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.

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!