, its
limbers in rear, and a squadron of dismounted cavalry were standing
by their horses in a hollow close by, while from a crossing over the
railway to my left two more tanks of C Company were advancing to the
rescue. It was a very pretty and gallant sight, and reminded one,
in its formality and completeness, of those mimic battles one used
to enjoy at the Military Tournament. Only the stock pontoon bridge
was missing. Not a shot was being fired, except by one rifle which
cracked occasionally far away to the right of the Wood. This belonged,
I heard afterwards, to a solitary German sniper who seems to have
represented in his own person the entire enemy against which this force
of all arms was arrayed. What made the whole affair even more absurd
and unreal was the fact that, 1000 yards to the left, infantry were
marching in fours along the road into Grévillers...! As I looked on,
in some astonishment, developments ensued along the orthodox lines
laid down at Olympia and the Agricultural Hall. A cavalry patrol of
about a dozen men, greatly daring, mounted their horses and trotted
off toward the Wood. A few hundred yards from it the men dismounted
again, left two or three in charge of the animals, and walked forward
in extended order. Every other individual present (I hope) held his
breath as these gallant fellows disappeared among the trees. Even on
my hill-top I seemed to feel the atmosphere of suspense which emanated
from that silent battlefield, disturbed only by the single shots of
the indefatigable sniper in the distance.... In the Wood, of course,
nothing happened, for there was nothing to happen. But I should like
to have witnessed the meeting between the anxious patrol, scouting
warily among the trees, and our two perspiring and irritable tank
crews toiling at their tracks and engines. After a while the infantry,
reassured, got upon their feet, and in their turn began cautiously
to advance: the Wood was reoccupied; and the bloodless battle was
handsomely won.
My study of its concluding phase was disturbed by the appearance of a
squadron of German aeroplanes. There were about a dozen of them, and
they drove down suddenly from a great height upon the valley behind
me, coming so low as they cleared the crest on which I was standing
that the nearest machine was not 200 feet overhead. I saw quite clearly
its observer stand up in his cockpit and begin to fiddle about with
his machine-gun; and realising suddenly that I was a solitary and
fairly conspicuous figure on the hill-top, I ran rather hurriedly to
a trench close at hand. From here I saw the aeroplanes swoop down
across the railway and rise steeply beyond, and heard the rattle of
their machine-guns. The bullets, as I heard afterwards, flew all round
our tanks, although no one was hit. The Germans must have realised
what a magnificent target the crowded little valley offered to their
heavy guns, and all of us expected the place to be shelled furiously
within half an hour; but nothing of the sort happened, as the enemy’s
artillery was already in the act of withdrawing to positions farther
back.
While I was in the trench I was joined by a doctor belonging to the
5th Division. The latter was just back from Italy, and the M.O. was
very caustic on the subject of the Italian Army. After talking to him
for a while I walked down to our valley again by way of the nearer
railway crossing, and there overtook the two tanks of C Company on
their way home from the 3rd battle of Loupart Wood. Coutts and Chaddock
were with them, both very angry at having been called out on such a
fool’s errand. It was seven o’clock when I rejoined the company by
the embankment, and our servants there were preparing some dinner,
the _menu_ including three tinned chickens which I had brought from
Bienvillers that morning. I had to eat my share cold, however, on
a hunk of bread, for as I arrived the company received orders to
move after dark to a point indicated on the map as a German camp and
hospital at G 23, b 56; and Jukes and I had to set off at once to
investigate the place. It was 3000 yards away, on the high ground
near Bihucourt. We found it to consist of a couple of immense sheds,
presumably the hospital wards, a neat double row of Nissens, either
sunk in the ground or protected by breastworks against aeroplane
bombing, and a scattered collection of other huts all round, the whole
extending on either side of the Bihucourt-Grévillers road. Immediately
to the north of the camp ran the third German trench line, thickly
wired; 300 yards beyond that was the railway from Achiet-le-Grand
Junction to Bapaume; and across the railway were Bihucourt and
Biefvillers, a mile apart, and almost equidistant from the huts.
Bapaume itself, less than two miles away, was still hidden by the final
ridge, on top of which a derelict Whippet made a conspicuous landmark.
The whole of this country was elevated and rolling grass-land, very
little shelled, and covered with old camps which we had lost in the
March retreat.
As we returned to the valley there were ominous signs of a change in
the weather. Clouds were rolling up, and a premature twilight was
fading rapidly. We found the tanks pulling out from the embankment,
with the exception of M’Chlery’s section, which was moving later with
C Company for the attack next morning. Before we were halfway to our
new quarters it began to rain heavily, and the night fell as black as
pitch. The Major and I had eventually to find a New Zealand Brigade
whose whereabouts was very vaguely indicated, there being some talk
of a couple more tanks going into action near Bapaume in the morning;
and having accompanied our machines as far as the camp, we left them
to settle themselves in, and plunged off into the darkness on our own
voyage of discovery. I cannot imagine a more appalling night for such
an expedition. The blackness was extraordinary, and the rain fell
in torrents. We had only the haziest idea of the location of this
brigade headquarters, and for nearly two hours we stumbled about in
long grass and mud, tripping over invisible wire, dead bodies, and
other debris, falling into shell-holes and sunken roads, and getting
always more drenched and exasperated. The few people we met were either
lost themselves, or else gave us contradictory directions involving
the recognition of landmarks which we could not possibly see. After
a while a thunderstorm burst, and the lightning afforded occasional
eerie visions of a black and sodden world. One of these flashes
found us slithering down into a road filled with large dark objects,
which turned out to be the guns, men, and horses of a German battery
which had evidently been caught by shell or machine-gun fire while
limbering up.[39] Over this welter of bodies there came crashing and
rocking several of our own field-guns, which nearly rode us down. This
incident, brief and startling in the lightning flashes, filled me with
a profound respect for our artillery. The guns went rattling by in the
pitchy dark over all these grisly obstructions on the road with as
much apparent ease and surety as if it had been broad day. Very soon
after this, near a cross-roads, we were cheered by the discovery of
some lights that seemed to be shining out of the ground, and found
that, more by luck than judgment, we had very literally stumbled upon
our destination. The brigade headquarters was established in some huts
sunk in what appeared to be a quarry, and practically invisible even
in daytime until one fell over the edge. Having groped our way into
the Brigade Major’s office and introduced ourselves, the Brigadier
presently appeared from some subterranean quarters and explained what
he wanted us to do. He proposed to capture some huts and railway
sidings between Bapaume and Favreuil in the course of the following
morning, and wished for two tanks to mop up after his infantry. The
time of the operation had not been fixed, but it would take place in
daylight, as a subsidiary development of the main attack which the 63rd
Division with C Company’s tanks was carrying out at dawn from Favreuil
to Thilloy. The scheme did not commend itself to us in the very least.
It showed the common misapprehension of the correct use of tanks, and
violated all our tactical principles, based on bitter experience. There
were only two tanks to be used, which left no margin for accidents;
they were to be employed wrongly to mop up after the infantry, instead
of preceding the latter; the attack was to begin in broad daylight; and
the approach-march necessarily led over the bare and prominent ridge in
front of Bapaume, where the machines would certainly be detected before
they got into action at all. It was this last consideration which
impressed the Brigadier most forcibly. I do not think he cared over
much about what happened to the tanks, but he was very anxious that
his attack should not be discovered prematurely. In the end, nothing
was settled definitely. We agreed to have the two tanks ready to move
if required. The brigade headquarters itself was moving forward in the
early morning to some dug-outs in the German trenches in front of our
huts, and we were to report there at nine o’clock for further orders.
This proposed attack, which came to nothing so far as we were
concerned, illustrates one of the difficulties tank units continually
met with during this final stage of the war. The infantry naturally
wanted tanks whenever they could get them, and brigade and divisional
commanders were always demanding two here or three there for use in
some wasteful and impracticable manner in minor operations. Apart from
the faulty tactics (from the point of view of tank warfare) which these
hurried little schemes usually involved, tanks were getting very scarce
in France, and such as were available needed to be conserved as much as
possible for attacks on a large scale.
Having left things in this nebulous state, the Major and I plunged once
more into the darkness and rain, and contrived to find our way back to
our new camp, where we settled down in a hut about 2 A.M.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE FIGHTING FOR BEUGNY, AND THE ADVANCE TO THE CANAL DU NORD.
I.
The storm blew itself out in the night, and the morning of 25th
August was again sunny and clear, with that bracing freshness that
follows after heavy summer rain. At nine o’clock I walked over with
the Major to see the New Zealanders. We found them now immured in
an uncomfortable and, as I thought, highly dangerous dug-out near
the crest of the ridge where the derelict Whippet was standing. The
dug-out was merely a cramped, unfinished, and untimbered gallery cut
in a crumbling soil which appeared to be in imminent peril of falling
in. One entrance, indeed, was half-choked with detritus shaken down
by concussion. Our interview settled the question about the tanks.
After some discussion, the Brigadier decided against their use, to
our considerable relief, and I was no less pleased to get out of that
untrustworthy tunnel into the fresh air.
I walked down to the railway embankment after this to hear how
M’Chlery’s section and C Company had prospered in that morning’s
attack. A Company’s four tanks, it appeared, had led the infantry into
Sapignies and Behagnies, but these villages were only cleared after
severe fighting. One tank was knocked out by shell-fire in Behagnies,
its commander, Charnock, being wounded. C Company and the Mark V.’s,
attacking Favreuil, Avesnes-les-Bapaume, and Thilloy with the 63rd
Division, met with an even more tenacious resistance and suffered
heavily. Neither Thilloy nor Avesnes could be held, although both were
partially cleared. Favreuil was captured; but the section of C Company
which took the village met with disaster later on. The tanks were
returning south of Favreuil, between Monument Wood and Bapaume, when
a field-gun in the outskirts of the town knocked out three of them.
Brassington and his driver, O’Mahony, in the first tank, were killed
together by a shell which came through the side of the cab and set the
machine ablaze. A gunner was killed while getting out, and there were
several other fatal casualties among the N.C.O.’s and men in the two
disabled tanks behind. Poor Brassington’s death came as a great shock
to me. We had been in the same hut as cadets at Bisley and in the same
section in G Battalion, had shared quarters at Bovington, and had been
much together in France. Before joining the Tank Corps, Brassington had
been a sergeant in the Duke of Wellington’s. Like so many North-country
men, he was genuinely musical, with a good voice and a knowledge of how
to use it; and he shared another local characteristic--that sort of
independence (as it is called) which, often aggressive and unpleasing,
in his case took only the form of a determination to go his own way.
He would never bother to cultivate friendly relations with influential
people if he did not like them, an attitude fatal to progress in the
Army. A really capable soldier, with long experience in the war, he
always said he would end as a tank commander.
After these actions on the 25th, the 7th Battalion enjoyed a rest
for three days, being taken into Corps Reserve. B Company’s tanks
moved up to a little valley behind our huts. We made ourselves fairly
comfortable in the latter, and were disturbed very little by shelling,
although a battery of our 60-pounders, posted a few hundred yards in
rear, rendered the nights hideous. We had driven some of our tanks
into one of the big hospital sheds, and camouflaged the others behind
it, there being now eight fit machines left in the company. A certain
amount of reorganisation was necessary throughout the battalion; but
everything was turned upside down by a most extraordinary development
on the 28th. It had been known for some time that a proportion of the
officers and men of the Tank Corps in France were to be sent home to
provide an experienced nucleus for new units forming at Bovington,
the establishment of the corps having been raised again from eighteen
to twenty-five battalions. Now that we were involved in a general
offensive, however, it naturally was supposed that these changes would
be postponed for a time. That the offensive would end only with the war
was not then suspected, of course, by any one, least of all by Tank
Corps H.Q. in London, which now took an entirely unexpected step. The
personnel selected for England was called for at a few hours’ notice.
In the middle of a battle, some units, including the 7th Battalion,
found themselves deprived at a blow of 30 per cent of their already
reduced complements. The first intimation we of A Company received
at Bihucourt was a message which arrived during the afternoon of the
28th ordering all officers and men detailed for Bovington to prepare
to leave that evening. This sudden and wholesale removal affected
our company more seriously than either B or C, for the party to go
included the Major, the second in command, two section commanders out
of three, Jukes, the Assistant R.O., several tank commanders, the
orderly-room corporal, and a number of our best N.C.O.’s and men. The
company, in fact, lost all its senior officers. M’Chlery, the junior
section commander, as the only remaining Captain, found himself in
charge pending the arrival of a new O.C. to be posted to us from the
11th Battalion. B and C Companies, while less hard hit, sent away
two section commanders apiece (Merchant being among them), with a
proportion of subalterns and men. As for battalion headquarters,
it virtually disappeared. The Colonel left, to command a new unit,
and took with him the Adjutant, Henriquez the R.O., and most of the
orderly-room staff, who, rumour had it, were all promoted sergeants in
the train. All this happened, as I say, in two or three hours. Lorries
arrived at Bihucourt to take away our contingent immediately after we
received the order. The Colonel rushed up in his car to say good-bye
and to introduce his successor, Major Thorp, to the bewildered residue
of A Company; and then M’Chlery, M’Elroy, and I, the only survivors
present of the original officers, and in consequence responsible
between us for the immediate prosecution of the Great War, retired in a
dazed condition to our hut to have a much-needed drink before grappling
with the new situation.
II.
In the meantime, while the 3rd Army paused in front of Bapaume, the
general offensive was extended northward, where the 1st Army struck out
from Arras. The 3rd Tank Brigade, some of whose units trekked twenty
miles during the 24th and 25th August, advanced with the Canadians
against Wancourt, Guémappe, and Monchy-le-Preux, on the 26th. These
places were taken, and on the 27th Roeux and Gavrelle, north of the
Scarpe, fell also. Far to the south the 4th Army and the French were
advancing again, and on our front the Germans evacuated Bapaume on the
28th. Our line in the 3rd Army sector now ran, from north to south,
east of St Leger, east of Mory, east of Beugnâtre (beyond Favreuil),
across the Cambrai road between Bapaume and Fremicourt, and east of
Thilloy.
The German armies, bewildered by this series of blows, were preparing
to retreat to the Siegfried Line and the Canal du Nord. But to give
time for their heavy guns and supplies to escape, they held out stiffly
during the last days of the month along the whole front. The 3rd Army,
attempting to advance from Bapaume up the Cambrai road, was checked
before Fremicourt and Beugny; and a series of assaults on the latter
village ended in sanguinary failures. In two of these the 7th Tank
Battalion took part.
On the morning of the 29th, while the battalion was in the throes of
reorganisation after the startling disappearance of a third of its
officers, it was ordered to provide eight tanks for an attack with the
5th Division on Beugny the following morning. One section of A Company
and one of B were detailed accordingly, Major Rossi-Ashton of B Company
being in command. M’Elroy and I were now running affairs in the camp
near Bihucourt, M’Chlery having left us to wrestle with returns and
other horrible matters at Bienvillers, where our rear headquarters
was still situated. Early in the afternoon we received instructions
to move four tanks to the valley beyond Biefvillers. This valley was
a wide and shallow depression running north and south between the
village and the Arras-Bapaume road. We got our tanks here by about
four o’clock, parking them up under a bank beside a battery of 4.5
howitzers, whose people were very annoyed at our arrival. Behind us the
whole of C Company’s tanks appeared from the railway at Achiet-le-Petit
and hid themselves among some huts on the west side of the valley. An
hour later we moved again, following the valley northward and then
north-east across the Arras-Bapaume road to a point almost north of
Favreuil, where, under another high bank, we joined the four tanks of B
Company which were to co-operate with ours in the attack. I will try to
make clear the features of the country that now lay before us. Bapaume,
3000 yards due south of our lying-up point, stands on a moderate
elevation about 450 feet above sea-level. The ground falls away from
it in a series of spurs to the north and north-east. There radiate out
from the town, like the fingers of a hand and alternately along the
spurs and in the valleys between, four roads, the most westerly the
main highway to Arras, running west of north; next a road through
Favreuil, running north; next again one through Beugnâtre, running
north-east; and finally, the highway through Fremicourt and Beugny to
Cambrai, running north of east. All these diverging roads except the
last-named were now behind our front, which had reached a point two
or three hundred yards east of Beugnâtre, whence it trended a little
west of south, crossed the Cambrai road between Bapaume and Fremicourt,
and then continued east of Thilloy. The whole of this country was bare
rolling grass-land, of a uniform appearance, all traces of cultivation
and even of the boundaries of fields having vanished. It was dotted
with a large number of hutted camps, mostly old ones of our own, and
the only cover, apart from these, was to be found in the trees around
the various villages. The roads were sunken in places, and there was
a general resemblance to parts of Salisbury Plain, except that the
undulations were less pronounced.
[Illustration: Bapaume burning. End of August 1918.]
Our two sections of tanks were to lead the 13th Infantry Brigade into
Beugny. This village lay on the Bapaume-Cambrai road a mile east of
Fremicourt. It was surrounded by wire and entrenchments, and was
further protected by one of our old defence systems converted by the
Germans, two lines of trenches and entanglements running obliquely into
our front north of Beugnâtre. On our left the 2nd Tank Brigade, with
infantry of the 3rd Division, was to carry Ecoust, Longatte, and the
Noreuil Switch, while on our right the New Zealanders, with a few Mark
V.’s, were to move straight forward from Bapaume upon Fremicourt and
Bancourt. Zero was at 5 A.M. on the 30th.
The valley in which we were lying preparatory to the attack was a
thoroughly unpleasant place. It curled round to the north of the spur
on which stood Favreuil and Monument Wood. There had been a good deal
of fighting here, and a number of dead men and horses, in varying
degrees of decomposition, were lying about. Our tanks were drawn up
under a high bank topped by a row of trees on the south side of the
valley. On the north side a little gully, lined with rough hutments
that were full of old straw, dirt, smells, and flies, led up to the
main Arras road at Sapignies. Eastward, at the foot of the valley,
field batteries were in action; and beyond them one could see the line
of trees along the road from Beugnâtre to Ecoust-St Mein, which marked
approximately our front. Having found Beale, the Reconnaissance Officer
of B Company, with his tanks, I walked forward with him past Favreuil
to some rising ground near Beugnâtre. We wished to see something of
the country before us while the light held, but although the evening
was fine a mist had risen, and the smoke of shells bursting around the
village helped further to hide the landscape beyond. We sat for some
time in a trench, memorising as much as we could verify on the map.
Camps of Nissen huts were clustered about Beugnâtre, and others seemed
to extend far over the monotonous plain behind toward Beugny. It was
agreed between us that our sections should move together by the track
we had just followed to within a few hundred yards of Beugnâtre, when
Beale would lead his tanks south of the village while I took mine round
by the north. Once over the front line, where our duties would end, the
two sections would have each an unmistakable guide to direct them on to
Beugny. M’Elroy’s tanks would strike sooner or later the old converted
trench system of which I have spoken, and which it was their first
task to clear. It would lead them down to the village from the north.
B Company’s tanks, on the right, had for a guide the Bapaume-Cambrai
railway, running north of the main Cambrai road and roughly parallel
to the latter until it crossed it between Fremicourt and Beugny. In
an attack over such monotonous country, shrouded in smoke and the
mists of early morning, it is very easy to lose one’s direction in a
tank, and as even a temporary delay may provoke serious trouble, any
obvious means of guidance is an inestimable boon. In this case we were
very fortunate. The trenches and the railway, like two hand-rails,
converged together and crossed immediately in front of Beugny; and the
tanks, moving up this angle, could not possibly lose their way. The
chief feature of the country they had to fear was a gentle rounded spur
behind which the village itself was hidden, and on whose absolutely
bare crest they would stand out as admirable targets as they approached.
[Illustration: _Beugny._]
I had some dinner that night with B Company’s people beside their
tanks, and then went for a few hours’ rest in one of the wooden shacks
in the gully opposite, which had been cleared of litter. At midnight
the tanks were unsheeted and the engines started up. By one o’clock
seven of them were in line above the bank, ready to move. The eighth,
one of A Company’s, developed engine trouble at the last moment and had
to be left behind. There was no moon now, and the night was very dark,
with a slight mist. The distance to our front line beyond Beugnâtre was
only 3000 yards, but part of the route was unknown to us, and we had to
move at the slowest speed to prevent noise. The two sections separated
at the point Beale and I had chosen, and he led his four tanks away to
the south of Beugnâtre, while M’Elroy and I held straight on to pass
the north end of the village. So far there had been no hitch; but now
I could not find the track I had noted earlier in the evening, and was
forced to feel my way without this slight help. There was no danger of
our losing our way here, for the trees of Beugnâtre and the huts about
it were quite visible, but there was always the chance of coming upon
some obstacle which the track naturally would have avoided. We ploughed
forward through long grass, M’Elroy and I in front feeling about with
sticks for wire or holes, and were passing to the north of the village,
which made a vague mass of trees and ruins on our right, when shells
began to burst in front of us. There ensued a very disturbing quarter
of an hour. A regular barrage fell directly in our path, between us and
the Beugnâtre-Ecoust road, the flashes of the shells coming and going
in rapid succession. We had no time to waste in halting until this was
over, and indeed we were almost in it at the start; and having ordered
our runners and every one else who was walking to get into the tanks,
we moved on through the barrage. M’Elroy and I continued to walk in
front, as it was necessary for me to act as a guide, and he insisted on
staying with me. For a few minutes we were hopping nimbly about to take
shelter on one side or the other of the leading tank, as the shells
were crashing and sparkling unpleasantly near. With that good fortune
which always seems so extraordinary in the retrospect, we passed
through without damage to the tanks or ourselves. The barrage was still
falling behind us when the trees along the Beugnâtre road appeared
out of the darkness. We were now among the huts of a camp, and having
missed the track I had aimed for, we struck the road at a point where
it was deeply sunken. The first tank crossed without difficulty, but
the other two experienced some trouble in mounting the farther bank. I
pushed on with the leader, leaving M’Elroy to bring on the others. We
had come so slowly that the few minutes’ delay caused by the barrage
and our wanderings among the huts threatened to make us late. Beyond
the Ecoust road, a second one runs out of Beugnâtre to the north,
leading to Vaulx-Vraucourt, and immediately beyond this was our front
line. The tank I was leading, commanded by Sergeant Duddridge (we were
so short of officers that two out of the three machines were in charge
of N.C.O.’s), was now several hundred yards ahead of the others. The
sky was already brightening in the east, zero was due in a few minutes,
and as soon as we crossed the second road I began to peer about for
the front line. So far I had not seen a single infantryman since we
started. In the semi-open warfare in which we were engaged, front lines
were always indeterminate features difficult to recognise and liable
to frequent fluctuations; and on this occasion all I ever discovered
was a group of three men crouching in a shell-hole, who told me they
were in support. A hundred yards farther on a blaze and a crash behind
me signified the opening of our barrage at zero. I hauled myself up
on to the front of the tank, yelled to Sergeant Duddridge to get into
fourth speed and push ahead, and then ran back to look for the others.
I remember nothing more until I found myself sitting on the ground,
with my head spinning like the proverbial top and a general feeling
of having been hit all over with some violence, watching the two rear
tanks going by. As they were a long way behind the leader, several
minutes must have elapsed. There was a hideous noise everywhere,
and heavy shells were thudding all round. The Germans, expecting an
attack, had dropped their barrage a few seconds after ours along our
front line, and I must have been knocked over (and temporarily out) by
the explosion of a shell close astern of Duddridge’s tank. I got on
to my feet with some difficulty, and looked for M’Elroy, but he was
nowhere to be seen. The two tanks were already past me, and rolling
on in great style, and as my head still appeared to be doing several
hundred revolutions a minute, I decided to get out of this inferno for
a while, if I could find some sheltered spot in which to recuperate.
It was growing light, although the mist and smoke were very thick,
and just behind me was a row of old Nissen huts, protected by earthen
banks against bombing raids. There were no trenches in sight, and I
ran, therefore, rather unsteadily, into one of these huts and found at
the end of it a sort of miniature dug-out, where I sat for some time
trying to induce my head to behave in a normal manner. It was perfectly
evident that the German counter-barrage was uncommonly heavy as well
as very prompt, for the whole gimcrack place shook continuously with
concussions close outside.
I must have remained here for half an hour, for it was quite light
when I came out again. Nothing could be seen for smoke, and the shells
were falling as thickly as ever. I had now to make my way back to
the headquarters of the 13th Infantry Brigade, near Beugnâtre, to
report that the tanks had started at zero. Still somewhat fogged, as
I suppose, I pushed off in the wrong direction altogether, toward the
battle instead of away from it. I met a wounded infantryman looking
for a dressing station, and with the best intentions took him with
me. After wandering about for some time among huts, dodging shells, I
realised that we were going wrong by the lie of the ground, which was
steadily downhill, and we turned about and groped our way back again
through the smoke. The brigade headquarters, where I guessed there
would also be a dressing station, occupied some dug-outs in our part
of the old defence trenches, just west of the Ecoust road. We reached
it at length, after various vicissitudes, to find every one driven
underground by the shelling. The latter, in fact, was something quite
out of the ordinary. The enemy, determined to cling for another few
days to his last position west of the Canal du Nord, had put down, not
a normal barrage, but a heavy bombardment by 5.9’s over a large area. I
have never, before or since, seen such consistently severe shell-fire
so widely spread. It extended for a mile back from our front line. At
the brigade headquarters, where ordinarily one would have found most of
the staff and details standing about as interested spectators with maps
and field-glasses, there was not a soul above the surface; and shells
were falling as far back as Favreuil.
I got very little news from the staff, as nearly all the telephone
wires had been cut, and after waiting in the dug-out, in a temperature
of about 190 degrees, for half an hour or so, I decided to try to
make my way to the rallying-place chosen for the tanks. This was a
valley which ran northward from Fremicourt. It was now about eight
o’clock, and another brilliant day, but the shelling was as fierce
as ever, and smoke and dust hung thickly over the country between
Beugnâtre and Beugny. I made my way down the trench, as the only sort
of covered approach, past our original front line, over a number of
bodies, British and German, to the point where it crossed the valley
from Fremicourt. But I could not see the rallying-point for smoke. The
place was being shelled mercilessly, and it was obvious that no tanks
could stay there. If they had rallied by this time, they must have come
farther back. I tramped back up the hill to the brigade headquarters,
seeing on the way a party of prisoners and their escort blown to
pieces by a shell, and having several narrow escapes myself. Obtaining
no information from the brigade beyond the fact that things were not
going at all well, I walked down the Beugnâtre road to see if the tanks
had rallied somewhere near the village, found no sign of them, nor
indeed of any infantry or anybody else, and then made a second attempt
to get to the original rallying-point in the Fremicourt Valley. But
things there were as bad as before. A number of huts were on fire,
and the whole place was smoking like a furnace. It was impossible to
see anything, and it would have been suicidal to have gone groping
about in the murk for problematical tanks. It was quite possible that
all had been knocked out long before this. The whole battlefield was
extraordinarily deserted. In my two journeys I had met only a couple of
artillery officers reconnoitring for battery positions, two or three
walking wounded, and the prisoners whom I saw destroyed. Every one who
could find some cover from the ferocious shelling had taken it.
After a final hunt about Beugnâtre, I decided to walk back to our
starting-point behind Favreuil. And there, about midday, I found some
of the officers and men of the two sections, who had been in an hour or
two already. Close, of B Company, was having a number of small wounds
attended to. Beale, hit slightly in the leg by the same shell, was
there also. Two out of the three tanks of A Company, it appeared, had
been knocked out, and two out of the four from B, all on the dangerous
ridge looking down into Beugny. The surviving tanks, returning to the
rallying-point after it was plain that the infantry could not get near
the village, had found the Fremicourt Valley, as I suspected, too
hot to hold them--so hot, indeed, that it was considered inadvisable
even to attempt to get them back through it into safety. They were
driven against the railway embankment at the head of the valley, which
afforded some slight protection, and there temporarily abandoned until
the unprecedented shelling should have slackened. The crews had taken
refuge in culverts and other holes and corners, where they still
remained.
Almost everywhere the attack had been a failure. A slight advance
had been made, and the New Zealanders and Mark V.’s on the right had
captured Fremicourt and Bancourt; but the backbone of the position
was untouched. On our left, four tanks of the 12th Battalion, misled
by an infantry guide, arrived late, and the 3rd Division, attacking
Ecoust and Longatte without them, could make no progress. Two other
tanks which advanced against the trenches called the Noreuil Switch
became ditched before they could effect anything. The assault on
Beugny itself, as I have indicated, was hardly more successful. Of
M’Elroy’s three tanks, which had cleared without much trouble the
old trench line as far as the spur in front of the village, two were
knocked out by gun-fire the moment they appeared over the high ground.
The third tank reached Beugny, but found that the infantry could not
follow. B Company’s section, moving along the railway, had a similar
experience--two tanks disabled and the others unable to make any
permanent impression on the village for lack of infantry support. In
addition to Close, whose injuries sent him to hospital, we had two
officers wounded. Sergeant Duddridge, whose tank was one of those hit
on the ridge, performed extraordinarily fine work. Getting out his
Lewis guns, he took his crew forward to join the infantry, and rallied
parties of the latter who had lost their officers and were retiring.
Having used all the ammunition of his own gun, he returned alone to
his tank for more, and remained inside for some time firing 6-pounder
shells into Beugny. He sent his crew back eventually, but stayed in
the firing line himself throughout the day, turning up at Favreuil, as
placid and cheerful as ever, late in the evening. He won the D.C.M. for
this performance.
The 3rd and 5th Divisions seemed badly shaken by this affair, in which
they suffered heavily from the terrific shelling. The latter continued
on into the afternoon, so that it was two o’clock before the crews of
our three surviving tanks (which, by a miracle, were untouched) could
issue from their hiding-places and drive the machines back to Favreuil.
A semi-humorous element in an otherwise nerve-wracking morning was
provided by an officer of the American Tank Corps, one of three
attached to us for a few days’ experience. He had only been in France
a week, and had hardly seen a gun fired until he rashly volunteered to
go forward with Beale and the Major to the rallying-point, where he
found himself in the middle of as ferocious a bombardment as any one
there had ever experienced. I met him afterwards, when I returned to
Favreuil from my wanderings in search of the tanks. He was an extremely
nice fellow, and quite ingenuous in his obvious delight and surprise
at finding himself still alive. I think his ideas of modern war had
been drawn from the surprising journals of his native land, on which
our own newspapers are so successfully modelled; and undoubtedly that
morning’s ordeal had been one of the shocks of his life. He was burning
to use his new-found knowledge in confuting some of his fire-eating
colleagues, who had been proclaiming (from a distance) their fondness
for battles and gore.
III.
The fighting on the 3rd Army front from 30th August to 3rd September
was practically a rearguard action on a very large scale. Von Below’s
17th German Army, its right threatened by the advance from Arras,
still clung desperately to its position from Ecoust southward. Our
first attempt to hustle it into a premature retreat having failed, the
attack was renewed the next morning, 31st August. The hard hit and
somewhat shaken 3rd Division was reinforced by units from the 56th and
62nd Divisions, and nine tanks of the 12th Battalion led this infantry
in another attack on Ecoust, Longatte, and the Noreuil Switch, which
were carried in spite of a very stubborn defence. The pair of tanks
responsible for the switch and other trenches between Longatte and
Vaulx-Vraucourt provided two of the most notable incidents of the
morning, described as follows in the ‘12th Battalion History’:--
“‘Lorraine’ (Lieut. Staub), after working down Vraucourt
trench to within a thousand yards of Vraucourt itself, turned
north again at the request of the infantry to deal with some
machine-guns near Vraucourt Copse. While heading to take these
guns in the rear, the tank was disabled by a bullet from an
anti-tank rifle hitting the magneto. Intense machine-gun fire
was now concentrated on the tank, and four of the crew were
wounded by A.P. bullets. Our nearest infantry were in a trench
150 yards away, and unable to advance, so Lieut. Staub, with
great gallantry, got his badly-wounded men out of the tank
and pulled or carried them under a severe fire to the trench.
For this action he was recommended by the infantry for a
decoration, and received the Military Cross. Meanwhile ‘Lupin,’
the other tank, had disappeared into the blue. Its commander,
Lieut. Acroyd, was the only officer to cross the front line the
previous morning, and on this occasion he seems to have carried
on until well in front of our foremost infantry, when his
tank stopped through magneto trouble. While in this situation
some of the enemy managed to climb unseen on to the roof, and
having from there shot the N.C.O., either through the manhole
being unbolted or by means of an open revolver port, compelled
the rest of the crew to surrender. The N.C.O., who was shot
through the stomach, was left behind in a cellar when the enemy
retreated, and _after three days_ was able to make his way out
and summon assistance.”
The 7th Battalion was not engaged on the 31st. The 5th Division was
licking its wounds in front of Beugny, and no further attempt was made
upon that place until the general offensive was resumed on the 2nd. By
the evening of the 30th, M’Elroy and I, with most of the crews that
were in action that morning, had been conveyed in cars and lorries
back to Bienvillers, where we indulged in hot baths and clean clothes,
and met our new company commander, Merriam, just arrived from the 11th
Battalion. Inhabitants were already returning to Bienvillers, and
we were threatened with eviction from our fly-blown and dilapidated
billets. The 6th Corps Club, an institution which followed up the
army on the heels of the heavy guns, had now moved its branch from
Bavincourt to our village, and one was able to enjoy some of the sweets
of civilisation in the form of comfortable chairs and passable wine.
Within a day or two this enterprising club had opened another branch
at Gommecourt, and a third actually in Behagnies, while the latter was
still odorous with dead horses and other uncleared refuse of the battle.
Returning to Bihucourt on the afternoon of the 31st, we heard the
first rumours of a possible German counter-attack with tanks. Two
of A Company’s few remaining machines were ordered to stand by to
assist the New Zealanders in the event of these rumours materialising
into facts. No one believed in them; but on the following day the
enemy did counter-attack at Thilloy with a couple of his massive
_Panzerkraftwagen_, and six tanks from our three companies moved toward
Bapaume to be at hand if wanted. They were not wanted, although the
right-hand pair, from B Company, did a little voluntary work among
some huts south of the town. The counter-attack was a failure, and the
German tanks did not get into action at all. Their half-hearted crews
drove them (apparently on purpose) into a sunken road and abandoned
them there. They were afterwards towed into Bapaume, where they lay in
the station yard for many weeks.
Preparations were in hand for a heavy blow to be struck by both the 1st
and 3rd Armies on 2nd September. The Canadians of the 1st Army astride
the Arras-Cambrai road, and in touch, north of Ecoust, with the left
of our 17th Corps, were now in front of the famous Drocourt-Quéant
switch-line, supposed to be stronger than the main Hindenburg system.
All the available tanks of the 3rd Brigade (9th, 11th, and 14th
Battalions) were to lead the 4th Division and the 1st and 4th Canadians
against these formidable trenches. To the remnants of the 2nd Tank
Brigade, the 12th and 6th (Light) Battalions, was allotted the capture
of Lagnicourt and Morchies, north-east of Beugny, with the infantry
of the 6th Corps. For our part, we were to supply twelve tanks for a
renewed attempt with the 5th Division on Beugny, and for a further
operation south of Bapaume against Villers-au-Flos, beyond Thilloy.
Four tanks of C Company were detailed for each of these objectives, a
section of B Company following up in reserve.
As everybody knows, the attack of the 1st Army on the Drocourt-Quéant
Switch was a brilliant success. To quote Colonel Buchan, “It went clean
through all the line of one of the strongest positions in the West,
and took six miles of the switch, the villages of Etaing, Dury (with
the important Hill of Dury), Villers-les-Cagnicourt and Noreuil, and
8000 prisoners.” The Switch, in effect, had fallen as the Hindenburg
Line fell at Cambrai, instantly, and this time irrevocably. But Colonel
Buchan does not explain how it was carried so swiftly and easily. He
does not mention tanks, and leaves it to be assumed that the infantry
unaided fought their way in an hour or so through triple trenches and
belts of wire. It will be well, therefore, to point out that once
more the assault was led by tanks, of which fifty-seven (all the 3rd
Brigade could muster) were employed. Fifty-three got into action. Only
the most strenuous exertions got the depleted and disorganised tank
units ready and in position for the battle. The 11th Battalion, which
had recaptured the debris of Monchy-le-Preux on the 25th, had to trek
across the whole front of the Canadian Corps, often within 1000 yards
of the line, to reach the 4th Division, with which it was attacking
Etaing, in the marshes of the Sensée. It is possible that the enemy
heard this approach, as he sent up S.O.S. signals three minutes before
zero. The tanks carried the massive trenches of the Switch, but had
to make so wide a detour farther on to avoid the marshes that they
could not reach Etaing with the infantry. In the centre, twenty-three
out of twenty-four machines of the 9th Battalion reached their final
objectives, which included Dury, where the Town Major was taken
prisoner. The 14th Battalion, on the right, was no less successful,
but had seven tanks knocked out beyond the Switch. “It is estimated
that in this attack one company of tanks alone destroyed over seventy
hostile machine-guns, the German gunners surrendering to the tanks as
they approached.”[40] South of the Canadians, the 17th Corps of the
3rd Army closed on the great knuckle of fortifications about Quéant,
where the Switch joined the main Hindenburg Line. Quéant was almost
surrounded by nightfall. The 6th Corps, in the meantime, had not fared
so well; and two companies of the 12th Tank Battalion were sacrificed
by the failure of the infantry to arrive at the time they themselves
had arranged, and by their inability to get forward when at length
they did reach the point of attack. Zero, for some reason, was fixed
for 5.30, half an hour later than was the case with the corps on the
left, so that the enemy’s retaliation there, overlapping the 6th
Corps’ front, fell about the tanks of one company of the 12th, and
they were moved forward into No Man’s Land to escape it. Our barrage
came down at 5.30, but the assaulting infantry had not arrived; and
it being considered equally dangerous to keep the tanks stationary
or to attempt to withdraw them, they were sent forward alone, in the
hope that they could keep down the German machine-gun fire while the
belated infantry got into position and advanced. The latter were forty
minutes late, and then made no advance at all. The tanks cruised
about, destroying machine-gun posts around Noreuil until they came
under the fire of field batteries, when most of them were knocked out.
Only two out of nine returned. The company on the right, with eight
tanks, received little better support in its attack on Vaulx Wood and
Morchies, and suffered almost as heavily. The battalion left twelve
machines out of seventeen on the field, and lost eight officers and
fifty-six other ranks. The 3rd Division, which was responsible for the
disastrous fiasco on the left, had shown a progressive deterioration
in quality since the attack on 30th August, and its staff work had
gone from bad to worse. Such cases are not uncommon; but it is unjust
that the sacrifices of one arm should remain hidden in order that the
blunders of another may be hushed up. There was very little reticence
in the old days, when tanks were uncertain and untrusted novelties,
if they did not perform some impossibility expected of them. Now that
the boot was on the other foot, a discreet silence shrouded every
small misadventure. From the first capture of Monchy-le-Preux in
1917 to the end of the war there was a multiplication of cases where
inefficient staff work on the part of infantry brigades and divisions
caused tanks to be sacrificed unnecessarily. In the strain and hurry
of the last advance these incidents became very frequent. The new
tactics, in which every attack was led by tank units, made the latter
absolutely dependent upon proper co-operation by the infantry staffs
concerned. Tanks are large objects which cannot easily be hidden, and
any misdirection, any omission to notify changes of plan, any hitch
in the assembly of the assaulting troops (all common faults), meant
in nine cases out of ten that the particular tanks involved would
find themselves sooner or later caught in the open without support in
face of an enemy who could devote his whole attention to destroying
them. I will give chapter and verse later on for an instance within my
own experience; but what I wish to point out now is that the general
ignorance of the part played by tanks in the last year of the war is
due to an official reticence based very often simply on a determination
to avoid unpleasant disclosures. The tanks were not the only victims
of this tendency. Their case happens to be peculiar, but every arm
suffered in turn for the susceptibilities of the others.
While the 12th Battalion, through no fault of its own, was losing tanks
in vain about Morchies and Noreuil, we were suffering again at Beugny
and winning a welcome success at Villers-au-Flos. The latter village
was carried by the 42nd Division with the help of one section from C
Company, three of whose tanks subsequently broke down east of the
village while on their way home, and had temporarily to be abandoned.
The fighting was severe, the German machine-gunners holding out to
the last with that conspicuous bravery which they displayed in almost
all these actions; and the fourth tank, commanded by Sergeant Penny,
having done splendid work in the village, returned plastered grey
with lead and stuck all over with armour-piercing bullets. The other
section, in the meantime, working again with the 5th Division, had
again found Beugny unconquerable. The place was a veritable fortress,
entrenched and wired and held by a large garrison with field-guns; and
although our infantry, as a result of the first attack, were close to
the outskirts, they were checked at the start by intense machine-gun
fire, and failed to make any progress beyond a slight advance to the
north of the village. The tanks could do nothing alone, and the affair
was another expensive failure. It cost us the life, among others, of
Adney, a boy who joined the battalion before Cambrai, where he got
the Military Cross, and who was now killed in rather extraordinary
and still obscure circumstances. He had with him two of my old crew,
Corporal Mitchell and Taylor. His tank, having pushed on alone in
default of infantry support, cruised along the north side of Beugny,
firing into it, and then started to return. It was hit, apparently,
somewhere in front, by a shell which wounded Taylor (who was driving)
and filled the inside with smoke. Adney and the rest of the crew,
believing the machine to be disabled, as it had stopped, scrambled
out, but finding themselves isolated among groups of Germans, ran back
and got inside again, with the exception of Corporal Mitchell, who
was captured. The tank, on examination, proved to be still in running
order. She was therefore started up and driven toward our lines. She
was now hit a second time, in the petrol-tank, and finally disabled,
and simultaneously, it appears, Adney was killed by a bullet which
came through his open flap. Presumably it was fired by one of our own
infantry. The latter making a slight advance at this point, the rest of
the crew escaped, carrying Taylor with them, and shortly after Corporal
Mitchell was rescued from a dug-out where his captors had left him. I
happened to be in C Company’s huts in the Favreuil Valley, talking to
Coutts and Alden, who had just returned from the action, when Mitchell,
who was supposed to be killed, made a dramatic reappearance. He had
lost his watch and everything else in his pockets, but otherwise was
none the worse for his fifteen-minutes’ captivity.
IV.
We had not yet finished with Beugny. Toward dusk on 2nd September I
was waiting about in our camp at Bihucourt for the Major, who was
taking me back to Bienvillers in his car. Word had come through that
the 1st Tank Brigade was to be withdrawn into Army Reserve to refit,
and those of us who had nothing particular to do were returning to our
old headquarters that night. I was especially glad of this release, as
the symptoms of another attack of influenza (or some kindred variant
of P.U.O.) were beginning to affect me, and I was longing for bed. At
this time battalion headquarters had established an advanced base at
Bihucourt in one of the huts, and the Major was now conferring there
with the Colonel, who had just arrived. Unconscious of my doom, like
one of the infants in the poem, I was standing about outside when the
Major appeared to summon me, as I supposed, to the car. His first words
dissipated this natural delusion.
“There’s another dog-fight on to-night,” he said. “They want two of our
tanks for Beugny again....”
Beugny was becoming a perfect curse to the battalion, a sort of King
Charles’s head, or Old Man of the Sea. This was the third time in five
days that we had been called upon to tackle it, and it was A Company’s
second turn in the pleasant round. We were, I think, inclined to
feel that the 5th Division might have done their own work on this
occasion without dragging us into it again, as we had given them two
opportunities which they had failed to seize. However, the thing had to
be done. We were working once more with our old acquaintances the 13th
Infantry Brigade, who had attacked the place with us on the 30th. Our
only fit tanks, three or four, and none of them in good condition, were
still in the valley by Favreuil. We had no officers available as tank
commanders, and two sergeants were sent off to prepare the most likely
machines for action. M’Elroy, who was once more to share with me the
responsibilities of office, was already away at Bienvillers, no doubt
luxuriating in a bath and the prospect of several days of peace; and
a car was despatched to bring him back to these unpleasant realities.
After a hurried meal with the Colonel, the Major and I departed in
his Vauxhall for the 13th Brigade Headquarters, still in the dug-out
near Beugnâtre. As it was now quite dark, we were able to drive most
of the way to the village. We found the Brigadier and his Brigade
Major in the dug-out, and obtained from them the plan of attack and
the _rôle_ the two tanks were expected to play. Beugny, it appeared,
was to be dealt with faithfully at last. Six field batteries and one
battery of 6-inch howitzers were to pound it for half an hour before
the infantry advanced. The tanks were required only to clear a trench
which ran immediately behind the village. It appeared rather obvious
that if the latter was carried, the fall of the trench would be only a
matter of time, and that if the artillery preparation was sufficiently
thorough and accurate, both village and trench (together a small and
compact target) would be rendered so untenable that tanks would not be
needed for their capture. One cannot argue with brigadiers, however.
We promised that the tanks should arrive, if we could get them there.
I remember this interview, held in a candle-lit compartment of the
dug-out, with peculiar clearness. I had seen the Brigadier and his
Brigade Major before, and was to meet them again some weeks later when
I was with the 12th Battalion at Solesmes, and I was struck by the
marked contrast between them. The General, whose name I forget, was a
powerful bulky man, with an odd resemblance to a boar. Stewart, the
Brigade Major, was very young, very fair, slim, and rather exquisite.
He seemed to find speech an exhausting process, and wore a permanent
expression of boredom and fatigue, neither of which, I dare say, was an
affectation at that time.
When we returned to the tanks at Favreuil, the two machines detailed
for the attack were filled up and ready to move, and M’Elroy had
arrived from Bienvillers. I spent half an hour explaining the details
to the crews and plotting out compass-bearings on the map. We should
be approaching Beugny in the dark over ground that was unknown to me
except for the few glimpses I had obtained through the smoke on the
30th, and I determined to strike the railway, of which I have spoken,
as soon as possible, and use it as a guide to the village. Soon after
midnight we started, following the road north of Monument Wood, through
Favreuil, and so through the deserted camps south of Beugnâtre. The
two tanks, although the best we could provide at this stage, were in
great need of an overhaul, and we soon began to have trouble with
them. One stuck in the sunken road beyond Beugnâtre. After waiting for
some time, M’Elroy and I went on with the remaining machine, as we had
still a long way to go. We were now launched upon the open grass-land,
devoid of landmarks, and I began to use the compass. Far ahead of us,
in a direct line with the bearing I had taken to the railway, a fire
was burning behind the German front, and this served us as a useful
guide. I supposed it to be a village or a dump set alight by our
shells, but presently a second fire was visible, and then a third, and
I began to wonder if these conflagrations did not signify that the
enemy was burning his stores before retreating. Our guns were very
quiet, as they had been throughout the evening, and it was difficult
to account otherwise for these sudden glares on the horizon. In the
meantime, the tank we had left in the sunken road had not overtaken us,
and our remaining machine was giving trouble. One or two delays, due
to engine defects, wasted a lot of valuable time. Zero was at 5.40,
and it was four o’clock before at length we struck the railway at a
point marked by two stacks of fodder and an overturned Whippet. This
machine, incidentally, had been the cause of a very gallant action
a few days before. One of a section of the 3rd Battalion sent in to
“clear up the situation” (whatever that euphemistic phrase may mean) on
29th August, the Whippet had turned completely over in a shell-hole,
catching fire at the same time. The door of the cab was jammed in the
earth, and the crew of three was imprisoned upside down in burning oil.
The commander of another Whippet, Lieutenant Sewell, got out under
intense machine-gun fire at close range, and with a shovel dug out
and forced open the door of the inverted tank. He liberated the crew,
but was shot in several places and killed, together with his driver,
while endeavouring to return to his own machine. A posthumous V.C. was
awarded him.
Having found the railway, we pushed along beside it at a good speed.
The fires in the east were growing brighter, and the extreme quietness
of the night confirmed me in my belief that the expected retreat of
the enemy actually was begun. When we reached the head of the valley
which had been our inauspicious selection as a rallying-point for the
30th, the tank developed further eccentricities, and eventually refused
to move at all. The engine stopped, and no coaxing would start it up
again. There was no sign of the second tank. At a quarter past five,
as we were still 1000 yards from our front line, M’Elroy and I decided
that nothing more could be done. We told the crew to take refuge in a
culvert, which ran through the railway embankment close at hand, if
the tank was discovered and shelled at dawn, and then we began to make
our way back to the 13th Brigade Headquarters to report our failure.
We were nearing the Beugnâtre road as the barrage fell upon Beugny at
zero. Dawn was breaking, and as, deafened by the throbbing clamour of
the batteries all round us, we looked back eastward from the rising
ground, we saw fresh fires blazing and clouds of white smoke rolling
away from a dozen points far beyond the range of our shells. There
could be hardly any doubt about it now: the German retreat had begun.
At the brigade headquarters we found nobody but a few signal officers
and other details staring at these distant conflagrations, and they had
no news to give us; but tramping on to Biefvillers we met the Major
in his car, and learnt from him that the enemy had indeed vanished in
the night. Beugny, pulverised for half an hour by high explosives, was
empty of all living things. Only a few machine-gunners were left amid
the debris of the retreat between us and the Canal du Nord.
V.
On 4th September the whole Tank Corps was withdrawn into G.H.Q. Reserve
to refit and reorganise. Since the 21st August, 511 tanks had been in
action, and had been largely responsible for a succession of victories
in which we had captured 53,000 prisoners and 470 guns. The 1st, 2nd,
and 3rd Tank Brigades were now so crippled that they could not have
mustered fifty fit machines between them. The 4th and 5th Brigades,
having suffered heavily on 8th August and after, had less work to do in
the course of the 4th Army’s subsequent advance south of the Somme, for
which reason I have not attempted, amid so much other matter, to follow
their actions during this fortnight; but they were hardly less reduced
and in need of rest than the three northern brigades.
Strikes, and the vacillating policy of the authorities in respect
of tanks, had left the corps with no reserve from which casualties
and worn-out machines could be replaced. The ratio of wastage in any
series of tank actions, from mechanical causes alone, was very large,
increasing proportionately as machines were used again and again with
no opportunity between times for a thorough overhaul. On the other
hand, the majority of repairs needed were only of a minor character;
and after a week’s rest a battalion which had been reduced perhaps
to half a dozen serviceable tanks could put twenty or thirty into
the field again. Cases of disablement by gun-fire, of course, fell
into a different category. Such machines as could be salved on the
spot and were worth repairing were despatched to Central Workshops,
whose personnel at this time was working day and night, but the
replacement of shattered armour-plate was a longer job than a change
of track-plates or rollers. In any case, nothing could make up for
the lack of an adequate reserve of new tanks. The batches of Mark
V.’s which came out from England replaced only a small portion of the
casualties in the dozen battalions which used that type, and the 12th
Battalion and ourselves carried on to the end with Mark IV.’s, most of
which were nearly two years old.
The period of reorganisation after 4th September included the
inevitable reshuffling of battalions among the five brigades. It will
be enough to state here that the 1st Brigade was made up once more of
its old units, the 7th, 11th, and 12th Battalions. The 301st American
Tank Battalion was attached for a short time and came with some Mark
V.’s to Bihucourt, where the 7th remained.
The fever, which I had felt to be impending before our last abortive
attempt to reach Beugny, took a good grip of me immediately afterwards,
and I spent three or four days in bed at Bienvillers, at first in
my tumble-down billet, in a room that swarmed with flies and reeked
of chloride of lime, and then, when I could stand this no longer,
under a tarpaulin in an orchard. When I visited the camp at Bihucourt
again, after a lapse of a week, it was a scene of violent activity,
due largely to the Americans. Why these people called themselves the
301st Tank Battalion I never understood, as they were in fact the 1st,
but it was of a piece with their other eccentric customs. They took
over all the huts in the camp which A Company did not occupy, and they
provided us for days with interest and amusement. They seemed to spend
most of their time pulling their tanks to pieces. There was usually a
Mark V. in some stage of disintegration in the space between the two
main rows of huts, where it had no business to be, and over it and
around it swarmed crowds of Americans filled with what (to us) was
incomprehensible zeal. Perhaps by this time we were somewhat satiated
with tanks and with the war in general. Our Allies were inspired with
all the enthusiasm of belated proselytes. They were like children with
a new toy, and very like children, too, in other ways. Some of their
methods were stupefying even to casual persons like myself, who am no
stickler for pedantic ritual in anything. One did not expect to find an
American tank unit (or any other) behaving like the Guards; but mere
intelligent order and discipline, which common-sense should indicate
as essential to any military body, seemed to be unknown to these
people. Their orderly-room they themselves described very aptly as “the
mad-house.” The junior officers, a set of excellent fellows, lived in a
state of wholly unnecessary discomfort, partly from obscure notions of
democratic behaviour, and partly (I imagine) because they had obtained
from books some odd conviction that warriors should at all times be
Spartans. They appeared to have no batmen (presumably the free-born
American citizen would not serve openly in that capacity), and they
certainly had no mess, as we understand the term. Those of them who
visited our headquarters at Bienvillers were quite overwhelmed by the
primitive luxuries of A Company’s tarpaulin shelter, with its rickety
forms, dirty table-cloths, and imperfect crockery. An American officer
drew his meals in his tin pannikin from the men’s cook-house, sometimes
fetching the food himself, and sometimes being obliged in this little
matter by a condescending and casual-mannered N.C.O. or private, full
of familiar talk and audibly chewing gum. The meal was then consumed,
from the pannikin, wherever the officer happened to be. This was not
in some trench before an attack, but in camp at Bihucourt, now eight
or ten miles behind the line. The whole American Army, of course, was
“dry” in theory, and seemed to subsist largely on beans and bacon. Poor
Jack Brown, who was attached to the 301st for a few days when that
battalion left us for the Havrincourt region, complained bitterly that
he was half-starved while he was with them, as the officers, dependent
upon the men’s cook-house, had no meal after tea, and nothing alcoholic
to drink at any time. These peculiarities, trifling in themselves, were
symptomatic of that puerile element in the American character which
seems so incongruous in an otherwise preternaturally acute people. The
whole force was a strange compound of zeal, intelligence, fads, and
conceit. The men fought well enough, as did every one else except the
Portuguese. Being the first contingents drawn from a vast population,
they were physically and mentally of the best type. They were keen to
a degree, and honestly anxious, in their own peculiar way, to learn
everything. But they had learnt no more than the rudiments of their
job when the war ended. Their staff work broke down hopelessly under
any strain. The army, in short, wanted another year or so of hard
experience. After the Armistice, in America, I understand, people wore
in their button-holes little discs, on which were inscribed the words,
“We went to do it, and we’ve done it.” In the same spirit the Prussians
and the Belgians claimed to have won the battle of Waterloo.
This peaceful interlude at Bihucourt lasted for a fortnight.
The battalion was busy overhauling tanks, resting, washing, and
re-equipping personnel, and preparing in general for the forthcoming
attack on the reputably formidable position to which the Germans had
retired. The weather, changing with the fortunes of the war, after
a few rain-storms in the beginning of the month, had settled down to
another spell of sunny days, which made even the obliterated landscape
around Bapaume seem comparatively attractive. For amusements, we
had a veritable museum of battle relics at Achiet-le-Grand, where,
in addition to a host of disabled tanks awaiting trains for Erin,
there was the anti-tank stockade and a miscellaneous assortment
of captured German guns, which a week or two earlier had made our
lives a burden; while we were surrounded by a congeries of officers’
clubs that reminded one of St James’s Street after a social upheaval
and an earthquake. The E.F.C., after many months’ enforced absence
from the Promised Land, had erected once more its huge marquees at
Achiet-le-Grand itself, the 6th Corps had its clubs at Gommecourt and
Behagnies, and in Bihucourt there was a New Zealand Officers’ Club with
a first-rate library--manna from heaven in such a wilderness. For one
who lives on books it is difficult to speak with calmness of the spirit
and enterprise which inspired this literary mission. No British club
or institution that I ever discovered in France troubled about books
at all, if we except the dog’s-eared cheap editions in the Y.M.C.A.
canteens. The Canadians had a small library of instructional works
(horrible things) which followed them about; but it was left to the New
Zealand Division to establish, in a ruined house in Bihucourt, among
other places, a genuine library of volumes in good editions--shelves
of verse, history, geography, books of reference, fiction, and so
on, labelled and well kept, and obviously in demand. Among the many
miracles of this war, I count this discovery among the most noteworthy.
Unfortunately for me, I came upon it too late, although it was at my
very door. One does not look for pearls among the refuse of a battle,
and I only heard of the library by accident. Two days later we had left
the place, and did not meet the New Zealand Division again. But if any
one from that Dominion should read this book, I hope he will accept
the thanks of one (I have no doubt among many) who received benefits
from this exceptional enterprise.
On the morning of 18th September the battalion received orders to
trek to Morchies, north-east of Beugny, of evil memory. The Colonel
and the company commanders went ahead in cars to prospect for a camp,
and returned enthusiastic about some mysteriously empty huts (another
German hospital) which they had discovered. Early in the afternoon,
in brilliant sunshine, the eight tanks that A Company had now got
fit again for action were trekking across the rolling grass-land of
our old battlefield; B Company, from the valley behind us, and C,
from Favreuil, had joined in the procession; and before dusk we were
unpacking and settling ourselves down in our new quarters.
CHAPTER XX.
THE CANAL DU NORD AND BOURLON.
I.
The ruins of Morchies lay a mile and a half north-east of Beugny,
at the head of a valley which descended past Lagnicourt to Quéant.
On the summit of the high ground to the east of the village stood a
conspicuous group of large hospital huts containing a number of beds
and some rough furniture. Our men were accommodated in these, while the
officers occupied a group of smaller huts a quarter of a mile away at
the edge of the village. The tanks of the battalion (now twenty-four
in number) were camouflaged in the ruins. About this time battalion
headquarters moved to Bullecourt, to be in touch with the H.Q. of the
Canadian Corps, with whom we were to work in the next advance.
The valleys around Morchies were filled with horse lines and transport,
and there were many troops living in the village itself; and it struck
me at once as singular that we should have found this capacious
hospital empty, and not even ear-marked for any newcomers, especially
as it was the only camp of huts in the neighbourhood. When one sees a
cheap and otherwise desirable house untenanted in a popular district
one suspects bad drains: a solitary and empty camp in an area four
miles behind the line and crowded with troops made one think of shells.
Soon after our arrival I was looking round the country with my glasses,
and I discovered that we were overlooked, from a distance of seven
miles, by the trees of Bourlon Wood. I began to feel sure that these
apparently eligible quarters had their disadvantages, which had proved
too much for previous tenants; and in fact on the following morning,
just after the crews had marched away to their tanks, heavy shells
began to fall among the huts. A cook and a water-cart driver were
killed, and several other men badly wounded, and it became painfully
obvious that the hospital was no place for us. Bivouacs were formed at
once in the valley, and the men transferred to them that night. The
officers remained for another day in their own huts nearer the village,
but eventually were driven out by persistent shelling, and only one
large building was retained as a Reconnaissance Office. Beale (who
was now Battalion R.O. in place of Henriquez), Jack Brown, and I were
fortunate in discovering the only empty dug-out in the neighbourhood--a
cosy little place of two rooms partly excavated from the side of a
sunken road, where we lived in great comfort for the remainder of our
stay. Every one else moved into tents in the valley. Intermittent
shelling of the high ground continued every day.
We were very busy during this time with preliminaries for the
forthcoming renewal of the general offensive. The Germans had fallen
back to their last prepared position in the West, and this was to be
attacked by the 1st, 3rd, and 4th Armies on a front of over thirty
miles from the Sensée to St Quentin. The 1st and 3rd Armies were to
deliver the initial blow toward Bourlon and Cambrai on 27th September.
Operations in this sector were complicated, and to some extent
awkwardly cramped by a water obstacle which completely protected
Cambrai to the north and north-west. The marshes of the Sensée, running
from east to west, cross the line of the Agache and the Canal du Nord,
running from north to south, near Ecourt St Quentin, the two systems
forming an impassable angle of water and marsh which limited the share
of the 1st Army in the attack to its right wing, the Canadian Corps,
south of the Arras-Cambrai road. In addition to the marshes of the
Agache, the Canal du Nord, although unfinished, was full of water as
far as Sains-les-Marquion, five miles south of its crossing of the
Sensée. For another four miles to a point south of the Bapaume-Cambrai
road, where we were now east of the canal at Havrincourt Wood, it was
dry, forming an immense ditch 50 feet wide and 15 feet deep, with
steep banks of brick. At the village of Mœuvres, 3000 yards below
Sains-les-Marquion, it was crossed by the original Hindenburg or
Siegfried Line, which trended away to the south-east until it reached
the Canal de L’Escaut at Bantouzelle. West of Mœuvres this line was in
our possession; and operations since the German withdrawal, and known
as the battles of Havrincourt and Epehy, had carried the 3rd and 4th
Armies across the canal south of Mœuvres to within striking distance
of the eastern or German section of the famous trenches. Tanks of the
4th and 5th Brigades had helped the 4th Army in these operations on the
18th, 21st, and 24th September. From north to south our line on the
26th ran from Ecourt St. Quentin near the Sensée, west of the Canal du
Nord to below Mœuvres, thence across the canal and through Havrincourt,
Gouzeaucourt, and Epehy in face of the Siegfried Line. The main battle
was to open on the 27th, when the Canadians and the 3rd Army were to
carry the line of the canal and the Hindenburg trenches[41] as far as
Gouzeaucourt, the 4th Army carrying on the offensive to the south on
the 29th.
The impossibility of crossing the Canal du Nord above Marquion had led
to a redistribution of the 1st Tank Brigade. The 7th Battalion having
become well acquainted with the Canadians in the course of several
weeks’ training, was attached to them for their attack between Marquion
and Mœuvres. The 15th Battalion, with Mark V.’s, was borrowed from the
2nd Brigade to help the 17th Corps of the 3rd Army south of Mœuvres.
The 11th Battalion, also with Mark V.’s, having moved down from our
left, was allotted to the 4th Corps for the front between Trescault and
Gouzeaucourt. The 12th Battalion remained in reserve.
It is necessary to give here a more detailed description of the canal
and the country on either side of it. I have spoken of a valley
trending north-eastward from Morchies to Quéant. If one walked along
the high ground from our camp to the right of this valley one came
presently to another depression which fell away to Pronville, a mile
east of Quéant. From Pronville a third valley led at an obtuse angle
due east to Inchy-en-Artois and the canal. Down its centre curled
the dry bed of the Hirondelle stream, lined by willows, poplars, and
the anti-tank _abattis_ of railway iron; and along the ridges which
enclosed it to north and south were sited the deep trenches and
triple belts of wire of those portions of the Hindenburg Front and
Support Lines already in our possession. The southern ridge rose to
a considerable height--some 350 feet--and on approaching the canal
inclined northward in a final spur which sank to the levels of the
Agache near Sains-les-Marquion. The village of Inchy stood on the tip
of this spur, raised slightly above the levels and within 1000 yards of
the canal. Mœuvres, a mile to the south and almost on the canal bank,
was at the foot of the higher end of the spur. The eastern slope of
the latter fell gently like a _glacis_ to our front line, and through
scattered trees beyond one could see the white chalk embankment of
the canal about Lock 4. Our line took in both the villages, but there
was fighting in Mœuvres a day or two before the big attack, and the
front here was rather vague and was given incorrectly on our maps. On
one occasion, when Jack Brown had driven me almost into Inchy in his
side-car, we walked casually along behind the village until we found
ourselves in a ditch full of Stokes guns and people crawling about
in furtive attitudes, and learnt to our astonishment that we were
in our outpost line. Our subsequent attempts to see something from
the outer houses of Inchy itself, where not a soul was moving, were
marked by extreme caution. We could see little in any case, for the
canal was masked from this direction by intervening trees. From the
hill above Mœuvres, however, one looked over the whole area behind the
German front as far back as Bourlon Wood; and one particular point
in the Hindenburg trenches near Tadpole Copse (where there had been
severe fighting during the first Cambrai battle) gave us a bird’s-eye
view of the whole section of the canal which especially interested A
Company--the section about Lock 4. C Company was to cross north of
Inchy, where a fairly close reconnaissance was possible. Our chief
perplexity over this celebrated obstacle was caused by our lack of
reliable knowledge concerning it. Fragmentary information was obtained
from civilians engaged on its construction before the war, and was
supplemented by engineers’ drawings of various sections; but there were
intermediate patches about which we could find out nothing definite.
The sections were found to differ considerably in detail, and the
drawings themselves were of uncertain value. Time and shell-fire had
changed the profile of the canal banks in many places, while the
Germans were reported to have been at work on the unfinished portions
for some purpose of their own.[42] A number of indications pointed to
the fact that they considered the canal to be an insuperable obstacle
to tanks, except at the causeways they had cut through its banks. These
it was almost certain would be mined. The sum of our discoveries,
obtained from these sources and from aeroplane photographs and more or
less distant observation through binoculars, can be set out as follows.
It refers only to that portion which the 7th Tank Battalion had to
negotiate.
[Illustration: _The Canal du Nord and Bourlon._]
North-east of Inchy was a broken iron girder bridge. From this point
to another bridge, also destroyed, at Mœuvres, the canal ran in a dead
straight line pointing a little to the east of south. The embankments
on their outer sides were 6 to 10 feet in height. They were 20 feet
broad. The inner faces fell to the canal bed in two stages: first,
there was an almost sheer drop, partially bricked, of about 9 feet,
then a step or platform 8 feet wide, and finally a slope of 1 in 2
which descended for another 5 feet to the canal bed. The latter was 36
feet across. Midway between Inchy and Mœuvres there was an unfinished
concrete lock, numbered 4. Immediately south of the Inchy bridge
the banks had been cut and a causeway constructed out of the debris
across the canal bed. Two similar causeways existed between Lock 4 and
Mœuvres. All these were required for our artillery. It was suspected
that they were mined; and as they would be completely blocked by any
tanks which happened to be disabled while crossing, we were allowed to
use only one, that nearest to Mœuvres.
A and C Companies, each with eight tanks in two sections, were detailed
for the operation, B Company remaining in reserve. C, crossing near
the Inchy bridge, had a comparatively easy task. The canal at this
point was only half-finished, and the banks were low and dilapidated. A
Company on the right was faced by a far more serious problem. We had,
it is true, the use of a causeway, but this was a doubtful privilege.
If, as every one believed (and as the event proved) it was mined, the
leading tank probably would be disabled and would block the passage.
One section, however, was detailed to attempt this hazard. It remained
to find some crossing-place for the other section over the embankment
itself. The latter was known to be almost finished in this portion,
and appeared to be little damaged; and while it might prove easy
enough for tanks to slide down on to the canal bed (although the first
drop of 9 feet was not an attractive feature), to climb the other
side was a very different matter. As the brickwork was incomplete we
could only hope that the earth on top, after four years’ exposure to
rain and a recent pounding by shell-fire, had crumbled and fallen
over the steep upper lip to form a possible slope. The difficulties
were thought to be so great, however, that a very wild expedient to
overcome them was proposed and actually adopted. Three unfit Mark IV.
tanks were to be brought up, driven into the canal at zero, and there
manœuvred into position side by side across the bed to form a bridge
for the others. This was all very characteristic of theoretical staff
officers who had never driven a tank themselves and had no conception
of the difficulties involved in such a scheme. With unfit Mark IV.’s,
at least half an hour would have been taken in getting them into
position, if everything else went well. If one was hit by the barrage
which was almost certain to fall on the canal, the whole enterprise
would be ruined at the start. Finally, assuming the bridge to be made,
it is very doubtful if it would have stood the weight of the fighting
machines as they crossed over. Tanks are not constructed to support
thirty tons in movement on their roofs.[43] In the end, however, the
experiment never reached the point of test. The only machines available
were some of the 7th Battalion’s derelicts, still lying under repair
far behind at Bucquoy in the hands of salvage crews. Three were put
more or less in order and started on their long trek several days
before the battle, but the effort was too much for them. They broke
down repeatedly, and on the evening of the 26th were still some miles
from Pronville. The only result of this fantastic scheme was to put an
added strain upon already overworked salvage personnel.
In the meantime we had not troubled much about it. We continued to
work on more normal and practical lines, seeking some point on the
canal bank where tanks might cross unaided. From the Hindenburg
trenches near Tadpole Copse, after a careful scrutiny through my
glasses, I discovered what seemed to be a likely place immediately
south of Lock 4. Both banks were somewhat dilapidated and fallen in
through shell-fire at this point, and the nearer one was pierced by
a communication trench called Hobart Street, which ran down from the
front lines. Here, if anywhere, a tank could climb out from the bed. It
was decided that the left-hand section (M’Elroy’s) should follow Hobart
Street and attempt this crossing. The right-hand section (Paul’s) was
to use the causeway 700 yards to the south.
Beyond the canal the ground rose gently again to Bourlon Ridge. A
trench system, heavily wired, known as the Canal du Nord Line, ran
parallel to the farther bank. Behind this, 1200 yards from Lock 4, was
Quarry Wood, a T-shaped enclosure of meagre timber. From the Canal du
Nord Line communication trenches zigzagged up the slope on either side
of the wood to the Marquion Line, the last defensive work in front
of Bourlon. This line was still unfinished, and, as we found when we
reached it, was very imperfectly wired, there being wide gaps where
only the stakes had been planted. Bourlon village and wood, upwards
of 3000 yards east of the canal, were protected by a final series of
trenches and entanglements, nowhere very formidable. The Canadians’
ultimate objectives for the first day included Bourlon and Haynecourt
to the north, with the usual arrangements for further exploitation if
circumstances permitted.
[Illustration: Canal du Nord at Lock 4. A Company, 7th Battalion,
crossed where the lettering is, by end of Hobart Street. Quarry Wood
beyond.]
A Company’s eight tanks were to leave the front line at zero with the
infantry in the normal manner. The 4th Canadian Division, however, with
whom we were working, expected the tanks to be delayed considerably by
the canal, and framed its plan of attack on the supposition that they
would not overtake the infantry again until the latter was approaching
its second objective, the Marquion Line. This supposition, as it
happened, proved erroneous. As soon as the Marquion Line was carried
and the barrage lifted again, the two sections were to converge on
Bourlon village. The great wood was reserved for a novel treatment. We
had proved by bitter experience in the first Cambrai battle that gas
hung sluggishly about its hollows and undergrowth. On this occasion it
was to be deluged with gas-shells for two days and nights before the
attack. No frontal assault against it was to be made on the 27th, but
such of its defenders as survived the poison were to be captured or
driven out by envelopment from the north and south.
C Company, working on our left with the 1st Canadian Division, had
in hand the capture of Sains-les-Marquion, with a subsequent advance
against the northern part of the Marquion Line. The Divisional
Staff was unnecessarily anxious about the tanks being heard if they
approached the front line before zero, and accordingly insisted on
their starting 1000 yards behind the infantry. The attack on this flank
was cramped in its early stage by the water obstacle of the Agache
and the canal, the latter being flooded as far south as Lock 3, above
Inchy. Sains-les-Marquion and Marquion itself would therefore have to
be carried by a pivotal movement from the south and east, after the
canal had been crossed lower down; and this swing to the left on the
part of the tanks and infantry produced, among other things, a highly
complicated barrage table, the barrage turning back upon itself through
half a circle. In practice this difficult evolution was performed
without a hitch, as indeed were all the other arrangements made by the
Canadians, whose preliminary work was thorough and intelligent to a
degree which, unfortunately, was none too common. It was a pleasure to
be associated with most of the divisional and brigade staffs. They were
anxious to do all they could for us, they understood our difficulties,
and they appreciated our help. The Canadian infantry was at this time
in the best of condition. The whole corps had been withdrawn for
the first prolonged rest it had known some time before the general
offensive began; and by the breaking up of the new 5th Division in
England the four old ones in France were brought up to a strength
which no British unit could ever approach. The brigades we trained
with at Enguinegatte had forty-five officers and eleven hundred men
per battalion. Having broken triumphantly through the Drocourt-Quéant
Line in the first days of September, the corps was still fresh and but
little reduced in numbers. I never met the South Africans, whom many
people declare to have been the best of the Colonial troops; but of
the others, speaking from my own experience and on general grounds, I
should put the New Zealand Division first and the Canadians a close
second. The Australians, gifted with one essential military quality--an
aptitude for fighting--were in many other respects an unmitigated
nuisance.
II.
On the evening of the 25th we moved all three companies of tanks from
Morchies to the neighbourhood of Pronville. Each tank was now provided
with the latest development of the old Cambrai fascine--an immense
hexagonal crate of timber and steel, carried as before on top of the
cab. These things were intended for the Hindenburg trenches, but as the
7th Battalion worked to the north of that line, we never had occasion
to use them. Most of our tanks shed them at the first opportunity after
zero. I do not know that they were any improvement on the primitive
fascine bundle. They were little, if at all, lighter, and required a
lorry apiece to bring them on their fruitless journey to Morchies. On
one or two occasions when they were used by other battalions, I believe
they buckled up under the tank’s weight--an accident which could not
happen with the fascine. When carried into action they undoubtedly
terrified the enemy, who took them for some new engine of destruction.
Some of ours were riddled by machine-gun bullets.
The fine weather had held throughout our stay at Morchies, and
the night of the 25th was brilliant with a full moon. The trek to
Pronville, a distance of three miles, was accomplished in peace and
with only one or two slight breakdowns, which were soon rectified. The
little valley leading down to the village was full of 6-inch howitzers,
which fired intermittently with a blaze of flame and a shattering
noise. Across the mouth of the valley, where it widened and became one
with the larger depression leading eastward to Inchy, extended the
black barrier of the Hindenburg wire, looking in the moonlight like a
vast bed of some evil weed; and just in front of this, on the hillside
to the right, were two long banks, against which the tanks of A and C
Companies were parked up and camouflaged. The prodigious cribs which
they carried rose high above the top of the banks, and we stretched
camouflage nets outward from them to the slope of the hill beyond. B
Company’s machines had pushed on by the road which led through the
wire and trenches, to lie up under the willows lining the bed of the
Hirondelle in the bigger valley. We had found previously and marked as
our own (for what this was worth) a few small unoccupied dug-outs in
the front Hindenburg trench. They were still empty, and in one of them,
an L-shaped untimbered excavation about the size of a large cupboard,
accessible by the usual breakneck flight of steps, the Major, M’Chlery,
M’Elroy, and I settled ourselves down about 1 A.M., ate a little food,
drank a little whisky and chlorinated water, and composed ourselves for
a little folding of the hands in sleep.
The following morning (the 26th or Y-day) was again brilliantly fine.
I walked out once more to the high ground above Mœuvres and made a
final examination of the distant canal and the bare slope toward
Bourlon. In the afternoon I intended to take M’Elroy and Paul, the
two section commanders, over the route to Inchy and as far beyond as
seemed advisable. It was very simple going for tanks along the floor
of the valley, however dark the night might be, for the trees of the
Hirondelle formed a guide which it was impossible to miss; but no
one except myself had walked over this final stretch, and in case of
accidents it was advisable for the section commanders to know it.
Unpleasant developments, however, supervened to spoil our excursion.
As we were having lunch the German guns became active, and we could
hear and see the shells crashing in the valley toward Inchy. When we
set out, about two o’clock, we were obliged to keep to the high ground
along the front Hindenburg trench, so as to have a shelter to jump
into in emergency. We could follow the route of our approach-march
almost equally well from here, but when we got to the spur between
Inchy and Tadpole Copse, with the intention of seeing what we could of
the forward slope down to the canal, it began to rain shells. We spent
an anxious hour dodging among half-finished trenches and sheltering
in dug-outs about the head of Hobart Street, already mentioned, where
there was a nasty little gulley which for no apparent reason was
receiving marked attention. A small dump of 18-pounder shells was hit
and exploded, and the camouflage net which covered it having caught
fire, the smoke drew a heavier burst of shelling; and as the very
indifferent trenches in this neighbourhood were packed with infantry
and gunners, now tumbling over one another to get away from the
dangerous area, there were a good many casualties. When we managed
to get clear and return to Pronville about five o’clock, we were
exceedingly hot and thirsty, and very little wiser for our pains.
The Pronville valley was now filling up, in a discreet way, with
troops and guns. The Hindenburg trenches were crowded with men of the
63rd (Naval) Division, which was attacking on the right of the 4th
Canadians. In every little gulley which offered concealment there
were heavy howitzers, four huge 9-inch weapons being packed together
by a cemetery close to B Company’s tanks. Zero was at 5.20 A.M. the
next morning, and we decided to pull out our tanks half an hour after
midnight. As luck would have it, heavy clouds drove up after dusk, and
the night fell extraordinarily black until the moon rose. I had some
difficulty in this intense darkness in finding even the road through
the Hindenburg wire, only 200 yards from where our tanks were parked
up. By one o’clock, however, we had them in line at the head of the
Inchy valley, with the useful trees of the Hirondelle on our left. C
company was ahead of us. The only untoward incident in this early stage
was the fall of one of the huge cribs from the cab of a tank, which
crushed a man’s leg. Soon after we started a drizzle of rain set in,
increasing after a while to a heavy downpour; but the full moon having
risen, enough light filtered through the clouds to enable us to see our
way. A few shells whistled over and burst in the valley, but on the
whole the German artillery, after its activity earlier in the day, was
commendably quiet.
Crawling along at a snail’s pace, it was three o’clock when we reached
Inchy. C Company had already turned off to the left across the
Hirondelle to follow the valley round the back of the village. We had
still so much time to spare, being now within 1500 yards of the front
line, that we halted the tanks for nearly an hour, on a sort of terrace
cut out of the spur within a stone’s-throw of the ruined wall and trees
of Inchy Château. Before we moved on again the Major left us to return
to the 10th Canadian Brigade H.Q. in the Hindenburg Support Line across
the valley. The Colonel had insisted on this very sensible arrangement,
whereby company and section commanders, instead of wandering rather
aimlessly about after their tanks had gone into action, were under
definite orders to attach themselves respectively to the headquarters
of the infantry brigades and battalions concerned, where they were
better able to keep in touch with events, and where they could easily
be found.
Shortly before four o’clock, while M’Elroy and Paul got the tanks
started up again, I went ahead with a runner, one Corporal Deucars,
to examine the forward slope of the spur, it having been impossible
to reconnoitre this thoroughly in daylight. A road, lined by tattered
trees, ran from Inchy up the spur and over the main ridge to the
Bapaume-Cambrai highway near Doignies. The trees, and a conspicuous
ruined factory by the roadside, a quarter of a mile from the village,
stood up very prominently on the crest, and it was inadvisable to show
one’s self on this road in the daytime, as it was in full view from the
German lines. A second road, or rather lane, left the eastern side of
Inchy, descended the slope, and split in two almost on our front line,
one fork leading southward to Mœuvres and the other holding straight
on to the canal bank by Lock 4. It was my intention to lead the tanks
round the village until we struck this lane, which would take the
left-hand section direct to its crossing-place. The right-hand section
would have to head south-east after zero to make the causeway, but
there were several small landmarks, including a ditch lined by willows,
to serve as guides. Dawn, moreover, would be breaking as the tanks
moved off. Our front line for once was clearly defined between Mœuvres
and Inchy, where it ran along a light railway which would make an
excellent jumping-off point for the two sections.
I had taken some rolls of tape with me, as I knew that there were
several wired machine-gun posts on the forward slope, which it might
be necessary to avoid, while the ground here had been badly shelled at
one time and another. I found, however, that the Canadians themselves,
thorough in everything, had laid down that evening a number of tapes
to guide their infantry and field batteries to the front line; and,
following up one of these, it led me straight across the angle of the
village to the lane I wished to reach. On leaving the main street of
Inchy, this lane was lined for a short distance by houses and gardens.
As these were now being shelled, I did not push my investigations
right up to them, but having satisfied myself that the tape would
serve us, I returned with Deucars to meet the tanks. They had climbed
up out of the terrace by a limber track, and were approaching the
road on the crest when I found them, and found also that there were
only seven. One of Paul’s section had broken down--the trouble, I
think, was a twisted extension-shaft--and was left behind under the
trees of Inchy. I led the others across the road between the village
and the factory, and then along the tape. The rain had now ceased,
but the night was still very dark. Once on the forward slope we moved
with extreme care. At five o’clock, twenty minutes before zero, we
were close to the side of the lane and within 300 yards of the front
line. A few shells were still crashing and sparkling in the gardens
behind us. Halting the tanks for a few minutes, I collected the tank
commanders in a shell-hole and reviewed rapidly for the last time the
various points that they had to bear in mind in approaching the canal.
I have forgotten to mention that owing to our extraordinary shortage of
officers at this period, due to casualties, leave, and the departures
to England, six out of our remaining seven tanks were commanded by
N.C.O.’s. These, however, were all extremely capable men--the pick of
the admirable personnel we had brought originally from Bovington.
During the past week, in addition to reconnaissance, I had coached
them as thoroughly as possible on the map, helped by some of the best
aeroplane photographs I have ever seen; and I had little doubt of their
ability, if they were able to cross the canal without undue delay, to
accomplish all that was expected of them.
After five minutes’ talk they returned to their tanks, and we watched
the line of dark machines file very slowly down the slope beside the
trees of the lane. There was nothing more that M’Elroy, Paul, or I
could do. The tanks would follow the lane until they came to the
light railway, where they would wait during the few final minutes
before zero. Having watched them disappear in the shadows, we turned
back accordingly to a communication trench called Wartburg, which led
uphill to the main Hindenburg Line near Tadpole Copse, as we had now
to find the battle headquarters of the two Canadian battalions forming
the first infantry wave in this sector of the attack. The morning was
still very dark, its utter quietness broken only by the rare whine
and crash of a German shell. There is something very impressive and
eerie in this silent hour before an attack at dawn. Troops and guns
are crowded everywhere, in trenches and pits and hollows, behind the
front line, but one can see and hear nothing; and one wonders how
much the enemy, listening nervously (as he has listened perhaps for
a week or more) only a few hundred yards away, fears or suspects. As
we stumbled uphill along the convolutions of the trench, picking our
way among the waiting infantry whose equipment rattled faintly as they
moved, the east began to lighten rather suddenly. The clouds which had
blackened the night were clearing away. And ten minutes, perhaps, after
we had left the tanks, the whole crest of the spur behind us blazed
instantaneously with stabbing flames, and we were deafened and stunned
by the intolerable crash of the opening barrage....
III.
Wartburg trench curled up through the little gulley where we had been
caught by the German bombardment the previous afternoon. This gulley
was now a nest of field batteries, all firing furiously. Scores of
other batteries were in action higher up the slope and along the crest,
and from the Pronville valley came a howling torrent of shells from the
heavier howitzers. In the cup of ground up which we were climbing the
noise was abominable, and my whole head throbbed and ached with it.
It is always worse to hear concentrated gun-fire from close in front
than from close behind. The Canadians had brought their field-guns
very far forward in the night, and as the light increased I witnessed
a spectacle which spoke both for their supreme confidence and for the
altered aspect of the war. One or two batteries in the hollow did not
fire at all, but limbered up at zero, and went rolling and jolting
down the slope after the advancing infantry. I heard afterwards of an
artillery Major who rode forward on his horse with the first wave of
the attack to select new gun positions under the canal bank.
After much climbing about tortuous and misleading trenches on the big
hill, we found the headquarters of one of our infantry battalions. From
here we pushed on to the second headquarters. These were established
in a fairly capacious dug-out on the summit, 100 feet above Mœuvres.
It was now about six o’clock; but the whole country below was so
shrouded in mist and smoke that we could see nothing. Having informed
the battalion commander that the tanks had started, we sat about in the
welcome peace of the dug-out for some time, listening to reports as
they came through on the telephone, and having a comforting breakfast
of bacon and tea. (Incidentally, at whatever hour of the day or night
you interviewed Canadians, they were always drinking tea--without
prejudice to the ordinary alcoholic beverages which, of course, were
there as well.) From the fragmentary news which reached us the attack
seemed to be going like clockwork, but we could get no information
about the tanks. The bogey of the canal was always in our minds, and I
began to be afraid that they had failed to cross it. At seven o’clock
we scrambled to the surface again, to find the morning bright and sunny
and the trenches on the hill-top lined with interested spectators of
the battle. Groups of signallers were working heliographs from the
parapets, and a few heavy German shells thudded on the slope below;
but when I joined the audience I found that there was still little or
nothing to be seen. Sheets of white vapour, out of which rose the dark
trees of Bourlon Wood, covered the whole battlefield. M’Elroy and Paul
decided to remain here until it was time for them to go forward to the
sunken road, between the canal and Quarry Wood, which had been selected
as a rallying-point for the tanks; and I left them soon after to make
my own way back to the Major at the infantry brigade headquarters on
the opposite ridge above Inchy.
By the time I had got down into the valley, now full of roaring guns
and moving infantry and transport, and had climbed the farther slope
to the Hindenburg Support trenches, the sun was growing powerful and I
was becoming uncomfortably hot. I was wearing a trench-coat and other
warm garments which had been welcome enough in the cold and rain of the
night, and I was of course hung all over with the ghastly impedimenta
that civilised officers are impelled to carry with them into battle (or
near it)--glasses, water-bottle, box-respirator, revolver, map-case,
compasses, and so on, all depending from an infuriating harness of
separate little straps. I cannot imagine why officers are not provided
with a uniform combination equipment for these articles. It would be
easy to design one. The Sam Browne belt is a useless anachronism in
action, and the private soldier’s webbing or leather equipment, while
excellent for his own requirements, was worthless for ours. We were
compelled to walk about like badly-arranged Christmas-trees suffocated
by straps....
All this, however, is rather by the way. To return to our text, I
found at the infantry headquarters the Brigadier and staff of the 1st
Tank Brigade peering through their glasses at the battle, and also the
Major, full of good news. Plenty of information had been coming through
on the telephone, and all our apprehensions were proved needless. Our
tanks, indeed, had won a really notable little triumph by crossing the
problematical canal as easily as if it had been an ordinary trench,
and actually leading the Canadians the whole way from start to finish,
through the Canal du Nord Line, Quarry Wood, and the Marquion Line into
Bourlon. The left-hand section apparently (for, of course, no details
were to hand) had climbed in and out of the canal without a pause. The
first tank of Paul’s section on the right had been disabled by a mine
in the causeway, whereupon the other two had found their way over the
walls with equal agility. The Canadians, who had not counted on any
help from the machines short of the Marquion Line, were as astonished
as they were pleased by this performance, and were generously
flattering in their commendations.
From this crest by the brigade dug-outs one obtained an excellent view,
over the roofs of Inchy, of the whole undulating escarpment which
rose to Bourlon, and also of the country to the south around Anneux
and Graincourt, other old acquaintances of the first Cambrai battle.
Much of the smoke and mist had lifted, for already the tide of advance
was through Bourlon and Anneux and beyond the Wood. Graincourt, just
visible behind the spur above Mœuvres, was still holding out, and
continued to resist, like a second Flesquières, until late in the day.
I sat for some time watching this scene through my glasses. Columns of
thick white smoke were rising out of Bourlon Wood, where the enveloping
attack was clearing out the defenders under a screen of smoke grenades.
To the right, between Anneux and Graincourt, the bare upland was
diversified by the forms of four or five disabled tanks, presumably
Mark V.’s of the 15th Battalion. One of them was on fire, and a second
was emitting volumes of white smoke from a patent contrivance fitted
for this purpose on the roof. (A tank in M’Elroy’s section was equipped
with this novelty, and used it very effectively in front of Bourlon.)
And presently, out of the thin haze which still hung in drifts over
the slope beyond the canal, appeared one of our own machines homeward
bound; and at that the Major and I began to walk down into the valley
on our way to the rallying-point. The time must have been about
ten o’clock in the morning, five hours since the battle opened. We
followed the route the tanks had taken, round the southern gardens of
Inchy, and so on to the lane which led to Lock 4. There is always a
peculiar interest attached to one’s first entry into ground occupied
only a few hours previously by the enemy. It is like a journey into a
foreign country--which, after all, is exactly what it is. A hundred
little contrasts, even amid the levelling conditions of modern war,
differentiate one side of the line from the other. Either combatant
betrays his personality in such common tasks as digging trenches
or building cook-houses, and there seems to supervene a different
atmosphere, a sort of alien local colour, as one passes from No Man’s
Land into newly-captured territory. This may be largely my personal
fancy: certainly the grass is the same colour and the shell-holes
are very similar; and it is true that superficially there was little
to show which side of the light railway at Inchy-en-Artois had been
British and which German ground. Between the rusty metals and the
canal bank were a few groups of our dead--mostly, I think, casualties
suffered by the later waves of infantry under the counter-barrage. I
did not see any Germans among them, and it was evident that this first
stage had been carried at a rush with little or no trouble. Probably
the scattered outposts had surrendered on the spot. The canal itself,
the first solid obstacle capable of defence, did not appear to have
been held with any approach to determination. One German infantryman,
lying dead on his back and already stripped of every article that would
make a portable souvenir, was the only piece of jetsam in the wake of
the attack near Lock 4. Yet, as a singular example of the contrasts and
uncertainties of war, at the very time I was scrambling down into the
canal bed with the Major, six hours after the opening of the battle,
a group of plucky German machine-gunners was still holding out near
Mœuvres, three miles behind our new front.
The canal, which we examined with the keenest interest, bore very
little resemblance to the engineers’ drawings. The sides were far
steeper than represented, and the “step,” where it existed, was higher
up. The photograph reproduced in this book will show more clearly than
any description what sort of an obstacle it was that our worn-out and
obsolete Mark IV. tanks had surmounted with such ease and speed. The
farther wall near Lock 4, where M’Elroy’s four machines had crossed,
was so nearly vertical that only the layer of fallen earth, combined
with exceptionally skilful driving, made its ascension possible.
The two surviving tanks of Paul’s section, baulked at the causeway,
scrambled in some miraculous manner over the brickwork close by. His
leading tank, as we have seen, was disabled by a mine on the causeway
itself. The explosion broke the tracks, blew in the floor, and
shattered a man’s legs. The N.C.O. in command very sensibly ran at once
down the canal to Mœuvres, where some of the 15th Battalion’s tanks
were crossing, and managed to induce one of them to turn back and tow
the derelict off the causeway, where it was holding up our artillery.
The first drivers of all the six tanks which crossed were very properly
recommended for the Military Medal for this feat alone, and one or two
of them received it.
As we walked on from the canal we met our first tanks returning to it.
They had been shelled persistently on their way back from Bourlon to
the rallying-point, the German guns apparently being kept on to the
moving targets by an observation balloon which still hung insolently
behind the wood, unmolested by our aeroplanes. (It was an instructive
fact that when we ran up a balloon the next day from a similar position
on our side of the wood, a German aeroplane had it down within an
hour.) The ground at the rallying-point being entirely open, it was
no place for the tanks under this malignant scrutiny, and they were
returning accordingly to the canal itself for shelter. We led them
through the middle causeway and parked them up against the eastern
wall. The photograph shows the first three immediately after their
arrival. The figure in the trench-coat fluttering a map is, I believe,
myself.
[Illustration: Tanks of A Company, 7th Battalion, parked in Canal du
Nord after capturing Bourlon Village, September 27, 1918. (Official
Photo.)]
In almost every case the tasks allotted to the tanks had been easily
and rapidly accomplished. They were out of the canal as soon as the
infantry, and in consequence were able to lend the latter unexpected
help at the Canal du Nord Line and Quarry Wood, where they led the
attack, crushed the wire, and disposed of numerous machine-gun posts.
Still leading, the whole six charged the Marquion Line, which was
carried very quickly. One tank broke down here and was not ready
to move again until the others were returning for good. These, in
the meantime, patrolled beyond the Marquion Line while it was being
consolidated under cover of a stationary barrage, and as soon as the
latter lifted once more, pushed on for Bourlon. Two entered by the main
street and a third from the north, the remaining pair working along
the trenches round the village. The resistance was spasmodic, and as
soon as the tanks had crushed down the barricades in the streets and
silenced a few machine-guns which held out in the houses, the place was
rapidly overrun and cleared by the following infantry. One tank, fired
on by field-guns in the outskirts, screened itself very skilfully in
smoke from the experimental apparatus fixed on the roof, and passed
into the village unhurt behind this curtain. Another machine, after
Bourlon had been carried, pushed on at the request of the Canadians
to the railway which ran past the eastern end of Bourlon Wood to
Sauchy-Lestrée, silenced some machine-guns on the embankment, and
enabled the infantry to seize and consolidate the latter. In four
or five hours the whole action was over, so far as the tanks were
concerned. There were no casualties to personnel or machines, except in
the case of the mined tank on the causeway. All the other six rallied.
The attack had been a model of completeness and efficiency, and was
backed up throughout in the most intelligent and whole-hearted manner
by the infantry.
C Company had been equally successful, although it had not escaped
so lightly. Sains-les-Marquion was carried with very little effort,
and the tanks spent the rest of the morning cruising about beyond the
Marquion Line, mopping up machine-gun nests and enjoying some good
shooting at parties of fugitive Germans. Two tanks, however, were hit
and burnt out by field-guns near Deligny Mill, on the spur north of
Quarry Wood. After the action the Company rallied behind the canal in
the gulley below Tadpole Copse.
IV.
While our tanks were parking up in the canal bed I met the brigade
commander and the Colonel with Beale and one or two other people,
and after a little talk was sent back to Pronville to arrange for
some lorries to be in readiness to carry all the tank crews of both
companies, less the necessary guards, to Bullecourt, where a camp had
been erected. On my way I met the tanks of B Company moving up to the
canal. At Pronville, where I arrived very hot and dusty and incredibly
thirsty, about one o’clock, I was stopped within 100 yards of our
headquarters in the trench by a bucolic and extremely unintelligent
private of the Battle Police, who poked his bayonet at me and demanded
to know where I was going. As it never occurred to me that I could be
mistaken for a deserter, I thought the man was drunk, and was on the
point of putting him under arrest. Realising in time that he was only
densely stupid and performing what he conceived to be his duty, I burst
out laughing at his absurd face and manner, and left him there gaping
after me, and wondering, possibly, if he should have fallen upon me or
run me through.
By four o’clock that afternoon the tired crews had marched back to
Pronville and were packing themselves in lorries, while M’Elroy, Paul,
and I, glowing with a sense of virtue rewarded, were bumping over
the vile roads to Bullecourt in the car. Every road and track was
roaring with a flood of transport rolling eastward. All the guns about
Pronville had gone forward except the 9.2 howitzers, and Holt tractors
were standing by these unwieldy weapons in readiness to tow them
also away. A long naval gun had come up on the railway near Quéant,
and was firing from its truck. There was always something fresh and
exhilarating to me in this universal surge onward which came in the
wake of any big advance--perhaps because we were not yet habituated to
big advances. The tide had now set in with a vengeance, and we were to
become well accustomed to this healthy symptom of its progress before
the end.
At Bullecourt, where our tents had been set up amid the annihilation
of one of the most murderous and contested battlefields of the war,
we spent that night and most of the next day. We were, I suppose,
very fortunate to possess the transport which alone made these brief
interludes of rest and recuperation possible. They were certainly well
worth the trouble they involved. After twenty-four hours spent in
moderate comfort, with rational meals, baths of a sort, and a change of
clothes, officers and men returned to the forward area refreshed and
ready for another spell of work that, in our case, became increasingly
arduous the longer our old machines were denied their own turn of
renovation.
M’Elroy left us in the morning to go on leave. He had been due to
go a week before, but had stayed on to take part in the attack. When
he returned a fortnight later, the battalion had finished its work,
and was waiting to be withdrawn to refit. I was about to leave it
to join the 12th Battalion. And a short time after I had gone, he
was dead--killed, when the war virtually was over, by an epidemic of
influenza and pneumonia which swept through the unhealthy camp in
the Ternoise valley, and cost the battalion in addition the lives of
some of its best N.C.O.’s and men, who also had come through all its
battles, from Ypres to the second Cambrai, only to meet this miserable
end. M’Elroy and I had been much together in the later stages, having
been largely responsible between us for the company’s work in most of
the final actions, and I had come to know him very well. He was a tall,
dark Irishman, usually quiet and casual, but with that rare combination
of a level head and careless courage which earns so many of the
decorations that are worth anything, and which gained him his D.S.O. as
a subaltern at Cambrai. One has always a grudge against Providence for
the waste of such lives when all need for sacrifice is past.
During the interlude at Bullecourt we gathered some information about
the progress of the attack in general, and in particular about the
fortunes of the 15th and 11th Tank Battalions which had been in action
on our right. Both of these units had suffered heavily in a rather
desperate morning’s fighting. The tanks of the 15th, having negotiated
the canal at Mœuvres with some difficulty, reached their final
objectives beyond Anneux and Flesquières, but lost eleven machines out
of twenty-six, many of them around Graincourt. The 11th Battalion,
usually unfortunate, fared very badly. A dozen tanks were sent in
between Trescault and Gouzeaucourt, of which eight received direct
hits and two were ditched. Their casualties were heavy, and the attack
in this sector was only partially successful. Elsewhere, however,
everything had gone extraordinarily well. Ten thousand prisoners and
200 guns had been captured by the two armies; and on the evening of
the 27th our line, from north to south, had been advanced to east of
Oisy-le-Verger (in the angle between the Sensée and the canal), east
of Epinoy, Haynecourt, and Bourlon Wood, through Fontaine-Notre-Dame,
and east of Ribécourt and Beaucamp. Another five miles of the Siegfried
Line, from Mœuvres to Ribécourt, had been carried; and from Bourlon
Ridge we looked down upon the roofs and spires of Cambrai, less than
three miles away.
On the morning of the 28th, eight tanks of B Company, which we saw
moving up to the canal, led the infantry of the 3rd Canadian Division
in an attack on Raillencourt and St Olle, on the Arras-Cambrai road.
Both these villages were carried after severe fighting, several of the
German machine-gun crews continuing to resist until they were crushed
to death by the tanks. All the latter rallied. St Olle was a suburb of
Cambrai, and the Canadians were now on the outskirts of that town, but
still faced by the formidable obstacle of the Canal de L’Escaut.
That evening the personnel of A and C Companies, having spent exactly
twenty-four hours at Bullecourt, returned by lorry to their tanks
in or near the Canal du Nord. Both companies were to trek forward
that night to the neighbourhood of Bourlon, and the Major and I went
straight to that village in the car to decide where we would put our
machines. As we passed through Inchy we found that the indefatigable
Y.M.C.A. had already established a canteen there, and were using one
of our abandoned cribs as a background for their triangular sign. The
day had been fine and hot, and the country everywhere was full of
pungent smells. The Canadians had a bad habit of leaving their dead
horses and mules for weeks without burial, even alongside the roads,
and some of these carcases had by now attained an appalling stage of
decomposition. At Bourlon we fixed on the huge château wall, riddled
with immense holes but still erect, as a good shelter for the tanks;
and having sent the car off, walked back across country to the canal to
survey an approximate route. The Major then left to interview the 4th
Canadian Division. I waited about for two or three hours while a number
of small irritating defects were put to rights; and toward ten o’clock,
the night being starlit but very dark, we managed to get away. We had
now six tanks left out of the fourteen with which we had started from
Bienvillers five weeks before. Wadeson, just back from leave, was in
charge in M’Elroy’s absence.
The beginning of the journey was unpropitious. Our exit from the
canal bed, by way of the middle causeway, coincided with the arrival
immediately above us of a bombing squadron of German aeroplanes, which
proceeded to drop their cargoes liberally all round. I pushed everybody
inside the tanks and walked on hopefully in front. The bombs were
thudding and flashing in large numbers in the direction of Mœuvres,
and some fell much nearer than was pleasant; and presently one of
the raiders released a magnesium flare attached to a small parachute
or balloon, which hung for a long time a few hundred feet overhead,
and seemed to light up the whole country for miles. The illumination
was so bright that I thought of halting the tanks until it expired,
but reflected that these lights are always much less efficient, from
the point of view of the observer up above, than they appear from
the ground. The flare dwindled out after a while, the humming of the
aeroplane engines and the crash of the bombs receded behind us as
the raiders swept over the canal, and we pursued our journey without
further interruption.
On arriving, after some struggles in trenches and wire, at Bourlon
Château, we found that our wall bounded a narrow lane in which was
situated an artillery brigade headquarters. As our tanks would have
blocked the lane and interfered with traffic that might include the
cars of infuriated Generals, we decided to push the machines through
the holes in the wall into the tangled garden beyond. The fact that
this was possible will convey some idea of the size of the holes (which
did not reach even to the top of the wall in most cases), and of the
immense height and solidity of the structure. After much backing and
swinging and dislodging of bricks, the manœuvre was accomplished, and
all six tanks were safely inserted under the trees inside. It was now
midnight, or after, and we proceeded to make ourselves comfortable
under a couple of tarpaulins stretched over a trench, where, packed
like sardines, we had some sort of a meal and went to sleep.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE FIGHTING ROUND CAMBRAI: SANCOURT.
I.
When the 1st and 3rd Armies attacked on 27th September, the general
bombardment was extended southward to the extremity of the British
Line, although only preliminary operations were undertaken by the
4th Army on that day and the next. The 28th was notable for two
simultaneous blows delivered upwards of 100 miles apart--by the 2nd
British and 3rd French Armies and the Belgians from the coast to
Ypres, and by the 5th and 10th French Armies on the Aisne. On the
29th, after two days’ continuous shelling, the 4th Army and the right
wing of the 3rd took up the attack against the last and strongest
remnant of the enemy’s final organised position in the West, the Canal
de L’Escaut and the Siegfried Line from Marcoing to Bellenglise.
This reversion to something like the old type of offensive, with a
preliminary bombardment, was necessitated by the obstacle of the Canal
de St Quentin (a continuation of the Canal de L’Escaut), which could
be crossed by tanks only at the gap, 6000 yards wide, where it passed
under the famous tunnel between Vendhuile and Bellicourt. The 3rd, 4th,
and 5th Tank Brigades with about 170 machines took part on the first
day of this decisive battle, and had some desperate fighting, losing
a great number of tanks and men. The 301st Americans in their first
action met with tragic disaster, apparently through no fault of their
own. Moving forward from Ronsoy, they ran into a mine-field which we
had laid down before the March retreat. It consisted of rows of buried
trench-mortar bombs, each loaded with 50 lb. of ammonal. In a few
minutes ten tanks were blown up, their bottoms being torn out and most
of their crews killed by the terrific explosions. The remainder of the
battalion, shaken though it must have been by this appalling stroke of
misfortune, got into action and suffered heavily there, only 11 tanks
rallying out of 34. On subsequent days units of all three brigades were
helping to widen the initial penetration of the Siegfried trenches at
various points, as many as 40 tanks going in on 3rd October, when we
broke through the northern part of the Beaurevoir-Fonsomme Line five
miles beyond the canal tunnel, and saw in front of us at last open
and cultivated country. These events led up to the final phase of the
battle, which began on 8th October.
In the meantime, the Canadians, with the 22nd and 17th Corps
respectively on their left and right, had a week of very severe and
costly fighting around Cambrai, in the course of which the 7th Tank
Battalion fought its last action. After the surprise and collapse on
27th September, the German resistance stiffened appreciably every
day as it had stiffened a month earlier at Bapaume; and Sancourt,
Abancourt, and other villages played the same _rôle_ which had fallen
before to Ecoust and Beugny. Our advance was still hampered by the
obstacle of the Sensée Marshes and the floods to the north of them.
This vast area of water cut across our front at right angles, with
the result that as we penetrated eastward toward Cambrai we developed
a long flank facing due north; and the German guns south of Douai,
enfilading this salient, caused much annoyance. The re-formed and very
weak 5th Army facing Lens and Douai was unable to help actively until
the operations on its flanks were further advanced.
The morning of 29th September found the three Companies of the 7th
Tank Battalion disposed as follows: A Company, as we have seen, was
at Bourlon. C Company had moved overnight from its rallying-point near
Tadpole Copse to the top of Bourlon Ridge north of the village, where
its tanks were camouflaged in the open in a shallow basin of ground. B
Company, after its fighting in Raillencourt and St Olle, had rallied at
the former village and still remained there, its machines hidden under
the trees of the Arras-Cambrai road within 3000 yards of the front
line. Early in the morning a despatch-rider reached us at Bourlon with
orders for the company to join C on the ridge; and after breakfast we
backed the tanks out of the château garden through the holes in the
wall and trekked northward round the village. We made a considerable
gambit to avoid appearing on the crest, where a few shells were
falling as we approached, and climbed eventually to our destination
under a bridge, still intact, which carried the railway from Cambrai
to Sauchy-Lestrée. We camouflaged our tanks in the open a few hundred
yards from those of C Company, one of whose officers had just been
wounded by the shelling. We were screened here from direct observation
by the final rise, the ground ascending very gradually from our basin
to the Arras-Cambrai road, only 500 yards away. The double line of
trees along the road ran obliquely across our front and dropped down
the ridge behind us to Marquion and the Agache flats. Standing on the
highway, one saw straight ahead the cluster of villages on the spurs
which fell to the Sensée north and north-west of Cambrai--Haynecourt
and Epinoy, west of the Douai road, and now in our possession, and,
beyond, the trees about Sancourt, Blécourt, Abancourt, and others still
held by the Germans. To the north extended the long hostile flank
beyond the Sensée, with such places as Bugnicourt and Fressain easily
distinguishable. The morning being misty, although brilliantly fine,
visibility was limited, but it was easy to see how vitally important
was this ridge, and how on a clear day one could have overlooked Douai
and all the enemy’s communications across the plain. Cambrai, three
miles to the south-east, and lying low, was hidden from this point by
the trees of Raillencourt and Sailly. The shallow depression in which
we lay, like all the rest of the country around, was bare grass-land,
crossed by a multitude of dusty tracks, a lane leading from Bourlon to
the main road, and a line or two of half-finished trench. There was
a big dug-out, an old German headquarters of some kind, close to the
railway bridge at our back. To our right stood a solitary half-ruined
building called Pilgrim’s Rest, which poked a blackened gable above
some shrubs; and a few small copses beyond led the eye up to Bourlon
Wood, towering above a sudden little hill which was superimposed,
as it were, on top of the ridge itself. It was this steep acclivity
which caused the wood to be visible from so great a distance (from the
towers of Mont St Eloi, behind Arras, for example), and to dominate so
effectively all the valleys leading toward it from the west. During our
reconnaissances before the 27th this sinister mass of trees seemed to
overlook every movement. But now its ladders and its lofty observation
platforms had had their final day, and curious wanderers were peering
and poking among the glades and thickets bleached with gas and
scarred by shells, where some of its later victims still lay rotting
in the undergrowth, and where there rested, smashed and stripped and
rust-eaten, the shells of tanks we had lost there nearly a year before.
Two-faced, like Janus, the wood had now turned a menacing visage
eastward, and lowered over Cambrai. A new activity flowed beneath its
shadow. Khaki had replaced field-grey in the dismembered village; and
over the dusty plain to the canal, along the reverse slope of the
ridge, and even in the little hollow by Pilgrim’s Rest, were scattered
infantry bivouacs and endless horse lines and the massed limbers of
ammunition trains. The countryside was alive with movement, and near
Bourlon a Canadian band was playing, its instruments glittering in the
sun....
When we had camouflaged the tanks in pairs, we set about finding some
shelter for company headquarters, and the few other officers we had
with us. A half-finished trench ran across the basin, and over a part
of this we rigged up a tarpaulin roof. C Company, the first in the
field, had found a large excavation in a bank near the railway, where
they made themselves moderately comfortable. It was always well to take
these precautions, for one might be stranded in such a place for a
week. As it happened, this little gutter of ours was in use as a base
for several days. Close to us here, curiously enough, were some odd
by-products of the tank idea, a number of open lorries carrying Vickers
guns and Stokes mortars, part of a singular unit which included motor
machine-guns and armoured cars, and was known as Brutinel’s Brigade.
It had been organised by the Canadians for the battle on 8th August,
with a view to rapid exploitation in company with our Whippets and cars
along the Amiens-Roye road. I believe it met with a certain measure of
success on that exceptional occasion, but its subsequent opportunities
were few. All Canadian operation orders at this time ended with an
optimistic paragraph asserting that “Brutinel’s Brigade will seize
every opening for a vigorous exploitation and pursuit of the enemy,”
and the heterogeneous medley of vehicles did its best to find such
openings; but with the Germans very wide awake, and fighting for every
inch of ground, nothing on wheels had any prospect of penetrating far.
The brigade was badly cut up more than once, and the armed lorries, in
particular, were described by their unfortunate crews as death-traps.
After lunch Wadeson and I walked to the high ground by Bourlon Wood,
where there were a number of abandoned German guns and many dead of
both armies, and looked down upon the roofs and spires of Cambrai.
The canal and all the approaches to the town were hidden in trees,
and there was nothing to be seen but an ambulance or two passing
below us into St Olle. It was more interesting to turn our glasses
to the south-west and follow the immaculate line of the Le Cateau
road, its double row of trees in full leaf rising and dipping over a
succession of ridges increasing in height as they receded, and topped
by villages and small towns untouched by actual hostilities since
the first month of the war--Awoingt, just outside Cambrai, Beauvois,
Caudry, Bethencourt, and yet another Inchy. I had no suspicion then
that I was to know all these places well enough a few weeks later.
Le Cateau itself, lying in a deep valley, was hidden from us; but we
could follow many of the roads leading eastward from the main highway,
and these were black with German transport pouring to the rear before
the blast of the 4th Army’s attack along the Canal de St Quentin that
morning. Another cheering portent was the fact that the enemy’s line of
observation balloons was withdrawn well to the east of the Le Cateau
road. It was while we were standing here that one of our balloons,
run up an hour before by the side of Bourlon Wood, was shot down by a
German aeroplane which escaped with the usual ease. Neither at this
time nor before nor after during the whole advance did I see a German
balloon brought down.
A very disgusting feature of this neighbourhood was the number of
ghoulish pilferers of the dead who infested it. These noxious creatures
are common enough in the wake of any battle: indeed the ordinary decent
soldier is callous to a degree in the way he will handle some mangled
body in his search for what he calls souvenirs; but the Colonial troops
always supplied an excessive proportion of the deliberate looters. A
case which filled me with peculiar horror, because I had known and
liked the man whose corpse was so mercilessly stripped and rifled, had
occurred in the Canadian Corps a short time before this. An officer in
our battalion who joined it as a Captain in the Salient, and afterwards
shared a cubicle with me at Meaulte, went to the 11th Battalion as a
company commander. He was killed by a shell during an approach-march
in the course of the attack on the Drocourt-Quéant Line. His body was
left for a quarter of an hour while two men ran to a dressing station
close at hand for a stretcher. When they returned they found that the
Canadians, in this short interval, had stripped the body of everything
worth taking--tunic, belt, glasses, and even field-boots. I do not know
if I am peculiar, but this practice, which was reduced to a science,
filled me with loathing. And around Bourlon Wood, where in places the
dead lay thickly, there were a number of men prowling furtively about,
turning over bodies, peering into holes and trenches, carrying out
systematically their search for money or such pitiful small valuables
as a man will carry even into action. These scoundrels sheered off when
any officer approached, and if summoned and interrogated, explained of
course that they were looking for the body of a friend....
II.
At five o’clock that evening (the 29th) the usual harbinger of evil
arrived at our trench in the shape of a despatch-rider, with an urgent
message to the Major to report at once to the headquarters of the 12th
Canadian Infantry Brigade. This headquarters was quite near us, in some
dug-outs just off the Arras-Bapaume road, by a building called Lilac
Farm. I accompanied the Major in his car, which we took to save time.
As we arrived on the highroad several heavy shells crashed about Lilac
Farm, and we left it for the dug-outs with some haste. We had a brief
interview with the Canadian Brigadier, in which he propounded a rather
ambitious scheme for the next morning, and asked for three tanks. C
Company was working on our right with another brigade. The situation on
the front of the 12th Brigade was as follows:--
Beyond the Arras-Cambrai road was the road to Douai, which trended
a little to the west of north toward Aubencheul-au-Bac, where it
crossed the Sensée. On a line drawn north-east from the Pilgrim’s
Rest these roads were about 4000 yards apart, and midway between them
was the village of Haynecourt. Beyond the Douai road, again, was the
main Cambrai-Douai railway. Road and railway ran side by side out of
Cambrai for two miles, when the line curved eastward before returning
to a parallel crossing at Aubencheul-au-Bac. Where it turned away from
the road it passed between the villages of Sancourt and Blécourt, the
former being half a mile east of the road and a few hundred yards short
of the railway, on which at this point there was a _halte_ or small
station. A road from Sancourt crossed the railway in a north-easterly
direction, and descended a narrow and steepish valley called the _Ravin
de Bantigny_, through Blécourt and Bantigny itself, 800 and 2500 yards
respectively from the level crossing. A mile and a half south of
Blécourt, just beyond the railway, was Tilloy.
The Canadian line, as given to us, ran almost due north from the Arras
road at St Olle, crossed the Douai road 3000 yards out of Cambrai, and
continued just to the west of the railway, passing between Sancourt
and the _halte_. The railway was a serious obstacle, and already had
held up the advance for two days. It ran alternately over embankments
and through deep cuttings, which were lined thickly with machine-guns;
and the Germans were fighting desperately to retain it, and so prevent
Cambrai being outflanked from the north. There is no need to go at
length into the plan of attack proposed by the Canadians for the 30th,
because half of it was a signal failure. It will be enough to say that
one brigade on the right, with three tanks of C Company, was to carry
the railway west of Tilloy and then seize that village, while the 12th
Brigade, with our three tanks, on the left, was to cross the line on
either side of the Sancourt _halte_, capture the high ground enclosing
the _Ravin de Bantigny_, and then perform a complicated swing to the
left, which was intended to cut off the German forces holding the curve
of the railway northward. Our tanks, having assisted to clear and
consolidate the railway at Sancourt, were to move along to north and
south of the _Ravin_, avoiding Blécourt and Bantigny in its depths, as
these villages were to be smothered and isolated by artillery fire and
occupied at leisure.
[Illustration: _Sancourt._]
The General explained this plan of attack in a dashing and confident
sort of manner, which seemed to take a good deal for granted. It took
more for granted than we guessed at the time; but one could not help
reflecting even then upon the speculative qualities of the scheme.
The Canadians had been fighting now for three days, during the last
two of which they had battered their heads against the Douai road and
railway, and had lost very heavily in the process, without making
any material advance. The task set for the 12th Brigade was highly
ambitious, in face of the very obstinate resistance which the enemy,
as usual reacting strongly against the consequences of his initial
defeat, was offering along the whole Cambrai front. Fresh divisions
had come into the German line, fresh batteries had accumulated behind
it, and machine-guns were sown everywhere like dragon’s teeth. The
situation was similar to that which had developed around Bapaume at
the end of August, with the additional incentive to the enemy that
he was now fighting in his last organised position; and Sancourt, as
it turned out, was to prove for A Company a second and more tragic
Beugny. The Major and I came away from the brigade headquarters feeling
already rather dubious about the whole affair. We did not suspect,
however, after our recent experience of the usual efficiency of
Canadian methods, that the attack was to be doomed to failure before
it began through inexcusable blunders by the brigade staff. Zero hour
had not been fixed at this conference. We were to return later for
detailed orders. The General had stated, however, that he wished our
tanks to be lined up before dawn in a sunken road which ran southward
from Haynecourt, where he proposed also to establish his headquarters
for the action. By this time we had only four machines out of our
six fit for action at short notice. C Company was even worse off. It
could supply only two tanks, and borrowed our fourth to make up the
deficiency. It was about six o’clock when we returned to Pilgrim’s
Rest, and already growing dusk, as the sky had clouded over. While the
tanks were uncamouflaged and overhauled, I studied the map and took
compass-bearings to help us in the approach-march. Toward seven, the
Major and I started off to walk over this route, and on our way called
at the brigade headquarters for our further orders; but there were
none forthcoming. Zero, we were told, probably would be at 10 A.M.
The General and his staff would be at the sunken road at five, when
everything was to be arranged and the belated orders issued to us. In
the meantime we were to get our tanks there. We set off accordingly on
our walk, feeling more dubious than ever. The daylight attack alone
was against all our instincts and precepts, and was the more puzzling
because Jack Brown had told me that the zero hour for C Company and
its infantry was six o’clock, just after dawn. There might be method,
however, in this apparent madness: attacks were sometimes carried out
in this fashion, in echelon, at different hours. In any case, we were
definitely under the orders of the 12th Brigade, and had to do as we
were told. The trouble was that so far we had been told so little.
We found the sunken road without much difficulty, although it was now
very dark indeed. A perfect maze of light railways, radiating out
from Cambrai and linking up a number of big dumps with the original
German positions behind the Canal du Nord, covered all this country,
and being marked on our excellent maps, were invaluable guides at
night. The road, midway between the diverging Arras and Douai highways,
connected Haynecourt with the outskirts of Raillencourt and St Olle to
the south. It ran parallel to the Douai road at an average distance of
1200 yards. Toward its northern end at Haynecourt its banks were 10
to 12 feet high, forming perfect cover for the tanks, and we selected
a hiding-place for the latter 1000 yards from the village, near where
the road was crossed by one of the light railways which would lead us
directly to it. In the western bank were the black shafts of several
dug-outs in which the brigade headquarters was to take up its abode.
A few dead lay in the roadway, and infantry in support were moving
about in the shelter of the banks. The front was very quiet at this
time, but Very lights were rising and flaring from the outpost line.
It struck me at once that they were much nearer to us than they should
have been if that line coincided with the one given us by the brigade
staff. They seemed to rise from the Douai road itself, whose mangled
avenue of trees was visible intermittently in the cold illumination.
According to the brigade (whose information I had set down at the time
on a map that lies before me now) our line at Sancourt, toward which we
were looking, took in the village and ran close to the railway, nearly
1000 yards beyond the road. It was impossible to decide this point
either way with certainty, and some infantrymen whom I questioned
were characteristically vague. An outpost line in semi-open warfare is
always nebulous and variable, but if appearances were correct and our
information wrong, it might make a serious difference, as it would mean
that Sancourt was not, as stated, in our possession. I never understood
the real facts of the case. As late as eight o’clock next morning
Sancourt undoubtedly was full of German machine-guns, but whether this
was due to a temporary fluctuation of the line, or whether we had
never really held it, I do not know. Our original information proved
in all respects so erroneous that I incline to the latter opinion. The
Canadians gained it definitely in the course of this attack, but, as
we shall see, this was all they were able to accomplish on the 12th
Brigade front.
The Major and I were a little careless on our return journey, and
overrunning the particular branch of the light railway which we
should have followed, wandered for some time around Haynecourt. It
was nearly midnight when we reached the Arras road again, both of us
rather leg-weary, as we had been stumbling about in the dark for five
hours; but there was no rest for us yet. We found the three tanks, with
Wadeson, who was in command, waiting at the side of the road by a farm
called Mont Neuve, westward from Lilac Farm. All three were commanded
by N.C.O.’s, among them Sergeant Duddridge, whom we have met at Beugny,
and who was to be one of the victims of the deplorable muddle the 12th
Canadian Brigade made of this attack. We started off again at once,
leading the tanks past Mont Neuve to the little railway line which led
straight to our sunken road. The distance, following this railway, was
just two miles, but we had ample time, and took it very slowly. Soon
after we started I saw C Company’s tanks, three black shapes outlined
momentarily against a distant glare, crawling away to our right. The
journey was accomplished without incident, except that toward the end
I became seriously alarmed by the noises proceeding from our worn-out
machines. They were on their last legs, or, to be literally accurate,
their last rollers. These had not been replaced since we drew the
tanks from Erin two months before, and now, ground down and misshapen
by overwork, they began suddenly to complain only too audibly. It
seemed impossible at times that this shrill squeaking should not be
heard by the enemy, especially if his outposts were as near as the
pistol lights still indicated that they were. We struck our road at a
point where the banks had fallen away to nothing, so that only a level
field stretched before us to the trees along the Douai highway. The
occasional flares which soared and died above them silhouetted every
branch, and once a yellow glow appeared at the ground-level and grew
swiftly to a bright tall flame which seemed to lick the trunks before
it dwindled and expired. A few shells whined and burst far to our
right, but apparently no one heard the noise of the tanks, for nothing
more urgent happened to disturb us. By 2.30 we had the three machines
under cover of the bank and the crews busy with the camouflage nets. I
felt the usual intense relief that comes after the strain of conducting
any approach-march, however short or simple. The responsibility
(which I loathe in any form) and the sense of being tied to the tanks
if anything went wrong or if we were discovered, always made these
journeys my especial bugbear. Time could not stale nor custom wither
their infinite anxiety. Or so I always found it. To go into action in a
tank was, in a way, a lesser evil.
Having seen the machines camouflaged and the crews settled down for
as long a rest as Providence, the Germans, or the Canadian Corps
permitted, I accompanied the Major and Wadeson to the Brigade dug-out,
a couple of hundred yards up the road. We found there, representing for
the moment the staff, the brigade Intelligence Officer. He appeared
to be the reverse of intelligent, and had no orders for us and no
news. He had heard nothing about tanks until we arrived. We made
ourselves as comfortable as possible among the feet of the innumerable
orderlies, signallers, and other vagrants of no apparent occupation
who always infest headquarter dug-outs, and endeavoured to sleep. It
was very cold outside, and the warmth below, if a trifle poisonous,
was comforting. Wadeson found it excessive after a while, and climbed
upstairs again. The Major and I dozed off during the intervals when
no one was treading on us. I was aroused finally by a great deal of
trampling and excitement, and heard at once, muffled by twenty feet of
earth, the unmistakable throbbing of concentrated gun-fire overhead. It
was six o’clock; and although I thought for a moment that this might be
merely covering-fire for the attack on the right, we soon discovered
that our own infantry had gone forward--or attempted to do so. There
were no orders for us, and no signs of the General and his staff, who
should have arrived an hour before. The Intelligence Officer remained
the sole representative of the brigade headquarters. He was hanging
on to the telephone, receiving messages from the battalions in the
line, and seemed very harassed by his responsibilities; and he could
give us no satisfactory advice. Our position was extraordinary and
very unpleasant. We had been told by the Brigadier himself that zero
would be at ten o’clock or thereabout, and that we should receive our
orders from him on the spot. Beyond this, and an incomplete outline
of the proposed attack, we had been given no instructions, verbal or
otherwise. The attack had now started _four hours before the specified
time_. Our tanks, camouflaged and unready for immediate action, were
still in the sunken road, some 1500 yards behind the original front;
and the infantry, if successful, must already be on the railway or
beyond. The Major and I scrambled up the stairs of the dug-out,
now packed to suffocation with earnest helpers who very naturally
preferred life below ground to life above at this juncture; and when
we had fought our way through them and emerged again in the road, we
found a dreary dawn just breaking. Close behind us massed batteries
of 18-pounders were bellowing. The Germans were replying with vigour
and with heavier metal. The inevitable 5.9’s were bursting freely on
both sides of the road, in which there was now a crowd of infantry,
all packed against the farther bank, digging themselves holes in it
with entrenching tools. Wadeson and his crews were standing by their
tanks, as perplexed as ourselves by the situation arisen out of this
precipitate muddle. It was still too dark to see much when we climbed
the bank and looked over the top. The mournful trees along the Douai
road stood up like spectres out of the smoke and mist, the dark shape
of the little wood at Sancourt was just visible beyond, and here and
there in the level foreground the heavy shell-bursts sprayed upward
their fountains of black soil. One shell missed our tanks by a few feet
and exploded in the opposite bank of the road.
We got the machines uncamouflaged as a preliminary measure, and, after
waiting by them for a little while, descended again to the dug-out
to attempt to communicate with the Brigadier by telephone. Nothing
came of this: the cable, I believe, was cut. Telegraphic messages,
however, were still coming through from the headquarters of the
battalions in front, and these provided another inexplicable instance
of that morning’s confusion. I was standing by the instrument with
the Major and the Intelligence Officer, and I followed on the map the
apparent progress of the attack as the signaller at the board decoded
the irregular bursts of Morse. The hostile machine-gun fire was very
heavy.... Colonel So-and-so had been killed ... Major So-and-so
was wounded ... Many casualties ... Advance held up in places, but
elsewhere progressing. And then came a quite definite statement from
one of the battalions. Our infantry had reached the road in Square S
9 c. Now S 9 c was on the high ground south of Blécourt, and the road
indicated was 1000 yards beyond the Sancourt _halte_. This meant good
progress. Some little time had passed while we had been listening
to these messages, but it was not yet seven; and after a further
fruitless attempt to get in touch with the brigade, the Major decided
to send the tanks forward. They might have to cover anything from one
to two miles before they overtook the infantry, assuming this recent
information to be correct; but there was a chance of their being
useful, if only for mopping-up purposes. It was about 7.15 when they
climbed the bank and headed across the level field toward Sancourt.
Wadeson walked with them, intending to see them as far as the Douai
road. The morning was dull, and beyond the trees of Sancourt itself
one could see nothing for smoke. Shells were still crashing fast
on both sides of the sunken road, but it was never actually hit--a
fortunate circumstance, as by now it was crowded with the best part
of a battalion of infantry, the R.A.M.C. personnel of two dressing
stations, a number of walking wounded and a few stretcher cases, and
an assortment of machine-gunners, engineers, and other people. A shell
or two square between the banks would have made a fearful shambles of
it. At its northern end, in a lane which ran across to the Douai road
from Haynecourt, I saw some of the armed lorries of Brutinel’s Brigade
waiting “to seize an opening for vigorous exploitation.” They did not
wait long. A German aeroplane came over, flying low, circled above the
batteries behind us, machine-gunning them, and discovered the lorries.
Soon afterwards the Haynecourt lane was plastered with shells, and
Brutinel’s Brigade withdrew in a hurry. Of our own aeroplanes, two
squadrons of which (the 8th and 73rd) were supposed to be co-operating
in the attack, I did not see a single one throughout the morning. They
may have been somewhere on the scene doing good by stealth; or, as
is quite probable, the breakdown of the Canadian staff work may have
affected their movements as it affected ours.
We waited for nearly two hours before any news of our tanks reached us.
In our ignorance we pictured them striving to overtake the advancing
infantry. Wadeson came back, having seen them across the Douai road,
which he found covered with fallen trees and dead Canadians, and we
divided our time between the dug-out and the surface, watching the
shells fall above and trying occasionally to get a little rest below.
It was at nine o’clock that I came up into the road after an attempt at
sleep and saw two tanks returning. It was a very fragmentary story that
we got from their crews, but one at absolute variance with everything
we had been led to believe. They had encountered machine-gun fire from
Sancourt itself, at the very start, when they had supposed themselves
still to be a long way behind the infantry. (They should have been
at least a mile behind, according to the telegraphic message we had
heard.) Crossing the railway at the _halte_, where a road led down
through a gap in the walls of a cutting, they had been simply plastered
with bullets. So fierce was the fire that they had to close all flaps
and resort to periscopes. There was not a sign of our infantry, and
indeed this reception made it clear that if the latter had ever crossed
the railway at all, they had gone back very soon. The tank commanders,
however, decided to carry out their orders, at least in part, and
headed north-east toward Blécourt, always under intense machine-gun
fire. Two of the machines reached the neighbourhood of the village.
One was pulling so badly that it would not take some small obstacle
in the front, and the N.C.O. in charge had no choice but to enter
Blécourt and risk the bombardment which that place was supposed to be
undergoing. This bombardment proved to be another myth: hardly a shell
was falling in the village, which was, however, full of Germans. As it
was now manifest that the infantry attack had failed, the half-crippled
tank started to return, still pelted with bullets. Near the railway it
was met by Sergeant Duddridge, who was in command of the third tank.
This, it appeared, had fallen on its side in a large pit just east of
the _halte_, neither the sergeant nor his driver being able to see
the obstacle through their periscopes. Duddridge, having scrambled
out of the only sponson door which could be used, found himself under
machine-gun fire at close range, and dropped into the pit for shelter.
Two men who tried to follow him were shot instantly, and the others
remained inside the overturned tank. After crouching in the pit beside
it for a while, Duddridge saw the other tank returning from Blécourt,
and contrived to crawl on his stomach through a heavy fire until he
could hail it, when he was taken on board. He wished to divert this
tank to the rescue of his crew, but it was in no condition for any
extra work, being in fact on the verge of a complete breakdown, and
only induced to move by continued hand-feeding with petrol. Every
man inside was injured about the face and hands by splinters and
bullet-splash. It contrived to crawl back across the railway to the
sunken road, pursued by the hail of bullets to the last. Duddridge’s
crew was left imprisoned in the pit. In the meantime, the second of
the surviving tanks had pushed up on to the ridge south of Blécourt,
meeting everywhere the same terrific fire; and having established the
fact that there were no Canadians east of the railway, still less
in Square S 9 c, where they had reported themselves to be an hour
before, it turned back also and arrived at the sunken road close
behind the others. The N.C.O. and several of the crew were injured by
bullet-splash. Both tanks were simply coated in places with a deposit
of lead as a memento of the ordeal they had been through.
[Illustration: Sancourt, with Cambrai-Douai Road and Railway. The line
of pits, in one of which Sergeant Duddridge’s tank was overturned, are
the last row of white dots beyond the railway.]
The urgent need remaining was to rescue the men imprisoned in the
overturned tank, if it were possible. Duddridge, who was desperately
concerned for them, begged to be allowed to go back himself to see what
he could do. But we had still one tank capable of moving, and its crew,
wounded and exhausted as they were, at once volunteered to return in it
to the _halte_. It seemed possible that by now the infantry would at
least have got a hold on the railway, from where they could command the
level ground around the pit (which was only 300 yards farther on), and,
by keeping down the hostile machine-gun fire, facilitate the rescue.
Our remaining tank, accordingly, was sent forward again, accompanied
by Wadeson, Duddridge, and a runner, Hilton. The little expedition
disappeared among the smoke of shells bursting between us and the Douai
road, and we settled ourselves to wait.
It was not long, however, before the tank returned, at a crawl. It had
developed engine trouble almost at once, and Wadeson had sent it back.
He had gone on himself with Duddridge and Hilton to try to reach the
capsized tank on foot. The story of this conspicuously gallant attempt
makes a tragic footnote to the chronicle of that morning’s misfortunes.
It was, I suppose, nearly an hour later, and the Major and I were below
in the dug-out, when Wadeson reappeared, the only survivor of the
little party. He looked frightfully ill, and was in fact hysterical
and on the verge of a collapse, having been badly gassed. Afterwards,
while I was trying to get him to rest near one of the dressing stations
in the road, where a Canadian doctor had attended to him, I heard his
account of the forlorn hope.
Having sent back the tank, the three rescuers crossed the Douai road
and cautiously approached the railway. They passed the level crossing
without incident, although they could see nothing of our infantry and
had no idea of where the front line ran. Having come so far in safety,
they assumed that it must now be beyond the railway. Creeping forward,
they were allowed to reach the tank. It lay completely on its side
(I saw it a few days later) in the end one of a row of four or five
large pits, each about 30 feet by 12 and 5 feet deep. One track had
slipped over the edge, and the machine (a female) had then fallen on
its left sponson, filling the pit. Whatever these excavations were,
they were not deliberate tank traps, as alleged. Some had steps cut in
the walls, and probably they were dug out to accommodate sunk huts in
connection with a large engineers’ dump of timber, wire, &c., which was
formed at the _halte_. The rescuers found Lewis guns lying outside the
tank, and its right sponson doors wide open to the sky. They had just
looked inside, and realised that the crew was gone, when a number of
machine-guns opened on them at close range. Except for the pit itself,
in which they would merely have been trapped, the nearest sort of cover
was a small mound of earth fifty yards away toward the railway, the
ground everywhere else in this neighbourhood being absolutely flat.
They ran for the mound, pursued by converging streams of bullets.
Hilton was killed almost at once. Duddridge was shot, apparently
through the body, within a few yards of the exiguous shelter. Wadeson
alone reached the latter unhurt and flung himself down behind it. He
made repeated attempts to crawl out again to Duddridge, who was dying
before his eyes and almost within reach, but every time he showed
his head the bullets whipped up the earth all round it. He must have
lain here for some time. At length, seeing that poor Duddridge was
dead, he began the hazardous task of creeping back to the railway. He
accomplished this successfully, although under heavy fire; but on the
way a gas-shell burst immediately in front of him, and he inhaled the
fumes before he realised what had happened.
III.
So ended, as far as the 7th Tank Battalion was concerned, not only
this miserable and inexcusable fiasco at Sancourt, but also all direct
participation in the war. The battalion was not again employed in
action, although we sent a few tanks to Escadœuvres a week later; for,
excepting one or two in B Company, it no longer had any machines fit
to fight. While we had been suffering for other people’s blunders on
the morning of the 30th, C Company had met with better fortune, but
had lost two-thirds of their little section. The tank borrowed from
us broke its tracks while crossing the railway between Sancourt and
Tilloy. The crew of a second machine had a positively miraculous
escape. A 5.9 came through the roof and burst inside, and yet no
one was touched except the tank commander, Collins, who sustained a
scratched finger. The third tank reached Tilloy, helped the Canadians
to establish themselves there, and then rallied.
I have said enough, perhaps, about the staff work of the 12th Canadian
Brigade. As, however, the Canadian Corps took up the cudgels on
behalf of their unit, and complained of our alleged misdeeds, I will
recapitulate the evidence. Apart from the circumstances that we
received no definite operation orders whatever, verbal or written,
and that zero was fixed (and put forward four hours) without any
notification being sent to us, the Brigadier, having told us to meet
him in the sunken road at 5 A.M., did not in fact arrive there until
11. Nor did any responsible member of his staff: during this period,
with the action already in progress, the only brigade representative at
advanced headquarters was the Intelligence Officer, a subaltern, who
did not even know that tanks were co-operating. The initial error about
the position of the front line (which was never more than a few yards
beyond the Douai road, and almost certainly did not include Sancourt)
may have been excusable in the uncertain conditions of semi-open
warfare; but the fables which came through on the field-telegraph after
the action had begun are more than I can explain. Bad map-reading may
have had something to do with them. Even the artillery was afflicted
by the general malady, to judge from the fact that Blécourt was found
by our tank to be almost untouched, at a time when it was supposed to
be smothered by concentrated shell-fire. This accumulation of blunders
convicts the 12th Brigade of mismanagement, not, unfortunately, too
uncommon in our huge army as a whole, but quite exceptional in the
Canadian Corps. Before this date tanks had often suffered, from other
quarters, in a similar manner. The attack on Monchy-le-Preux, on 11th
April 1917, is a case in point.
The general situation at the end of the morning, in so far as it was
susceptible of definition, appears to have been that the 12th Brigade
had at length a permanent grip of Sancourt and a more uncertain one of
the railway beyond. Nothing more had been accomplished. The ambitious
plan of exploitation on the left never, of course, got so far as a
beginning. The brigade suffered very heavy casualties. The other
brigade on the right seems to have made adequate arrangements, and
in consequence carried most of its objectives, including Tilloy, an
important outwork of Cambrai, although only a single tank was in at the
finish. Before Cambrai itself fell, however, the Canadians were to have
several hard days of fighting in front of them.
In this, our final action, one officer (Wadeson) and twenty-five
N.C.O.’s and men of A Company were engaged. Of this little total, two
at least were killed, seven were captured, of whom two were known to
be seriously wounded, and twelve were slightly injured in various
ways--twenty-one in all. On the following day we received notification
of the award of a D.C.M. to poor Duddridge for his exploit at Beugny.
For his two attempts to rescue his crew at Sancourt a recommendation
for a posthumous V.C. was sent in, but I do not think anything more was
heard of it. Wadeson received the Military Cross.
IV.
The affair at Sancourt, besides closing the active career of the 7th
Tank Battalion, happens to provide also an appropriate peg on which to
hang a few general remarks which I have been storing up against such an
opportunity. They may not appear to be essential to the subject of this
book, but they will be all the better for an airing.
Local operations of the Sancourt type, recurring daily, naturally
attracted little attention amid the larger features of the general
offensive. They were insignificant episodes in the whole, even when
they employed as many troops and cost as many lives as ever fought
and died at Talavera or Inkerman. On the other hand, a modern battle,
after the set programme of the first day, becomes merely a series of
these episodes. They react upon one another, and by their success or
failure influence in a varying degree the main strategy. They form, in
short, the greater part of an offensive, which the public conceives
only as a succession of spectacular, full-dress attacks on well-defined
positions. And to those who take part in them they assume inevitably
a dimension out of all ratio to their true scale. The modern army
commander sits in a house many miles behind the line, and is able to
take a detached view of all that happens: perhaps he goes fishing,
like Kuroki or the General of the story in the ‘Green Curve’; but the
platoon or company commander who sees his men slaughtered in front
of some trench or village, and can yet reflect philosophically that
they are only inconsiderable atoms in a huge and complex mechanism,
will never, happily for mankind, be discovered. It is partly for this
reason that contemporary newspaper accounts of battles are now so
diluted as scarcely to make even sense, all individual impressions of
the fighting, if unfavourable in tone, being suppressed. For these
impressions, while perfectly honest, may together give a totally
false idea of the situation as a whole. A case in point is that of
the informants who supplied the data for the famous Sunday telegram
describing the retreat from Mons. They told the truth so far as they
knew it, and an unscrupulous or very gullible journalist, feeling
himself a second Russell, did the rest. In any case, there is no excuse
for the opposite extreme of ignorant optimism and buffoonery to which
our newspapers became wedded, and in which, presumably, they were
encouraged. The point I am approaching laboriously in this digression,
however, is that a similar state of things seems to obtain, with no
justification whatever, now that we are getting professedly sober and
accurate histories of the war. Instead of a faithful picture, made up
like all things of good and bad, we find the details keyed up to a
universal and artificial tone, and so altered beyond recognition, to
suit the blazing colours of the general design. All is for the best
in the best of all possible armies. Unmerited misfortune occasionally
intrudes, but it is never admitted that any one has made a mistake. All
Generals are infallible and all soldiers heroic. I am not speaking,
of course, of that class of history which deals only with large
strategical and tactical features, and from which the personal equation
and the small undercurrents of battle, pulling this way and that,
necessarily are omitted. Histories of this kind usually are written by
soldiers, and the general public does not read them: it likes stronger
and simpler fare; and we have in consequence volumes which attempt
to give a detailed picture of events as they affected units and even
individuals. These, apparently, are to be written by novelists. The
ordinary novelist is at his worst when he tries to keep to facts.
He mistakes a profuse harvest of names and numbers for an accurate
statement. He depends for the most part on official documents which
are sure to be more or less unconscious perversions of the truth. And
so it is that we are threatened with elaborate histories which are
not histories at all, books in which an appearance of almost pedantic
veracity is built up out of a mass of inaccurate and misleading details.
I have been provoked especially to this discursion by an accident.
While I was writing my account of the action at Sancourt, as I saw
it, I found in a library the final volume of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s
‘British Campaigns in France and Flanders.’ With some difficulty, owing
to the peculiar arrangement of the narrative, I discovered his brief
reference to the fiasco on 30th September. It is a typical example of
the facile journalistic style which conceals while it affects candour.
“By 9.45 in the morning,” he writes, “the 12th Canadian Brigade had
taken Sancourt and had entered Blécourt, where some fierce bludgeon
work was going on.... For a moment the 12th Canadian Brigade was
staggered by a heavy counter which broke upon it, but the ranks
soon rallied and the ground was regained.” There appears to be no
particular point here to which one can take exception, apart from that
characteristic touch about “bludgeon work” at Blécourt; and yet the
general impression deliberately given to the reader is entirely opposed
to the facts. There lies the mischief of this ill-informed type of
narrative, especially when it is inspired by a determination to find
no fault with any one. Even as a statement of events, the account is
typically vague. Ground, we are told, “was regained.” What ground? No
place is specified. The reader very wisely is left in doubt as to what
happened in Blécourt after the “bludgeon work,” but he is at liberty
to assume, on his own responsibility, that it was that village which
was “regained.” Nothing, of course, is said about any breakdown in
the arrangements, because Sir Arthur, having depended upon official
Canadian sources of information, probably was quite ignorant that
such a breakdown ever occurred. These incidents are not mentioned in
official documents. He seems to realise, however, that everything
had not gone according to plan, and, true to his brief, conceals the
suspicion in vague phraseology. It must never be admitted that things
go wrong if it can possibly be avoided. My chief contention is that
in the circumstances it would have been far better if he had left the
matter (and the book) altogether alone.
This will seem an impertinent fuss about nothing, and in any case
an unfair method of criticism. An isolated and trivial instance of
inaccuracy is no proof that the disease is chronic. But, unfortunately,
we have a multitude of proofs that it is. I could quote a dozen or
a score of similar instances, within my own experience, out of this
one volume, to say nothing of the earlier ones which I have read and
forgotten. Now this book probably has a very large circulation. It
was trumpeted everywhere as the first authentic history of our share
in the war. Yet, as a history, while desperately conscientious in
its own way, it is thoroughly bad. Some unhappy person or persons
must have spent months, which might have been far better employed,
in collecting and verifying the names of battalions and individuals
which clog its pages. Not only is it impossible to see the wood for
the trees; one cannot see even the trees because of the undergrowth.
Verisimilitude, which is infinitely more important than literal
accuracy, is not to be obtained by reciting a string of nouns and
numerals, still less by concealing every fact which does not agree with
the thesis of perfection conquering adversity. There is no attempt
at any broad treatment of events, nor any comprehensible explanation
of the sudden reversal of fortune which ensued after the three great
German offensives had shot their bolt in 1918. The most revolutionary
feature of the war (to reintroduce our King Charles’s head) is hardly
noticed. The author seems to be unaware of the complete change of
tactics initiated at Cambrai and determining every subsequent operation
we undertook; or, at least, if he is aware of it, he has not troubled
to convey it intelligibly to his readers. It is enough to point out
that in a volume dealing with the whole of our final offensive, from
Hamel and the great tank victory on 8th August up to the Armistice,
and professing especially to deal with the fortunes of every division,
brigade, and battalion, the word “tank” does not even appear in the
index! From the few cursory references to tanks in the text, the
reader might imagine that these machines controlled themselves, rather
indifferently and in a comic manner, and fired automatically their
own guns. He is left to discover, by the light of nature, that there
existed such an organisation as the Tank Corps, with six brigades, vast
workshops, a numerous personnel distributed in eighteen battalions,
novel tactics and problems of its own, and a predominant influence upon
the fate of the war. We read of “dour” Yorkshiremen, of “hatchet-faced”
Colonials, of the inevitable “grim, determined” faces of every one,
of “iron” divisions, and even of infantry who go “blithely” into
battle (which no sane creature ever did); but in this last volume I
can remember only one perfunctory reference to the men who fought and
stifled and were burnt alive in tanks while leading these others to the
ultimate victory....
It is a great pity (if one may say so without further offence) that
the creator of Sherlock Holmes did not stick to his very excellent
last, instead of creating a bad precedent. One devil does not make
a hell; but the trouble of it is, we shall get more of these books,
more tactful omissions, more _clichés_ and claptrap and crown octavo
journalese. The average Englishman would far sooner read a history of
the war by, let us say, Mr Hall Caine or Miss Ethel M. Dell, especially
if published in cheap parts with cheaper illustrations, than one by a
competent authority. He is built that way, unfortunately, and he will
get what he wants and deserves. There is no statute of limitations for
literature; and, what is at the heart of the mischief, there seems to
be no longer such a thing as a literary or artistic conscience, call it
which you will.
CHAPTER XXII.
FROM NIERGNIES TO THE ARMISTICE: CONCLUSION.
I.
In his recent book, ‘The Last Four Months, the End of the War in the
West,’ General Sir Frederick Maurice describes how Marshal Foch, when
asked by the statesmen at Versailles for his plan of countering the
final German offensive, “answered by striking out three rapid blows
with his right, with his left, and again with his right, following
these by launching out a vigorous kick.”
The preliminary punches, begun on 18th July on the Ourcq, and ending
with the American capture of the St Mihiel Salient in mid-September,
were uniformly successful--successful, indeed, to a degree which even
the Marshal himself can hardly have anticipated. The British armies,
having lost 300,000 men and 1000 guns, with immense accumulations
of material, within four or five weeks, accomplished the most
extraordinary recovery in history, and played the leading _rôle_ in
this counter-offensive. I do not know what effect the tremendous
disasters of March and April had upon opinion in England, but I
know that they abated in no way the illogical conviction of the
ordinary Englishman in France, that we were bound to win the war in
the long-run; and this self-confidence, based neither on reason nor
on knowledge, innate, matter-of-fact, and often very irritating in
prosperity, was an unrecognised inspiration of our resistance and
reaction. It took extraordinary form at times. I remember how, when
three British armies out of four were in full retreat or fighting for
their lives, and when people in Calais and Boulogne were packing up for
flight, one rushed to the newspapers to follow, not the progress of the
war, but the case of Mr Pemberton Billing and the 47,000. Our belief
in ourselves is so unconscious and irrational that it must always be
incomprehensible to such a people as the Germans, who hate the casual
and have a conscious sort of arrogance which is a very different
thing; and no doubt it has its dangers. But it served its purpose
once more in 1918. We went forward again, as a matter of course, when
the tide turned, without any particular exaltation or parade, still
less any surprise at our own powers, and with hardly a thought (so
far as the great mass of us was concerned) of the genius which was
directing all our movements, as well as those of three other national
armies. But I think that toward the end of the preliminary stage, when
Foch’s successive punches, carried just so far as was necessary and no
farther, had exhausted and demoralised the enemy and driven him once
more to the fallacious shelter of the Hindenburg Line, we began to
understand that something more than luck and confidence lay behind this
transformation. For the first time since the war began every man in the
Army felt an interest and a pride in the combined strategy in which so
obviously he was playing a part. The peculiarly English analogy of the
skilled boxer was patent, and appealed to all. And from now to the end,
in spite of losses and exhaustion, a new spirit of enthusiasm urged us
on, and was manifest in many ways.
With its growth, not only in our ranks but in those of the French,
Belgians, and Americans, coincided a notable decline in the German
_moral_. The resistance to our advance became spasmodic and liable to
sudden collapses. And before the end of September--far earlier than at
one time any one can have hoped--the hour was ripe for the big kick.
This was launched on a scale, and on broad principles of calculated
opportunism, beside which the isolated German blows earlier in the
year seemed mechanical and clumsy. On 26th September the American
1st and French 4th Armies opened the ball on a front of forty miles
astride the Argonne: on the 27th came our assault on the Canal du
Nord: on the 28th, Belgians, French, and British were sweeping over
the lost desolation of Flanders, and the 5th and 10th French Armies
were climbing once more the slopes beyond the Aisne; and on the 29th
the remaining fraction of the battered German front, the Siegfried
Line from Vendhuile to St Quentin, began to slide into ruin before
General Rawlinson’s 4th Army. A compound operation of this magnitude,
reaching its climax in four days, extending over 250 miles of country
and involving twenty-four separate armies, or from four to five million
men, with 30,000 guns, is almost beyond the capacity of the human brain
to imagine as a whole. It is like contemplating infinity. Some one has
called it, I believe, the Battle of Europe, and this seems indeed the
only name by which it can be described.
Everywhere along this immense front tanks were helping to complete the
overthrow they had done so much to bring about. The French used their
light Rénaults in clouds before every attack. Our own Tank Corps,
with no reserves, had lost in two months’ continuous offensive action
three-fourths of its machines and a third of its personnel, but it
played a conspicuous part, as I have tried to show, on 27th September
and after. Sixty-six tanks were in action on the first day, and another
170 on the 29th. Everlasting reorganisation and reshuffling of units
was one of the trials of this period, and indeed the manner in which
battalions were shifted from one brigade to another before almost
every attack caused more worry and labour than the attacks themselves.
“The rapidity with which these changes were made would have bewildered
both the Tank Corps Headquarters Staff and the brigade and battalion
commanders themselves a few months back: now the knack of rapid
movement had been mastered, and though great energy had to be exerted
during such reorganisations, they were generally accomplished in time
and efficiently.”[44] The necessity for some of them, it must be said,
was not apparent. The 1st Brigade was very fortunate in this respect,
as, except for the battle of Bapaume, it retained throughout at least
its three original battalions; but some of the others suffered such
constant permutations that their staffs must have been driven almost
crazy. The 3rd Brigade, consisting on 8th August of the two Whippet
battalions, the 3rd and 6th, was completely reconstituted on the 18th,
when it was made up of the 9th, 11th, and 14th Heavy Battalions, while
early in September its units were the 3rd, 6th, and 9th. The 4th
Brigade, which started its career in December 1917, with the 1st, 4th,
and 5th Battalions, found itself with the 4th, 5th, and 13th in May,
the 5th and 10th in June, the 1st, 4th, 5th, and 14th early in August
(the 9th being added a little later), dropped back to its original
constituents before September, received the 301st Americans on the
19th of that month, the 16th Battalion on 5th October, and the 10th a
day after, and fought its last battle with the 1st, 6th, 10th, 16th,
and 301st. The 5th Brigade, which had no corporate existence until
April, had the following battalions at one time or another on its
strength: 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 6th, 8th, 9th, 10th, 11th, 13th, 15th, 16th,
17th, and 301st! These bewildering transfers were not always on paper
only. They involved very often long additional treks for various units
immediately before an action, and they were complicated by the wide
dispersion which each individual battalion suffered in the course of an
advance, disabled tanks, dumps, and rear headquarters being scattered
for miles behind the line. When, for example, we moved from Bihucourt
to Morchies in the middle of September, the battalion and companies’
rear headquarters, with a mass of stores, were still at Bienvillers,
at least twelve miles away, while there were three or four tanks under
repair at Bucquoy and a couple left at Bihucourt itself. This was quite
a normal situation; and when it is remembered that every one of the
seventeen battalions with the armies had left a similar trail behind,
swallowing up men for guards and other duties, it will be realised that
the co-ordination of these scattered fragments in the event of any
reshuffling, and the ordinary routine of keeping in touch with them
and feeding them, were complicated problems which entailed an immense
amount of work for the staff and the transport. Nor was this all. There
were in the field as well seven tank supply companies (two of which
worked with infantry and artillery), each with twenty-four machines,
a number of field (or salvage) companies, and an advanced stores
attached to each brigade. All these various units, whether combatant
or administrative, moved forward with the armies, and all drew their
maintenance supplies in the last resort from the Central Workshops at
Erin. It was a tremendous organisation that had sprung from the two
companies which fought on the Somme in 1916; and not the least of its
achievements was the adaptability and energy displayed in keeping the
battalions supplied with their manifold requirements during the final
rapid advance. The deplorable shortage of tanks themselves was the
fault of no one in the Tank Corps. In the fighting units during these
days perhaps the busiest men were the battalion and company engineers
and equipment officers, who toiled like slaves to keep the dwindling
residue of machines fit for service.
II.
I have carried the story of the 7th Battalion up to its last fight on
30th September. I will run very briefly through the remainder of its
history, and through that of the Corps as a whole up to the Armistice.
On the day after Sancourt I returned from Pilgrim’s Rest to Pronville,
where battalion headquarters had arrived from Bullecourt and where our
tents were now erected. Our few remaining tanks (there were no more
than six fit for action in the three companies) were still at Pilgrim’s
Rest and Raillencourt. For over a week we were left in peace. On our
front the Canadians were pushing slowly forward, in the teeth of a
most determined resistance by fresh German divisions, toward the line
of the Canal de L’Escaut north of Cambrai, being hampered by that town
on their right and by the Sensée marshes on their left. But farther
south the Germans were being pressed back upon the Beaurevoir-Fonsomme
Line, and the big kick, with more room for its swing, was preparing to
demolish these last defences. St Quentin had fallen, and everywhere
south of Cambrai we were across the canal by 6th October, while the
Canadians were approaching Ramillies and Eswars. On 8th October the
storm burst. The Beaurevoir-Fonsomme Line, Malincourt, Esnes, and
Niergnies, with all the high ground south of Cambrai, were in our
hands by the evening. Cambrai was entered that night, and the Germans
were retreating to the Selle in great confusion, having lost 10,000
prisoners, 200 guns, and much _matériel_.[45]
The 1st, 3rd, and 4th Tank Brigades had a conspicuous share in this
victory, although the six battalions engaged mustered between them
only 82 tanks. Of these, 20 were furnished by the 12th Battalion,
which had not been in action since 3rd September. It signalised its
re-entry by becoming involved in the second tank _v._ tank battle of
the war. It was working single-handed with the left and centre of
the 3rd Army, its companies being attached to the 4th, 6th, and 17th
Corps. B Company, on the right, with seven tanks, having helped our
old friends the New Zealanders and the 37th Division about Lesdain
and Esnes, rallied without further incident. One machine had been
disabled by a shell which killed four of the crew. C and A Companies,
attacking Seranvillers and Niergnies with the infantry of the 6th and
17th Corps, saw the latter established on the high ground east of the
villages, and were returning to the rallying-point, when the Germans
made a counter-attack led by seven captured Mark IV. tanks. The
Germans had fitted their own 5.7 cm. guns, with very clumsy mountings,
into the male machines, but retained the Lewis guns in the others. For
the interesting episode which ensued, I will quote the 12th Battalion
‘History,’ beginning with A Company’s experiences:--
“Owing to the smoke and imperfect light, these (the German tanks) were
at first taken to be some of our own, both by our infantry and tank
crews, the latter supposing the strangers to belong to C Company. L
16, Captain Roe, was near the farm of Mont Neuve, east of Niergnies,
when these tanks appeared in sight, and the foremost was within
fifty yards before that officer realised that it was an enemy. One
6-pounder round was then fired at it, apparently disabling it, but
almost simultaneously L 16 received two direct hits, one of which came
through the cab, wounded Captain Roe, and killed his driver. Roe,
believing his tank to be disabled, as the engine had stopped, got his
crew out, went to L 9, which was near at hand, and led it back toward
the German tanks. L 9 had already had five men wounded, had been on
fire, and, having no gunners left, could not use its 6-pounders; but
its commander, 2nd Lieut. Warsap, engaged the enemy with his Lewis gun
until his tank received a direct hit, setting it on fire a second time.
He was now forced to evacuate it, and as the counter-attack appeared to
be successful, he blew the machine up to prevent it falling into the
enemy’s hands. L 12, another 6-pounder tank, was hit twice and disabled
before its commander had discovered that the strange tanks did not
belong to C Company. There remained L 8, 2nd Lieut. A. R. Martell, but
this tank had a leaking radiator and was almost out of water. Lieut.
Martell therefore sent his crew back and went himself with an artillery
officer to a captured German field-gun, which the two turned round
and used against the enemy’s tanks, knocking one out. The tank which
L 16 had engaged was crippled, either by the 6-pounder shell or by a
captured anti-tank rifle, and the remaining two having been driven
away by a female tank from C Company, the situation was restored.”
So much for A Company. C Company, in the meantime, had fared better. It
started with seven tanks, of which one was hit and set on fire. “The
others, having seen the infantry consolidated on the final objective
across the Cambrai-Esnes road, were returning to the rallying-point
when the German counter-attack began. On the extreme left, L 54, a
female tank commanded by 2nd Lieut. T. B. Walters, encountered the
enemy’s tanks which already had been engaged with A Company’s section.
Lieut. Walters at once attacked two female tanks, fired several
thousand rounds at them, silenced their guns, and drove them off the
field. One was subsequently knocked out by shell-fire. While this
brisk little battle was in progress, a couple of male tanks, L 45 (2nd
Lieut. Clark) and L 49 (2nd Lieut. Sherratt), had the good fortune
to meet, near a sunken road east of Seranvillers, two hostile female
tanks firing on our infantry, who had been driven back from the second
objective. The 6-pounders made short work of this pair, hitting them
repeatedly and setting them on fire. As the survivors of their crews
scrambled out, the Lewis guns were turned on them....”
These hostile tanks formed the backbone of the counter-attack, being
very badly supported by their infantry. Nevertheless, only the presence
of our own machines averted a serious local disaster, for the men
of the 63rd Division had broken completely and were running back,
until the tank battle gave them time to rally; while the Germans had
reoccupied the high ground beyond Niergnies, and were pushing on into
that village. After the repulse of their tanks they were easily driven
off. A Company, owing to the natural misunderstanding when the German
machines appeared out of the smoke, lost three tanks out of four; but
after the action, General Blacklock, commanding the 63rd Division,
expressed to all ranks his appreciation of their services, which had
saved his infantry heavy losses. The intense gratitude of the infantry
themselves (for what, but for the smoke, would have been a simple
business, as we had several more male tanks than the Germans) was an
earnest of the severe fright they had suffered, and should have brought
home to their superiors in a trenchant fashion the moral value of the
weapon which they were so fortunate as to have almost exclusively at
their disposal. A few hundred German tanks, instead of a dozen or so,
would have made our progress, even at this late hour, a much slower
and more difficult matter. So far as the Tank Corps was concerned, the
only lesson to be drawn from the encounter at Niergnies was one already
learnt at Villers-Bretonneux--namely, the advisability, in view of
further similar meetings, of fitting every tank with a 6-pounder gun.
It was as a result of these two actions that a number of Mark V. and V.
Star females were converted into composite or “hermaphrodite” machines,
with a 6-pounder sponson on one side. The occasion for which they were
designed, however, did not recur. Although the Germans used one or two
tanks in subsequent counter-attacks, our machines did not meet them
again.
III.
On October 10th, when the Canadian line was several miles beyond
Cambrai, the 7th Battalion sent a composite detachment of four fighting
tanks and a wireless machine, which I accompanied, to Escadœuvres,
a suburb of the town to the north-east, on the road to Iwuy. This
involved crossing the Canal de L’Escaut and two parallel streams by a
series of narrow bridges (two of them temporary structures) between
Morenchies and Ramillies. Escadœuvres was a working-class suburb, and
its small houses, many of which were shattered, were littered with the
poor belongings of its inhabitants, who had not been evacuated many
days. The Germans, before they left, had flung everything about in a
final hunt for loot, or in sheer destructiveness, and, thorough to the
last in small details, had put a bullet through every mirror, clock,
and piano which was not already broken. The tanks were here for two
days and nights, the officers occupying a tiny house of one room and
a cellar which had been used by the German _Ortskommandant_. As the
enemy was still holding on to the Douai front, the 1st Army now had a
left flank twelve or fifteen miles long, extending from Thun-Levêque
on the canal to somewhere near Etaing, at a right angle to the rest
of the line; and in Escadœuvres we were shelled persistently by a
high-velocity gun which fired from a point well behind us across the
Sensée. This was an annoyance, but a greater tragedy to me was the
loss of my valise, which was cut off from the back of the Major’s car
as he was bringing it at night through the packed traffic in Cambrai.
My servant had of course filled it with things I did not want at
Escadœuvres and could not replace--old cherished garments and other
oddments such as one feels a positive affection for.
The detachment was withdrawn from Escadœuvres on the 12th, as the
country in front, seamed with small rivers, was unsuitable for serious
tank operations, and a few days later the battalion was placed in
G.H.Q. Reserve and concentrated at Fontaine-Notre-Dame. This was
preparatory to a return, when railway exigencies permitted, to the
Bermicourt area, for a complete refit with Mark V.’s. Another party of
officers and men had left to stiffen the new battalions in England,
and I was expecting to follow in a few days. On 16th October, however,
I learnt that I had been posted as Battalion Reconnaissance Officer
to the 12th Battalion. The next day I said good-bye to the 7th, with
which I had worked and fought for two years, and joined my new unit at
Cattenières, south of the Cambrai-Le Cateau road.
On this front the enemy had fallen back everywhere to the Selle river.
Douai at last had been abandoned, and the 5th Army was approaching
Lille. We had now entered a new type of country, which to those
accustomed to four years of fighting backwards and forwards over the
devastated area seemed almost unnatural. During one’s visits to England
on leave, the first sight from the train of the Kentish orchards and
hop-fields always left a strange illusion, as of something lacking,
which was caused in fact by the absence of shell-holes; and the
country beyond Cambrai affected one at first in a similar manner.
It was so unlike war as we had known it. Every inch of the land was
under cultivation. Immense fields of cabbage and beet, unbroken by any
hedgerows, rolled onward for miles; the villages and farms were of
great size and often untouched, and, with the little towns, such as
Caudry, Le Cateau, and Solesmes, completed a picture that proclaimed in
every article a previous state of comfort and prosperity. Before the
war this region must have been one of the most flourishing in France.
And, except that for the moment it was deserted, it was flourishing
still. The Germans had seen to that, and had taken the profits. It was
indeed a novelty to enter house after house where roofs, windows, and
furniture remained untouched, and where, only a day or two before,
civilians had been living. A little later, and we had moved forward
again to places where half-starved women, dressed tidily in black, who
had lived without meat for upwards of four years and without hope for
almost as long, still cowered in cellars while the fighting passed by
overhead, and who, when they were rescued and moved out of the gas and
shelling to safer quarters, could yet find time (as I saw myself) to
lay flowers on those of our dead that were lying in their streets. This
was in St Python, a little suburb of Solesmes; and Solesmes itself, by
way of contrast, provided a stupefying sidelight upon the minds of the
most extraordinary people that ever inhabited this earth, for it was
gay with new tricolour flags, manufactured, imported, and sold to the
inhabitants by the Germans themselves in readiness for their defeat....
In many respects these last weeks were the most interesting of all,
but I will not attempt to describe them here. There is a limit to the
irrelevant matter permissible in any book, and I have more than a
suspicion that I have exceeded it already. So far as tank operations
are concerned, there is very little more to be said. When I joined the
12th Battalion at Cattenières, it was still working with three corps
of the 3rd Army, its companies being at Avesnes-les-Aubert, Quiévy,
and Viesly, all to the north of the Le Cateau road; and preparations
were in hand for the forcing of the Selle river on 20th October. By
this time the battalion, in spite of a reinforcement of 4 old Mark
IV.’s from Erin, had only 12 tanks fit for action; and as 78 officers
and men had just left for England, it was no less short of personnel,
particularly of experienced drivers. As it happened, there was little
chance of tanks being used in this region. A succession of rivers,
running northward into the Scheldt--the Selle, the Harpies, the St
Georges, the Ecaillon, and the Rhonelle--lay parallel to our front, and
(except the St Georges, a mere brook) could only be crossed by tanks
when the engineers had built bridges to replace those which the enemy
was certain to destroy. Farther up these streams, where the 11th and
other tank battalions were co-operating with the right of the 3rd Army
and the whole of the 4th, they ceased to be insuperable obstacles; and
on 17th October, tanks of the 4th Brigade crossed the Selle with the
help of cribs. In the big attack of the 20th, four machines of the
11th Battalion got over near Neuvilly by means of an ingenious bridge
made of sleepers, which was sunk in the river by the engineers the
night before. Being under water, this bridge was not discovered by the
Germans during the day, although the Selle approximated to No Man’s
Land. But for our part, being faced by these various waterways where
they were broader and deeper, we had a cheerless prospect of endless
trekking with very little probability of arriving anywhere in time for
action. Only once, in fact, were our tanks engaged. The attack on the
20th was entirely successful, except at Beaurain, a small village on
very high ground a couple of miles due east of Solesmes, where the
Germans continued to hold out for two days after the rest of their
line had been forced back to the Harpies. Our tanks having been got
across the Selle at St Python and Briastre, B Company was detailed to
assist the 5th Division in the capture of Beaurain on the 23rd. Owing
to accidents, only two tanks were available, and neither of these was
mechanically fit. One had a cracked sleeve, and could only travel at
low speed. The little action which ensued possesses one or two points
of interest.
From the Selle Valley at Briastre the ground rose steeply in a series
of ridges, each slightly higher than the last, to Beaurain, which
was on the summit. Our outpost line was just east of the farm and
road-junction at Marou, 2000 yards in front of the village. Between the
two places was a spur of ground called the Grand Champ Ridge, where the
Germans had a great number of machine-guns in pits. The two tanks were
to clear this ridge, which was the enemy’s main line of resistance,
and then proceed to mop up in Beaurain if required. They reached the
valley in front of Marou at 10 P.M. on the 22nd, zero being at 3.20
in the morning. At 1 o’clock the enemy put down a heavy barrage along
our front line, and the assaulting infantry suffered several hundred
casualties and were thrown into great confusion. Expecting an attack,
they sent up S.O.S. signals, while the tanks prepared for action.
Nothing came of this bombardment, however, and it died down after half
an hour to the normal intermittent shelling; but the infantry was so
shaken that only the presence of the tanks induced them to go forward
at zero. The Germans fought with desperate courage on the Grand Champ
Ridge, where the machine-gunners fired until they were run over, and
where the engine of L 13 (the tank with the cracked sleeve) stopped and
could not be restarted for forty-five minutes. Our infantry being some
way behind, the enemy swarmed round the tank, one officer bringing a
machine-gun into the road within a few yards of it. The other tank,
L 23, was having an equally hard task on the ridge, finding it very
difficult in the mist and twilight to locate the hostile machine-guns;
and the two were fighting alone for a quarter of an hour before the
infantry at length came up, having collected on the way some fifty
prisoners who had surrendered to the tanks. The latter had broken the
back of the enemy’s resistance on the ridge, and the advance now went
forward rapidly. Beaurain was cleared with little trouble, neither of
the tanks being required, which was just as well, as one was broken
down and the second pulling very badly. The officer and one man in L
23 were wounded, and the crew of L 13 was badly gassed, so that the
company commander, walking forward from the rallying-point to meet the
machines, found it crawling homeward out of control, the tank commander
and driver being unconscious. Considering that both tanks went into
action labouring under mechanical defects, their performance would
have been highly creditable in any circumstances; and it fell out that
in addition they alone carried the operation through, as the infantry
concerned fully recognised. The latter, disorganised and badly shaken
by the barrage which caught them before zero, and by a second which
fell among them in the first minutes of the advance, would have made
no progress against the nests of machine-guns on the Grand Champ Ridge
if the tanks had not been there to take the lead and draw the enemy’s
attention to themselves.
B Company was now left without any tanks fit to move. A Company, with
four machines, was at Haussy, on the Selle north of Solesmes, and
remained there. C Company alone, with three tanks, continued for two
or three days to follow the Guards Division in its advance. It had
been pointed out that the decrepit condition of these tanks, added to
the series of obstructions formed by the rivers, made their chances
of affording practical help very remote; but the Guards insisted on
their following up as far as possible, on account of the great moral
effect the mere knowledge of their presence had on the men! On the
24th, therefore, C Company had reached Capelle, at the junction of
the Ecaillon and St Georges, our line being then within a mile of Le
Quesnoy. On the following day orders came through from Tank Corps
Headquarters for the withdrawal of the battalion. All companies, having
patched up their machines, began the long trek back to the entraining
railhead at Marcoing on the Canal de L’Escaut, a tedious process, as
some of the tanks had to be towed most of the way. On 1st November I
went on ahead to take over our winter quarters, a hutted camp in the
devastated area at Ecurie, near Arras. Here we remained for six months,
in extreme discomfort; and then, made up to strength from disbanded
units of the corps, and provided with 24 Mark V.’s, entrained for
Cologne.
The last tank battles of the war were fought on the 4th, 5th, 6th, and
7th November, just before the Armistice, around the Forest of Mormal.
An idea of the lamentable state to which the corps was reduced will be
gathered from the number of tanks and units employed on the first day.
The 6th, 9th, 10th, and 14th Battalions were engaged. At full strength
they would have mustered between them 168 tanks, they could now raise
only 37. An interesting feature of the day’s fighting was that three
supply-tanks, armed with one Hotchkiss gun apiece and carrying bridging
material for the 25th Division, came into action near Landrecies. Our
infantry was held up on the west bank of the Sambre Canal, and the
officer in charge of the supply-tenders decided to see what he could
do to help them. One tank was knocked out. The other two, followed by
the infantry as if they had been fighting tanks, forced the German
machine-gunners to surrender. During the next day eight Whippets of the
6th Battalion helped the 3rd Guards Brigade in the difficult enclosed
country north of the Forest; and with two further actions on the
Maroilles-Avesnes road, the Tank Corps’ active share in the war came to
an end.
“Ninety-six days of almost continuous battle had now taken place
since the great tank attack at Amiens was launched by the 4th Army on
the 8th August, since when many officers and men of the Tank Corps
had been in action as many as 15 and 16 times. During this period
no less than 1993 tanks and tank armoured-cars had been engaged on
39 days in all, 887 machines had been handed over to salvage, 313
of these being sent to the Central Workshops, and 204 having been
repaired and reissued to battalions. Of the above 887 tanks, only 15
had been struck off the strength as unsalvable. Casualties against
establishment had been heavy, 598 officers and 2826 other ranks being
counted amongst killed, wounded, missing, and prisoners; but when
it is considered that the total strength of the Tank Corps on the
7th August (9500 of all ranks in France) was considerably under that
of an infantry division, and that in the old days of the artillery
battles, such as the first battle of the Somme, an infantry division
frequently sustained 4000 casualties in twelve hours’ fighting, the
tank casualties were extraordinarily light. From this we may deduce
our final and outstanding lesson from all these battles--namely, that
iron mechanically moved is an economiser of blood, that the tank is an
economiser of life....”[46]
[Illustration: Captured English Tanks being used during the Revolution
in Berlin.]
[Illustration: Mark V. Tanks of the 12th Battalion at Cologne.]
IV.
In the first days of November, when the Tank Corps was endeavouring to
withdraw all its crippled battalions for a reorganisation and refit,
pressure was put upon it to maintain some units in the field. The Army,
in fact, discovered that it could not go on without tanks, in spite of
the demoralisation which plainly was spreading among the enemy. The
cavalry, provided at last with all the conditions most favourable to
their use, were as helpless as ever, and the infantry still needed
the moral support which the presence of tanks afforded, even if the
latter were hardly ever used. It was decided, therefore, that each tank
brigade should send forward one composite battalion. Orders to this
effect had just reached us at Ecurie (the whole of the 1st Brigade
being now concentrated in this area), when the Armistice was signed.
For some time after 11th November, however, the Tank Corps, in common
with every other branch of the service, was still busy preparing
for further eventualities. The composite battalions were no longer
immediately required, and only the armoured-cars went forward into
Germany; but at Bermicourt and Erin there was no relaxation of effort
until the occupation of the Rhine bridge-heads, and the enemy’s
surrender of his fleet and artillery rendered any serious resumption
of hostilities impossible. At the same time, the criminal outcry for
instant demobilisation which disgraced still further (if that was
possible) our unscrupulous press, hit the corps in France especially
hard. No sooner had the battalions been brought again to something
like full strength by drafts of conscripted miners, strikers, and
professional footballers, who might in time have been knocked into
shape, than all these arrivals, who had been only a few months in
the Army, were released again--a business which caused very natural
discontent among the original rank and file who had done all the
fighting and who were still retained.
In the meantime, during the last month of the war, further developments
in the composition of the corps had been authorised and carried
into effect. The 6th Tank Brigade was formed in October, consisting
nominally of the 16th, 18th, and 301st (American) Battalions. The
18th Battalion had just come out from England. This brigade was
never in action as a whole. There were now forming at Bovington the
19th, 20th, 21st, 22nd, 23rd, 24th, and 25th Battalions, but none of
these would be available before the early spring of 1919. By that
date, however, eight tank brigades, with a total strength (if up to
establishment) of upwards of 15,000 officers and men and 1000 tanks,
should be ready for immediate action. At least two new types of tank,
known as the Medium C and Mark IX., were under construction; but the
former was not very satisfactory, although fast, and the latter was
an infantry-carrying machine; and most of the battalions would be
armed with the Mark V. or an improved Whippet. It was hoped, however,
provided personnel was available and labour conditions satisfactory,
to so expand the battalions as to put a great many more than 1000
machines into the field at once. The dream of the Tank Corps, and
one which probably would have materialised if the war had continued,
was a vast smashing attack by 4000 or 5000 tanks. With this prospect
in view, the organisation of the corps, which threatened to become
unwieldy, was also to be expanded, and two days before the Armistice
three new formations came into existence, the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd Groups,
each consisting of two brigades under a Major-General. Whether this
multiplication of large staffs was the best solution of the problem
is a matter of opinion. It smacks rather too much of the usual Army
method of making any excuse serve for inventing new sinecures, and
there was no ambiguity about the manner in which it was rushed through
just before the Armistice, so that every staff officer in the Tank
Corps got a step in rank (and sometimes two) while yet these pleasant
fruits of office were going begging. Bermicourt now began to look like
a poppy-field for red hats. At the same time, a more indefensible
scheme of centralisation was applied to the technical side, by the
formation of what were called Group Inspectorates. This high-sounding
title merely concealed the fact that battalions were deprived of
their engineer staffs, which were lumped together in itinerant and
irresponsible posses, whose business was to supervise all mechanical
work in the field. In other words, a fresh set of semi-independent
staffs was created.
In the matter of the groups, it is possible of course that it was
not intended to increase the number of brigades, but merely to add
battalions to them. I have no information about this, but it does not
appear very probable. In any case, as the tank fighting unit is still
the company, tank battalions being the administrative equivalents
of infantry brigades, it would seem that the object aimed at would
have been better attained by increasing the strength of battalions
and abolishing altogether the intermediate tank brigades. The French
system of forming their tank units into regiments of three battalions,
on the Continental infantry basis, is yet more practical. All these
plans may appear to be but variations of the same theory; but in fact
there is a great gulf fixed between the regimental outlook and that of
a higher formation, and one of the curses of the British Army is the
way in which staffs tend to spring up like mushrooms on the slightest
provocation.
This discussion, however, is now become academic. Groups and brigades
alike have vanished for the present into the limbo of lost hopes,
and what is left of the Tank Corps hangs in a state of suspended
animation, conscious of a great past and a very uncertain future. After
innumerable tentative schemes for a post-bellum establishment as part
of the regular Army, the corps was fixed definitely a few months ago
at one brigade of five regular battalions. General Elles remained as
Brigadier, and five lieutenant-colonels were selected by seniority from
the original group and brigade commanders. Although five battalions was
an inadequate force, it appeared as if the war had taught us something,
if not overmuch. Remembering what had happened during hostilities,
one really had expected to find officers from the Camel Corps or the
Life Guards appointed to command tank units in a peace establishment.
But when it came to the junior commissioned ranks, the old Adam
reappeared with a vengeance. A large number of subalterns temporarily
commissioned into the old Tank Corps wished to stay on in the new
one, as professional soldiers; and as many of them had one or two
years’ experience of tank warfare, the retention of the most suitable
would seem to be, to a reasonable being, a matter of course, setting
aside all arguments of decency or propriety. But this would have been
carrying common-sense too far. The War Office, as usual, had a trump
up its sleeve. It had granted regular commissions in the infantry and
other arms (but never in the Tank Corps itself) on such a prodigal
scale during the war that the reduction of the Army left something
like 7000 of these officers surplus to establishment. Billets must be
found for them, and it occurred to some one that the new Tank Corps
would accommodate several hundred. The old tank officers, therefore,
having at first been encouraged to apply for regular commissions, were
now told that they were not wanted. Sandhurst and the surplus must be
considered before suitability.
This was the state of affairs at the end of 1919. What has happened
since, or what the end of it will be, I do not know at the time of
writing. There was a rumour, just when I was leaving the Army, that
everything was to be changed once more, that all tank battalions were
to be abolished, and that only a small training and experimental depot
was to be maintained at Bovington or Wareham. Every infantry officer,
on the other hand, was to pass through a tank course ...! Whatever
the basis of truth in this circumstantial report (and it has received
confirmation in recent newspaper paragraphs), so pernicious a scheme
is beyond comment. In the meantime, the new regular brigade has come
into being, and so far continues to exist; and since the authorities
have discovered the value of tanks during industrial disturbances and
in Ireland, they may harden their hearts against the Treasury, and the
Tank Corps may tide over this bad hour with the help of Trade Unions
and Sinn Fein! It will be the first time that either institution has
served a useful purpose.
In the long-run, of course, we shall have to equip ourselves with a
large Tank Corps again. Everything depends upon whether we do so before
the next war or in the middle of it. Other nations will have tanks, and
in large numbers. The French are providing for a corps of 30,000 men,
and the Americans (who designed a tank of their own during the war)
have also, I believe, taken up the question in earnest. Just as the
origins of modern warfare at sea, and of all the scientific methods by
which it is carried on, are to be found in the _Gloire_ and the little
_Monitor_ of the early ’sixties, so it is no less certain that future
warfare on land will be dominated by the successors of the Mark I. tank
which struggled through the mud of the Somme battlefields. For once
this country has taken the lead in military invention; and it has now
at its disposal a preponderant body of experience in this new method.
It remains to be seen whether the advantage will be maintained, or
whether it will be lost by the diversion to political schemes of even
the comparatively small annual outlay of money which is essential for
adequate experiment.[47]
What form tank development will take is a subject beyond the scope of
this book, and one on which I am not competent to speak. We are still
on the threshold of the new enterprise, and there seem to be no limits
at present to what may be achieved. We have already a tank which will
float, and speeds of twenty and twenty-five miles an hour have been
attained long ago with experimental machines. Colonel Fuller, who was
G.S.O. 1 Tank Corps in France, points out in his new book[48] that, in
future wars, land will become “a solid sea, as easily traversable in
all directions as ice is by a skater; the battles in these wars will
therefore more and more approximate to naval actions.” And he goes on
to remark that “from the present-day tank to one which can plunge in
the Channel at Calais at four in the morning, land at Dover at six
o’clock, and be outside Buckingham Palace for an early lunch, will not
probably require as many as the fifty-two years which have separated
the _Merrimac_ from the _Tiger_ or the _Queen Elizabeth_.”
V.
When one has written a book of this kind, frankly partisan in
character, it is peculiarly gratifying to find one’s arguments
supported to the letter by independent testimony from another and far
more authoritative quarter. I have kept this evidence to the last, in
the manner (I believe) of the practised advocate; but, to be honest,
the arrangement is due more to luck than judgment. It was only when
this book was almost finished that I read General Sir Frederick
Maurice’s short volume called ‘The Last Four Months: the End of the
War in the West.’ It is so complete a confirmation of the case I have
attempted to put forward that I cannot make a better end than by
quoting some of its conclusions.
General Maurice, after discussing the various tactical expedients
adopted by either side in their offensives, and the ultimate failure
of all these methods to achieve the desired “break-through,” describes
briefly the invention and early employment of tanks and the opinion
held of them by the enemy. “It does not appear,” he says, “that
Ludendorff was particularly impressed with the value of tanks before
the events of 1918 taught him wisdom in this respect.” We then come
to a consideration of the means the Allies had at their disposal for
their counter-offensive in the summer of that year. Speaking of Sir
Douglas Haig’s plans and resources, General Maurice points out that
“in particular the great improvements which had been made in the tanks
since their first appearance in battle and the quantities of them
available, gave him just the means he needed for carrying through
his scheme. Cambrai had proved that tanks could replace the long
bombardment and obviate all the slow preparation which it involved.”
The action at Hamel is then described: “With this fortunate experiment
faith in the tanks spread. The commanders already believed in them, and
now that belief in their power to ‘make good’ spread to the ranks.”
(Some of the commanders, it must be added, dissembled their belief very
successfully until after Hamel!) General Maurice continues: “Tanks made
surprise, that greatest weapon of generalship, much easier than it had
been: they saved life and economised troops, and, therefore, that quick
succession of punches for which Foch was seeking his opportunity became
possible. The artist had his materials to hand. Honour to him that he
knew how to use them.”
Of the great tank attack on 8th August, we read that “the tanks did
invaluable service in cutting the German telegraph and telephone
communications.... The work begun at Hamel was completed, and the moral
ascendancy established by tanks, artillery, and infantry, working in
combination, affected both private and General in the German Army.”
Later in the book General Maurice sums up the influences which
together broke down the German _moral_, and again he insists upon the
predominant part played by the tanks.
“The tanks had proved their efficacy in the preparations for
Armageddon, now they were to take their part in the culmination toward
which Foch had been working, and few things helped us more in the
decisive struggle than the moral ascendancy which the success of
the tanks in the preliminary battles had given us over the Germans.
Captured German orders and other documents bear testimony to the dread
with which the enemy regarded tanks at this time....” Here follows an
extract from one such order, already quoted in an earlier chapter of
this book. General Maurice continues: “This is the type of order which
is the refuge of authority when caught napping. The German leaders
had delayed too long to study the possibilities of tanks and the most
effective means of meeting them. The ‘counter-measures’ presented in
this order might have availed against tanks alone. They were useless
against tanks, artillery, and infantry working in combination. They
were, in fact, worse than useless, they were harmful, for they served
to demonstrate to the German soldier, who was already in mortal fear of
tanks and prepared to make their appearance an excuse for surrender,
that his chiefs were as frightened of them as he was, and that they had
no effective reply ready.”
And finally, the author makes this definite assertion: “It is certain
that neither Foch’s skilful preparation for the great battle, nor the
valour of the infantry, would have brought us victory if we had had
to rely upon bombardment alone in order to batter down the German
defences.”
These extracts read like a literal, if more sober, repetition of
the theses at which I have been hammering, in and out of season,
throughout this history; and they are uttered with an authority
to which I have no pretence. It would have been difficult to find
confirmatory evidence more apt and decisive than chance threw in my
way, a fortnight before these lines were written, when I picked up
General Maurice’s little volume. I would commend it to Sir Arthur
Conan Doyle, among other people. The tank, in one sense, needs no
advertisement now, any more than the first successful steam-engine
or aeroplane needed one: ever since Cambrai, at the latest, all who
had adequate acquaintance with the facts realised that it had come,
not only to stay, but to predominate. It is one thing, however, to
be convinced, and quite another to admit it, even to oneself. In a
professional army, which (like any other close corporation) is a body
made up of cliques, conservatism, and personal jealousy, held together
by interest, no gratitude is felt for innovations once the immediate
occasion for their usefulness is past. General officers who called for
tanks at all hours in the field, because they could not rely upon their
infantry going forward unless tanks were there to lead them, lost all
interest in these auxiliaries the moment the Armistice was signed.
And further, recognition which cannot be denied to some instrument is
often withheld from the hand which directs it. It is for these reasons
that unbiassed acknowledgment of the services rendered by the Tank
Corps is peculiarly valuable at this time. People talk about tanks,
and read more or less worthless books in which these machines figure
occasionally as comic and semi-animate monsters moving capriciously
here and there without method or principle; but while it is dimly
recognised that they influenced powerfully the course of the war, it is
hardly suspected that they are governed, like any other military arm,
by tactical considerations, that they are not irresponsible units but
parts of an organised whole, and that every action they have fought
has been planned as carefully as any infantry assault or artillery
barrage. Still less attention is paid to the men who fought in them,
and whose skill and gallantry, displayed often amid circumstances of
horror peculiar even in this conflict, forged in three years, from
insignificant and disheartening beginnings, so vast and efficient a
weapon as the Tank Corps eventually became. It is these aspects of the
case, among others, that I have tried especially to set out in this
book.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The first reply to this memorandum from the Engineer-in-Chief was
characteristic. After a few preliminary objections, General Fowke
concluded as follows: “I therefore think that before considering this
proposal we should descend from the realms of imagination to solid
facts.”
[2] ‘The Tank Corps.’ C. A. Williams-Ellis.
[3] Although the Navy has specialised in the science of mechanical
warfare, and although the very idea of the “landship” involves the
application on land of some of the principles of war at sea, the Army,
as soon as it assumed control of the tanks, refused to profit by the
expert knowledge at its disposal. Had it been possible, no doubt every
trace of the tanks’ original parentage would have been sedulously
erased. As it was, the sponson and the 6-pounder gun, for which no
feasible military equivalents could be proposed, necessarily were
retained; but on such technical questions as ventilation, the use of
telegraphs, and the various mechanical contrivances in respect of which
the tank, in its small way, resembles the engine-room of a ship, all
the suggestions put forward by experienced nautical engineers were
contemptuously rejected.
[4] Steel plates, with pinhole perforations, replaced the prisms in the
Mark IV.
[5] For protection against these splinters, and against the “splash”
from ordinary bullets hitting crevices round the gun shields, crews
were provided with small vizors of steel and chain mail.
[6] The tactical recommendations set out in this document were
disregarded completely by the general staff until the compulsion
of events enforced their adoption. Colonel Swinton insisted on the
necessity of tanks leading the attack in masses, and pointed out
that, to ensure the rapid exploitation of any opening they should
make, a very large force of infantry must be launched at once behind
them. “Not only,” he says, “does it seem that the tanks will confer
the power to force successive complete and unbattered defence lines,
but, as has been explained, the more speedy and uninterrupted their
advance, the greater the chance of their surviving sufficiently long
to do this. _It is possible, therefore, that an effort to break right
through the enemy’s defensive zone in one day may now be contemplated
as a feasible proposition._” Cambrai, notwithstanding the half-hearted
support afforded, proved absolutely the justice of these contentions;
and in 1918 they were accepted as a matter of course--without, however,
any acknowledgment of their origin. Colonel Swinton also pointed
out that field artillery was the tank’s chief danger, and one which
could be countered only by the help of other arms. Numerous minor
recommendations, such as the use of case-shot, smoke, and wireless, the
necessity of intelligent co-operation by infantry and artillery, and
questions of administration, supply, and transport in the field, were
either turned down at once by the general staff or were disregarded;
yet every one of them subsequently had to be adopted.
[7] Now, I believe, Sir Philip Gibbs and Sir Beach Thomas.
[8] The spirit of prophecy must have inspired this remark, as it was
written some months before the creation of Air Marshals and other
heavenly bodies.
[9] ‘A Company of Tanks,’ by Major W. H. L. Watson, D.C.M., chapter
iv., ‘Blackwood’s Magazine’ for June 1919.
[10] ‘A Company of Tanks,’ by Major Watson.
[11] This was written in the spring of 1919, when the bones of horses
and a great accumulation of rotting cavalry equipment still lay thick
in front of Monchy.
[12] Orange Hill, strictly speaking, is only a spur of the height on
which Monchy stands, and is separated from the latter by a slight
depression.
[13] The cavalry also ran into the hostile barrage which fell on our
front line as soon as the tanks advanced.
[14] The idea of employing tanks in Egypt and Syria originated with
Colonel Swinton, who proposed that they should be used in the advance
on El Arish, early in the campaign. The authorities laughed at the idea
of tanks operating over sand; and it was only after the fall of El
Arish that the suggestion was grudgingly adopted. In this connection
I would like to point out that in the “Report on the Advance of the
Egyptian Expeditionary Force,” an official publication edited by
Lieut.-Colonel Pirie Gordon, which professes to give the name and
details of every unit connected, however remotely, with the Third
Battle of Gaza, and which actually includes in the list A.S.C. depots
at Alexandria, the Tank Department is not so much as mentioned!
[15] Report on Tank Operations in Egypt and Palestine, &c.
[16] Apologies perhaps are due for the continual use of this book
(‘Nelson’s History of the War’) as a stalking-horse; but in spite of
the difficulties attending its production, and its claim to be no more
than a popular history, Colonel Buchan had exceptional opportunities of
gaining information, and the work is in fact the only full and reliable
account of the war as yet in print.
[17] ‘The Tank Corps.’ C. A. Williams-Ellis.
[18] See William III. and Bishop Walker at the Boyne.
[19] ‘The Tank Corps’ (Williams-Ellis), from which the whole incident
is paraphrased.
[20] M’Elroy, of 19 Company, won the D.S.O. at Havrincourt in
remarkable circumstances. The leading tanks and infantry had passed
through the village, which was believed to be cleared of the enemy.
M’Elroy’s machine, following behind, caught fire just as about 100
Germans appeared round it from various hiding-places. Two of the crew,
jumping out of one door to escape the flames, were killed instantly.
The remainder, except the tank commander, scrambled out of the other
door into a shell-hole. The Germans bombed them and killed one man,
and then came and looked down into the shell-hole, where the survivors
pretended also to be dead. M’Elroy, in the meantime, had remained in
the tank and extinguished the fire. He then drove off the Germans with
machine-gun fire and kept them at bay for nearly an hour until some
infantry arrived. All this time other tank crews, a few hundred yards
away, were walking about outside their machines, unconscious of the
little battle going on behind them.
[21] ‘Weekly Tank Notes.’
[22] ‘Tank Corps Intelligence Summary.’
[23] ‘Tank Corps Intelligence Summary.’
[24] Ibid.
[25] ‘Intelligence Summary.’
[26] Ibid.
[27] Also quoted by General Maurice, ‘The Last Four Months.’
[28] ‘The Tank Corps’ (Williams-Ellis).
[29] ‘Weekly Tank Notes.’
[30] The Whippet was nearly as long as the heavy tank. The engine was
in front, under an armoured bonnet. A small cab perched in rear held
three men and two Hotchkiss machine-guns. The speed of the Whippet was
seven miles an hour.
[31] ‘Weekly Tank Notes.’
[32] Sir Douglas Haig’s Despatch.
[33] This action appears to be known officially by us as that of
Moreuil. That village, however, was not even one of the objectives.
[34] Sir D. Haig’s Despatch. For a trustworthy estimate of the value
of tanks in this and all subsequent attacks, and of their influence
upon the course of the war, see ‘The Last Four Months,’ by General Sir
Frederick Maurice, quoted in the last chapter of this book.
[35] Sir J. Monash, ‘The Australian Victories in 1918.’
[36] ‘Weekly Tank Notes.’
[37] Sir J. Monash, ‘The Australian Victories in 1918.’
[38] ‘Weekly Tank Notes.’
[39] This may have been the battery which a Whippet caught and
destroyed on the 23rd.
[40] ‘Weekly Tank Notes.’
[41] The Hindenburg Line, it may be noted, was a generic term used by
us to cover the whole series of defence systems called by the Germans
the Siegfried, Hunding, Wotan Lines, &c.
[42] It was found that, for several hundred yards between Mœuvres
and Inchy, the Germans had cut in the eastern bank a vertical wall
nine feet deep, evidently as an anti-tank obstacle. Tanks of the 15th
Battalion succeeded in climbing this.
[43] Trials at Erin and elsewhere had proved that a tank will support
another on its roof; but these experiments were made in conditions
differing greatly from those which obtain in action.
[44] ‘Weekly Tank Notes.’
[45] On the whole, however, the German retreat was conducted with great
skill to the very end. There was no general demoralisation, and one saw
very few prisoners except after set attacks on a large scale.
[46] ‘Weekly Tank Notes.’
[47] Since writing the above, a Memorandum has been issued (23rd
Feb. 1920) by the Secretary of State for War dealing with the Army
Estimates. It contains the following reference to the Tank Corps, which
shows that our worst apprehensions are confirmed: “It has been decided
that there will be no separate Tank Corps for the present, and that,
though non-commissioned officers and men will be posted permanently to
tank units as a nucleus, officers will be seconded instead of being
transferred to these units for stated periods. The main difficulty
which confronts reorganisation is the dearth of regular officers with
knowledge of tanks. To some extent this may be overcome by granting
regular commissions to temporary officers. Considerable progress has
been made with the design of tanks during 1919, a new machine having
been produced with a speed of over twenty miles an hour, and which has
mechanically a long life. In a trial run of 1000 miles practically no
wear has resulted. This type is being further developed. Two other
machines have been despatched to India for the purpose of experiment
under tropical conditions.”
[48] ‘Tanks in the Great War,’ Lieut.-Colonel J. F. C. Fuller. (Murray.)
INDEX.
A5, Turkish post at, 87.
Ablainzevelle, 372, 375, 376, 380-381.
Acheux, 39.
Achiet-le-Grand, 59, 343, 373, 375, 382-384, 429;
stockade at, 299.
Achiet-le-Petit, 374, 375, 382-383, 390, 391.
Adinfer Wood, 377.
Admiral’s Road, 110, 160.
Admiralty, experiments by, 12.
Agache river, 432, 434, 439.
Aire, 320.
Air Force, Royal, 120-124.
Albert, 258, 308.
Alberta, 132, 179.
Ali Muntar ridge, 73, 76, 78, 79, 82.
Allenby, General Sir E., 82.
Amiens, battle of. See Somme, 3rd battle of.
Anley, General G., 57.
Anthoine, General, 111.
Annequin, 334, 335.
Anneux, 270, 276, 277, 281, 449, 455.
Anti-tank machine-gun, 299-300.
Anti-tank measures, general, 289-300.
Anti-tank rifle, 297.
Approach-marches, difficulties of, 140-142, 199-203.
Armin, General von, 110.
“Armour, attack by,” 11, 16.
Armour-piercing bullets, 22.
Army, American, 428;
1st, 488.
Army, Belgian, 103, 488.
Army, British--
1st, 59, 309, 353, 356, 403, 416, 432, 459, 495.
2nd, 90, 103, 344, 356, 459.
3rd, 59, 251, 257, 265-268, 315, 342, 372-375, 387, 403, 414, 416,
432, 459, 491, 497.
4th, 31, 103, 352, 372, 387, 403, 432, 459, 488.
5th, 31, 59, 61-62, 103, 183-184, 341, 460, 495.
Army, French--
1st, 103, 351, 352.
3rd, 352, 366, 459.
4th, 488.
5th, 459, 488.
6th, 304.
10th, 459, 488.
Army, German--
2nd, 268, 293.
4th, 110.
6th, 319.
17th, 414.
18th, 293, 357.
Army Council, trials before, 14.
Arras, battle of, 58-69.
Aubvillers, 351.
Australian Corps, 61-64, 92, 349, 350, 352, 353, 356.
Avesnes-les-Aubert, 497.
Avesnes-les-Bapaume, 393, 401.
Ayette, 372.
Azincourt, 370.
Bacon, Admiral Sir R. H. S., 10, 12.
Baker-Carr, Colonel, 54, 59.
Bancourt, 405, 412.
Banteux, 264.
Bantigny, 466.
Bapaume, battle of, 373;
capture of, 403.
Barastre, 343.
Bauer, Colonel, 295.
Bazèque Wood, 371.
Beach Post, 86.
Beaucourt-en-Santerre, 363.
Beaucourt-sur-Ancre, 40-41, 375.
Beaumetz-les-Loges, 247-248.
Beaumont Hamel, 40-41.
Beauquesne, 47.
Beaurain, action at, 498-499.
Bécordel, 309.
Beersheba, 73, 82.
Behagnies, 390, 400, 429.
Bellevue, 195, 204.
Bellicourt tunnel, 459.
Below, General von, 414.
Bermicourt, 51, 89, 98.
Bertincourt, 258.
Béthune, 319, 322, 324, 330, 337.
Beugnâtre, 403, 405, 406.
Beugny, 342;
first attack on, 404-413;
second attack, 417, 420-421;
third attack, 421-425.
Biefvillers, 390, 392.
Bienvillers-au-Bois, 371, 372.
“Big Willie,” 13, 14.
Bihucourt, 389, 396, 429.
Bingham, Major the Hon. J. D. Y., 188.
Bisley, 24, 25.
Blangy-sur-Ternoise, 369.
Blécourt, 466.
Boche Castle, 115, 131, 159.
Boesinghe, 101, 118, 140.
Bois de Bouvigny, 312.
Bois de l’Abbé, 345.
Bois d’Olhain, 312.
Bois des Neufs, 270.
Bombardment, preliminary, effects of, 6, 16;
on the Somme, 33;
at Arras, 59;
at Ypres, 103, 132-133, 155, 159-160, 217-218.
Bombing, hostile, 120, 135-136, 457.
Bouchoir, 366.
Boundary Road, 160, 200.
Bourlon, 282, 438-439, 449, 452, 456, 457.
Bourlon Wood, 264, 276, 277, 282, 439, 449, 462.
Bouvigny-Boyeffles, 311.
Bovington, 50.
Bradley, Colonel, 24, 28.
Bray, 283, 343.
Briastre, 498.
Bridge Four, 114.
Brielen, 109, 117, 118.
Briqueterie, the, 32.
Broome, Major, 195, 308.
Brough, Colonel, 28.
Bruay coal-fields, defence of, 310.
Brutinel’s Brigade, 463, 474.
Buchan, Colonel J., 36, 58, 61, 64, 94, 360, 361, 417.
Bucquoy, 343, 347-348, 371, 372, 375, 383.
Buffs Road, 178, 200.
Bullecourt, 61-64, 69, 265, 278, 431, 454.
Bulkeley-Johnson, General, 65.
Bus-les-Artois, 342, 351.
Byng, General Sir J., 251, 265, 278.
Cachy, the Whippets at, 345-346.
Callwell, General, 250.
Cambrai, proposed attack on, 95-97;
first battle of, 249-284;
second battle, 432-491.
Cambrin, 334.
Canadian Corps, 60, 312-313, 352, 353, 356, 363, 403, 416, 432, 433,
440, 452-453 (and see Divisions).
Canadian Farm, 110, 132, 155.
Canal de L’Escaut, 264, 274, 433, 459, 491.
Canal du Nord, 264, 403, 432-433, 434-438;
crossing of, 451.
Capelle, 500.
Capper, General Sir J., 57.
Cars, armoured. See 17th Tank Battalion.
Carter, Colonel, 358.
Cartigny, 342.
Cattenières, 495.
Cavalry, at Monchy-le-Preux, 64-67;
at Cambrai, 266, 267, 278-279, 283;
on 8th August, 354, 359-361.
Cavillon, 356.
Cayeux Wood, 361.
Château des Prés, 331-332.
Chaulnes, 352, 366.
Cheddar Villa, 177, 208.
Chipilly, 362, 364, 366.
Choques, 324.
Chuignolles, 359.
Churchill, Winston S., the Right Hon., letter to the War Office,
11-12;
forms Landship Committee, 13;
memorandum on “Variants of the Offensive,” 14.
Clapham Junction, 91.
Cockcroft, the, 197, 208, 228-229;
significance of action, 231, 234.
Cojeul river, 68.
Contay, 351.
Courage, Colonel, 54;
Brigadier-General, 351.
Courcelette, 31, 34.
Courcelles, 375.
Crèvecoeur, 270.
Cricket Redoubt, 86.
Crinchon river, 60.
Debeney, General, 351, 352, 363.
Deir-el-Belah, 73, 74, 81.
Deligny Mill, 453.
“Delta scheme, the,” 323.
Delville Wood, 32.
Demuin, 357.
Dessart Wood, 262, 268, 284.
D’Eyncourt, Sir E. T., 13.
Diplock, Mr, 10.
“Ditching,” frequency of, 43-45.
Divisions, British Infantry--
Guards, 140, 266, 281, 283, 389, 499, 500.
1st, 186, 325, 334.
3rd, 268, 389, 405, 412, 413, 414, 418-419.
4th, 416, 417.
5th, 394, 404, 405, 413, 415, 417, 420, 422, 498, 499.
6th, 268, 270.
11th, 198, 206, 228.
12th, 270.
20th, 270.
21st, 36-38.
25th, 500.
29th, 268, 270, 283.
36th, 92, 268.
37th, 375, 380, 383, 389, 392, 491.
39th, 131.
40th, 268, 282.
42nd, 419.
48th, 198, 206, 230.
51st, 131, 268, 270, 275, 280, 281.
52nd, 73, 75, 76-79, 83-87.
53rd, 73, 76-78.
54th, 73, 75, 76, 80, 83-87.
56th, 414.
62nd, 270, 274, 275-276, 414.
63rd, 40, 380, 382-383, 393, 401, 443, 493.
74th, 73.
Divisions, Australian. See Australian Corps.
Divisions, Canadian--
1st, 416, 439.
3rd, 456
4th, 416, 439.
5th, 440.
And see Canadian Corps.
Divisions, New Zealand, 34, 92, 390, 394, 398, 405, 412, 429, 491.
Doignies, 342.
Doyle, Sir A. Conan, 482-485.
Dranoutre, 91.
Drocourt-Quéant Switch, 63, 68, 416, 417-418.
Duddridge, Sergeant, gallantry of, 413, 475-478.
Dury, 417.
Ecaillon river, 497.
Ecoust, 405, 412, 414.
Ecurie, 59, 500, 502.
El Arish, 71 (note 14), 73.
El Arish Redoubt, 73, 76-78.
Elles, Colonel H. J., 14, 46, 47-48, 51;
Brigadier-General, 89, 108, 251, 271, 272-273, 351, 504;
Major-General, 48.
English Trees, 115.
Enguinegatte, 339-340.
Epehy, 258, 342;
battle of, 433.
Erin, central stores and workshops at, 51-52.
Ervillers, 390.
Escadœuvres, 494-495.
Essarts, 372, 376.
Esnes, 491.
Estienne, Colonel, 301, 305.
Etaing, 417.
Fanny’s Farm, 93.
Favreuil, 393, 401.
Feuchy Chapel, 65, 66.
Fins, 283.
Flammenwerfer, 9.
Flers, 31, 34.
Flesquières, 264, 270, 275, 277, 455.
Fontaine-Notre-Dame, 270, 280, 281.
Forsyth-Major, Major O. A., 76.
Fort Garry Horse, 279.
Forward Cottage, 113, 151, 154.
Fouquières, 322-327.
Foster, Messrs, 14, 25.
Foster tractor, trials by, 12.
Framerville, 358, 363, 366.
Fremicourt, 404, 405, 412.
Frascati Farm, 109, 113, 136, 147-149, 178, 179.
French, General Sir J., 12, 13.
Freyburg, Colonel, 40.
Frezenberg, 111, 182.
Fuller, Colonel J. C. F., 507.
Gas, poison, 9.
Gavrelle, 403.
Gaza, 73;
first battle of, 73;
second battle of, 74-80;
third battle of, 82-88.
Gueudecourt, 31, 35, 36-38.
Ghent Cottages, 191, 198.
Gilban, 72.
Gird Trench, 36-38.
Givenchy-les-La-Bassée, 322, 330, 335.
Glasgow, General W., 57.
Glencorse Wood, 236.
Gommecourt, 389, 429.
Gonnelieu, 265, 283.
Gough, General Sir H., 31, 103, 235.
Gouzeaucourt, 262, 269, 283, 433.
Graincourt, 270, 276, 449, 455.
Grévillers, 390, 392, 393.
Guémappe, 403.
Guilleaucourt, 361, 362.
“Gun-pits, The,” 207, 218-221.
Haig, Field-Marshal Sir D., 253, 281.
Halfway House, 113, 137, 143-144, 193.
Hamel, action at, 349-350.
Hamelincourt, 389.
Hammond’s Corner, 150, 200.
Hampshire Farm, 110, 132, 155.
Hangard Wood, 346.
Hankey, Colonel E. B., 149, 208, 268, 308;
Brigadier-General, 309.
Hannescamps, 347, 372.
Harbonnières, 358, 361.
Harp, the, 61.
Harpies river, 497.
Hatfield, trials at, 14.
Haussy, 499.
Havrincourt, 270, 273;
battle of, 433.
Havrincourt Wood, 264, 268.
Haynecourt, 439, 466.
Heninel, 68, 389.
Hereira, 73, 74, 82.
Hersin, 320.
Hervilly Wood, 342.
Hesdigneul, 325, 328, 331.
Hesdin, 370.
Hetherington, Major, 10, 12.
Hendecourt, 63.
Hill 70, 310, 312.
Hill 145, 60.
Hillock Farm, 207, 220, 230.
Hill Top Farm, 149.
Hindenburg Line, 58, 61-63, 251-252, 261, 264-265, 433.
Hindenburg, Marshal von, 295.
Hinges, 324.
Hirondelle river, 298, 434.
Holt tractor, trials of, 12.
Hooge, 111.
Hooglede, 139.
Houthoulst Forest, 90, 111.
Hospital Farm, 113, 125, 138.
Hotblack, Captain, 30, 40.
Hutier, General von, 292, 357.
Imperial Defence, Committee of, 10, 11.
Inchy-en-Artois, 298, 434, 443.
Infantry co-operation, lack of, 29, 70.
Infantry, training with, 6;
in Palestine, 84;
before Cambrai, 259-261;
with Canadians, 320, 339, 340;
with Australians, 349;
with French, 351.
Iveagh, Lord, 25.
Joint Committee, 13.
Journalists, misrepresentations by, 42, 232, 271.
Joye Farm, 93.
Kemmel, 90, 330.
Kahn Yunus, 73.
Khirbet Sihan, 80.
Kitchener’s Wood, 109, 115, 131, 133, 157, 159.
Kressenstein, General von, 73.
Kultur Farm, 131, 157.
Kurd Hill, 76-79.
La Bassée Canal, 330, 335.
La Brique, 109, 114, 116, 178.
La Cauchie, 343.
La Folie Farm, 60.
La Vacquerie, 264, 274.
Lagnicourt, 416.
Landrecies, 500.
Landships Committee, 13, 14.
Langemarck, 107, 115, 194.
Lateau Wood, 274.
Le Quesnel, 361, 363.
Le Quesnoy, 500.
Le Tréport, Tank Corps Depot at, 52, 340.
Les Bœufs, 31, 33.
Les Trois Tours, 132, 138.
Lees Hill, 76-79.
Lens, 311-313.
Lihons, 366.
Lillers, 320.
“Little Willie,” 13, 16.
Lloyd, Colonel Hardress, 54.
Logeast Wood, 375, 382, 388.
Longatte, 405, 412, 414-415.
Lone Tree, 115, 157.
Loop, the, 32.
Loos, battle of, 9, 15.
Loupart Wood, 390, 392, 393-395.
Lovie Château, 101, 102, 119-120.
Luce river, 363.
Ludendorff, Marshal von, 294-295, 364, 365.
Lulworth, 50.
Lys, the, battle of, 318-319.
Machine Gun Corps, Heavy Section, formation of, 24;
departure for France, 27;
for Palestine, 71;
expansion, 47-57;
reconstituted as Tank Corps, 306;
original companies--A and B, 26, 27, 53;
C and D, 26, 27, 32, 33, 53;
E, 27, 50, 53, 71;
F, 27, 50, 53, 127.
Maison du Hibou, 197, 207, 208, 229.
Mansura Ridge, 74, 75, 78, 82.
Marcelcave, 357.
Marcoing, 264, 270, 274, 500.
Marengo Causeway, 109, 113, 145-146, 199.
Marquion, 433.
Marquion, Sains-les-, 433, 439, 453.
Martinpuich, 31.
Marwitz, General von der, 268, 292.
Masnières, 270, 274.
Maurice, General Sir F., 486, 507-509.
Maxse, General Sir I., 108, 194, 235.
Meaulte, 308-309.
Mechanical Warfare Supply Department, 14, 56.
Merlimont, 52, 368, 369.
Messines, battle of, 90-94.
Meteren, 344.
Middelkerke, proposed landing at, 90, 109, 186-190.
Miraumont, 372.
Mœuvres, 282, 433, 434, 455.
Monash, General Sir J., 357-359, 360-361.
Monchy-le-Preux, capture of, 64-67;
abandoned, 316;
recaptured, 403.
Montdidier, 366.
Mont St Eloi, 312.
Monument Wood, 401.
Morchies, 342, 416, 418, 430, 431-432.
Moreuil, 352 (note 33).
Mormal Forest, 500.
“Mother,” 13, 16.
Moyenneville, 373, 375, 387.
Munitions, Ministry of, 14.
Murat Farm, 113, 199.
Nelson’s History of the War, 94 (note 16).
See also Buchan, Colonel.
Neuve Chapelle, battle of, 9.
Neuville St Vaast, 59.
Neuville Vitasse, 67.
Neuvilly, 497.
Niergnies, Tank v. Tank action at, 492-494.
Noreuil, 418.
Noreuil Switch, the, 405, 413, 414-415.
Notre Dame de Lorette, 312.
Noulette Wood, 320, 368.
Noyelles-sur-l’Escaut, 280.
Nutt, Major, 71, 88.
Oostaverne Line, 90, 93.
Oosthoek Wood, 100-102;
tanks detrained at, 104-107;
explosion in, 125-126;
bombing raids, 135-136.
Orange Hill, 64-67, 316.
Ouderdom, 91, 102.
Outpost Hill, 76, 78-79, 83.
Painlevé, M. Paul, 253.
Palestine Detachment, composition of, 71;
suitability of tanks for desert warfare, 74;
liaison and training, 84;
disbandment, 88.
Passchendaele Ridge, 90, 108, 193, 245.
Peselhoek, 102.
Phillips, Sergeant, 107, 108.
Pierremont, 98.
Pigeons, use of, 54, 167, 222.
Pilgrim’s Rest, the, 462.
Pilkem Ridge, 108, 109-111, 115, 131-134, 212, 213.
“Pill-Boxes,” 110, 228.
Plateau, 258.
Plumer, General Sir H., 90.
Poelcapelle, 115, 239, 240-242.
Poelcapelle Road, 196, 207, 217.
Poperinghe, 102, 119, 136.
Pozières, 31.
Pronville, 298, 434, 441.
Proven, 120.
Proyart, 359.
Puits No. 12, 338.
Puisieux-au-Mont, 372.
Quadrilateral, the, 33, 35.
Quarry Wood, 438, 452.
Quast, General von, 319.
Quéant, 63, 418.
Queen’s Hill, 76, 79.
Quiévy, 497.
Rafa, 73.
Rafa Redoubt, 86.
Raillencourt, 456, 461.
Rawlinson, General Sir H., 31, 103, 488;
Special Order to Tank Corps, 365-366.
Regent’s Park, 78.
Regina Cross, 131.
Reigersberg Château, 113.
Reutelbeek, the, 240.
Rhonelle river, 497.
Ribécourt, 270, 274.
Richardson, Captain, exploit of, 236-238.
Riencourt, 63.
Rivière, 248.
Robecq, 320, 323.
Robertson, Captain, gallantry of, 240.
Roclincourt, 59, 315.
Roeux Chemical Works, 69, 70.
Roisel, 342.
Ronsoy, 460.
Rosel, 351.
Rosières, 362, 366.
Rum Road, 113, 193.
Ruyaulcourt, 258.
Sailly-Labourse, 331, 335.
Sallaumines, 313.
Samson’s Ridge, 73, 76-78, 82.
Sancourt, 460;
action at, 466-480.
Sapignies, 343, 390, 400.
Sarton, 371.
Saulty, 371.
“Savage Rabbit,” 317.
Searchlights, mobile, opportunities for, 151-152
Selle river, 491, 495, 497.
Sensée river, 277, 432, 460.
Seranvillers, 491.
Serre, 40, 343.
Sewell, Lieutenant, gallantry of, 424.
Sheikh Abbas, 74, 75, 82.
Sheikh Ajlin, 76, 82, 83, 87.
Sheikh Hassan, 73, 76, 85-87.
Sheikh Nebhan, 80.
Shellal, 82.
Siegfried Line, 403, 433 (note 41).
Simencourt, 316.
Soissons, battle of, 304, 350.
Solesmes, 496.
Somme, the, first battle of, 30-41;
lessons of, 42, 45-56;
second battle of, 341-344;
third battle of, 352-367.
Sorel, 258.
Spriet, 242.
Springfield, 180, 238.
St Georges river, 497.
St Jean, 216.
St Julien, 108, 110, 131, 181, 193, 195, 215-216.
St Mihiel, 7, 304, 486.
St Olle, 456, 466.
St Pierre Divion, 40.
St Python, 496, 498.
Steenbeek, the, 108, 110, 131, 207, 215, 223-225.
Stern, Colonel Sir A., 56.
Summers, Major, 32.
Swanage, 51.
Swinton, Colonel E. D., 10, 12, 13, 14, 24;
Memorandum on Tactics, 29-30 (note 6);
his removal, 49;
suggests use of tanks in Egypt, 71 (note 14).
Tadpole Copse, 435.
Tanks, British--
Adverse criticism of, 183-184.
Early experiments, 12-14.
Equipment, general, 128;
fascines and cribs, 261, 440-441;
sponson trolleys, 18-19;
trucks, 23;
unditching booms, 44, 127-128.
German opinion of, 285-287, 292-296.
Marks I-IV, armament, capabilities, design, dimensions, motive
power, speed, &c., 15-23;
Mark V, 15, 348;
Mark V Star, 354;
Whippet, 302.
Moral effect of, 34-35, 183, 233-234.
Origin of, 8-11.
Tanks, French, 301-303.
Tanks, German, 287-289.
Tank Committee, 14.
Tank Corps, American, 427.
Tank Corps, British (see also Machine Gun Corps, Heavy Section)--
Administration, 57, 503-504.
Antagonism to, 47-50, 185, 352-353.
Auxiliary branches:
Advance Stores, 490;
Engineer and Equipment, 53;
Central Stores and Workshops, 51-52, 262;
Gun-Carrying Tanks, 55;
Reconnaissance Branch, 30, 40, 53;
Salvage, Signalling, and Supply Companies, 54-56, 490;
Workshop Companies, 53.
Early difficulties of, 29, 45-46.
Expansion of, 50-54, 234, 306-307, 344, 402, 502-503.
Official formation of, 306.
Personnel, 24.
Training, 24-28, 50.
Brigades--
1st, 54, 59, 69, 100, 107, 194, 238, 240, 258, 268, 270, 280,
281, 284, 309, 310, 329, 341, 354, 367, 369, 372, 374, 375,
388, 425, 426, 433, 489, 491, 502.
2nd, 54, 91, 102, 111, 181, 236, 238, 239, 240, 258, 268, 270,
280, 281, 283, 310, 329, 341, 342, 344, 354, 372, 374, 375,
405, 416, 425.
3rd, 54, 102, 107, 111, 181, 236, 240, 258, 269, 270, 280, 281,
329, 341, 343, 344, 354, 365, 372, 374, 389, 403, 416, 417,
425, 459, 489, 491.
4th, 306, 308, 309, 329, 341, 342, 344, 353, 363, 365, 366, 367,
372, 425, 433, 459, 460, 489, 491, 497.
5th, 306, 329, 341, 344, 349, 350, 353, 363, 365, 366, 372, 425,
433, 459, 489.
6th, 502.
Battalions--
1st (A), 53, 91-94, 182, 239, 269, 274, 283, 342, 345, 354, 363,
489.
2nd (B), 53, 91-94, 182, 268, 280, 283, 342, 353, 489.
3rd (C), 53, 59, 60, 64-68, 104, 182, 269, 343, 345, 354,
359-361, 374, 387, 424, 489.
4th (D), 53, 61-64, 100, 107, 108, 236, 238, 239, 240, 244, 247,
268, 275, 281, 309, 342, 353, 489.
5th (E), 238, 239, 244, 247, 268, 275, 3O9, 342, 353, 489.
6th (F), 89, 107, 113, 182, 236, 269, 274, 280, 343, 354,
359-362, 374, 390, 416, 489, 500.
7th (G), 89, 98-99, 100, 104-108, 131, 137-139, 142-180, 181,
193, 195-230, 234, 235, 242-248, 268, 275-276, 281, 282, 308,
311-341, 367, 368-371, 374-403, 404-413, 417, 419-425, 430-453,
456-458, 460-463, 465-494, 494, 495.
8th (H), 248, 268, 272, 280, 283, 342, 349, 353, 489.
9th (I), 248, 269, 343, 350, 353, 367, 374, 389, 416, 417, 489,
500.
10th (J), 343, 347, 353, 366, 374, 376, 387, 389, 393, 489, 500.
11th (K), 309, 310, 312, 315, 316, 322, 330, 367, 374, 389, 416,
417, 426, 434, 455, 489, 497.
12th (L), 309, 310, 312, 315, 316, 330, 367, 369, 374, 377, 389,
412, 414-415, 416, 418, 426, 434, 491-493, 495, 497-500.
13th, 341, 349, 353, 489.
14th, 353, 374, 416, 418, 489, 500.
15th, 344, 353, 354, 363, 374, 377, 387, 433, 455, 489.
16th, 344, 367, 489, 502.
17th, 344, 354, 357-359, 374, 387, 489.
18th, 344, 502.
19th, 20th, 21st, 22nd, 23rd, 24th, 25th, 502.
301st (American), 426-428, 459-460, 489, 502.
Tank Corps, French, 301-305.
Tank Corps, German, 287.
Tank Groups, 503.
Telegraph Hill, 61, 64, 68.
Ternoise river, 51.
Thetford, training at, 25-27.
Thilloy, Ligny-, 393, 401;
German tanks at, 416.
Tilloy, 466, 479.
Tilloy-les-Mofflaines, 61.
Tortoise Hill, 86.
Trescault, 270.
Triangle Farm, 207, 229.
Tritton, Sir W., 13, 14.
Trônes Wood, 32.
Tulloch, Capt. T. J., 10, 12.
Umbrella Hill, 83-85.
Vaire Wood, 349.
Vancouver, 207, 229.
Vanheule Farm, 177, 214.
Vaudricourt, 320.
Vaulx-Vraucourt, 342, 414.
Vauvillers, 358.
Vaux-en-Amienois, 349, 356.
Vendhuile, 265.
Viesly, 497.
Villers-au-Flos, 417, 419-420.
Villers-Bretonneux, German tanks at, 289, 345.
Villers-Guislain, 262, 269.
Villers-Plouich, 284.
Vimy Ridge, 58-60, 310, 315-317, 318.
Vlamertinghe, 101, 132.
Von Werder House, 162, 164, 166.
Wadi el Nukhabir, 75, 79.
Wadi Ghuzze, 74, 75, 76, 79, 82.
Wailly, 52, 98, 245, 248, 263.
Wambeek, the, 93-94.
Wancourt, 68, 403.
Wareham, 51.
Warfusée-Abancourt, 358.
Watson, Major W. H. L., 62.
Westroosebeke, 245.
Wilson, Major W. G., 13.
Wilson’s Post, 114-115.
Williams-Ellis, Major C., 14, 183, 190, 240, 297, 300.
Winnipeg, 196, 238.
Wool, 50.
Wormhoudt, 192, 242.
Wrisberg, General von, 293-294.
Wytschaete, 90, 92, 118, 344.
Yperlee, 206.
Ypres Salient, description of, 101-104, 118-119;
unfitness for tank warfare, 96, 103-104, 132-133, 161, 183,
193-195, 238-239.
Ytres, 258.
Yvrench, 28.
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