by John Taylor
Second Lieutenant Macintosh described the scene as he approached the railhead at Erin after collecting his new tank:
They looked down upon the rows of huge sheds, green corrugated iron on steel girders, which comprised the actual shops. Flanking them could be seen two rows of big hangars – spare-part receiving and distributing shed [sic]. In the distance, close to the main line railway which ran up the valley, lay the salvage department, where old hulks reduced, apparently, to scrap-iron, were skilfully built up again into serviceable weapons of war; while above the salvage-shop was the huge square training-ground where new types, new methods, and new devices were constantly put on their trial … As they ran down the last hill, the tanks passed within a few yards of the barb-wire entanglements surrounding the Chinese compound. The placid Celestial [a common euphemism for the Chinese] was extensively used at Central Workshops, and under a N.C.O. who understood him was capable of surprisingly skilled work.3
* * *
The task of recovering the shattered hulks strewn across the Salient was entrusted to a small and specialized unit which had been growing in importance ever since the first tanks went into action. This dangerous work – often carried out under the guns of the enemy – seemed to attract characters even more colourful and outré than the rest of the Tank Corps.
At their head stood Major Robert Thomas Rowley Probyn Butler, the son of a baron whose early career had involved railway-building on the Indian North-West Frontier and ranching in Canada. He had already won the Military Cross for an underground battle with Turkish tunnellers at Gallipoli, and now led what were officially known as the Tank Salvage Companies. He was described as ‘a big man in all ways – big frame, big hands and feet, big heart, big ideas, big courage. He loved a battle and his pale-blue eyes would sparkle with the idea of it, whether it was a battle of bullets and bayonets or of fists or of words, either written or spoken. And with it all he had a most kindly and entirely unselfish nature: altogether a most lovable man.’4
The same could not truthfully be said of his deputy, Lieutenant Ewen Cameron Bruce, though ‘Bob’ Butler charitably described him as ‘a delightful person and unique in his ways’. The problem was that when Bruce disliked someone he made no secret of it, and Butler recounted how this got him into trouble back home when a passenger in the same railway carriage casually remarked that it was a terrible war, and should be stopped:
‘Oh,’ said Bruce … ‘you are one of those pacifists, are you? Then get out of this carriage.’ …the civilian didn’t quite know what to make of him, but he soon found himself kicked through the door on to the platform. As a result of this episode Bruce was summoned, and when called upon by the magistrate to explain his action, he said, ‘Well, you see, this person seemed to me such a nasty piece of work that I could not resist having five bob’s worth.’ ‘All right,’ said the magistrate, ‘five shillings.’ And that was that.5
Lieutenant Bruce’s arm was amputated after being shattered by a shell at the start of the Battle of Passchendaele,6 and although he returned to active service, Major Butler observed that ‘his peculiarities were more marked, and in all that he said and did he seemed to make a point of defying convention more than ever’.7 Fortunately neither his injury nor his idiosyncrasies hindered his performance on the battlefield, and he was awarded the Military Cross after he ‘repaired and brought in two tanks which had been abandoned in full view of the enemy. By his energy, resource and courage he has salved many other apparently hopeless tanks, to the value of many thousands of pounds, and his personal example under shell fire and under most difficult conditions has raised the standard of salvage to a very high pitch.’8
After the war Bruce joined a small armoured detachment supporting the White Russians in their battle against the Bolsheviks, who he successfully drove out of the city of Tsaritsin while in command of a single tank – a feat that won him the Distinguished Service Order, and one that notably eluded the Germans two decades later when the city was better known as Stalingrad.9 Following this his career took a darker turn, and he joined the Auxiliary Division of the Royal Irish Constabulary, which was engaged in what we would now call a ‘dirty war’ against the IRA and any suspected sympathisers. Forced to resign for beating a prisoner, he was eventually imprisoned for robbing an Irish creamery and died in disgrace, having forfeited both his rank and his medals.10
But those are other stories for another time, and for now there were dozens of tanks abandoned all over the Salient, many engulfed in glutinous mud, which could potentially be recovered and returned to service. Major Butler recalled: ‘We had a certain amount of success, but it was weary work … Every time we came in for more or less of a bombardment, and casualties were frequent. Sometimes, after we had been working on a tank for days, it was hit and became a total wreck, and all our efforts were wasted.’11 This could also be a gruesome business, as he discovered on entering one abandoned machine:
It had been struck by a shell in front and the officer’s head had been blown off. His body was lying across the driver’s seat. My correct course of action was to drag the body out and to try to start up the engine, but it is an awkward thing to drag a man out of the driver’s seat, and if his head is scattered about the tank it becomes very unpleasant. I, at any rate, was too squeamish to tackle it, and easing my conscience with the thought that the tank would be no good for fighting purposes even if it could run, I went on, hoping to find something more useful to be done elsewhere.12
The salvage of the D Battalion tanks damaged by shellfire at Bellevue on 21 August, including the first D51, was presumably a more straightforward task, and we know that she was recovered and repaired before returning to action for the rest of the war, though there are no details of her later service.
Major Butler recalled another early recruit to the tank salvage units: ‘One second-lieutenant, who was sent to us because his [commanding officer] wanted to be rid of him, became a lieutenant-colonel within two years, and I served under him myself for a short time in 1919.’13 This was Theodore Lanternier Wenger, whose name reflected his Swiss ancestry, though he was born and brought up in Staffordshire where his father was a wealthy manufacturer of chemicals used in the ceramics industry. Second Lieutenant Wenger had worked as an electrical engineer before joining the Army Service Corps in 711th Mechanical Transport Company, and then transferring to the Tank Corps.14 Two of his brothers were also in the forces, and his sister became a nurse, but this was not enough to avert hostility at home over their German-sounding name, and the family had to mount a local publicity campaign to explain their true origins.15 It was less clear what Theodore had done to incur the disapproval of his commanding officer, but we have reason to be grateful that he wound up in tank salvage, as he would later be directly responsible for the preservation of the second tank called D51 Deborah.
* * *
Eventually the battle resumed, but there would be no more of the piecemeal operations to which D Battalion had devoted so much effort with so little success. Instead, the offensive would now follow the doctrine advocated by General Plumer known as ‘bite and hold’, under which the enemy would be driven back by a series of methodical advances along the entire British front, preceded by a devastating bombardment and followed by a protective barrage to wipe out the anticipated counter-attacks. The first of these operations was fixed for 20 September, and once again tank support was to be provided by No. 12 Company under Major R.O.C. Ward. After so many setbacks there was some prospect of success, since the tanks would no longer keep to the roads but, in the words of Captain Edward Glanville Smith, ‘were again to experiment a cross-country attack over ground that was thought to be less pounded than usual’.16 There were additional grounds for optimism, since they would be fighting alongside the 51st (Highland) Division, which was making its name as one of the finest units in the British army, due partly to the character and qualities of its commander, Major-General George Montague Harper.
Although seemingly the archetype of a
crusty general, and an Englishman to boot, Harper was a progressive and dynamic leader and enjoyed a unique bond of trust with his men, who famously referred to him as ‘Uncle’. He was also held in high esteem by his own senior officers, and the commander of XVIII Corps, Lieutenant-General Maxse, was unstinting in his praise: ‘He has an intimate up-to-date knowledge of infantry tactics and is thorough in his training methods. His division is organised from top to bottom in all departments, and he handles it in a masterly manner in active operations. I knew the 51st Division before General Harper commanded it and then considered it ill-organised and unsoldierlike. It is now one of the two or three best divisions in France and its fighting record is well known. I attribute its success mainly to its present commander and recommend him for promotion to a Corps.’17
It is worth quoting this assessment in view of later claims that Major-General Harper was a stick-in-the-mud who had a deep-seated hostility to tanks. While many in the army might have observed that tanks themselves had an unfortunate tendency to stick in the mud, there is no evidence that he was opposed to their use; indeed, his published Notes on Infantry Tactics & Training, gave consideration to the most effective ways in which infantry and tanks could work together.18 The criticism of Harper was fostered by Colonel Baker-Carr, commander of 1st Tank Brigade, an equally strong character who was obviously rubbed up the wrong way by Harper’s brusque manner, and later used his memoirs to settle their differences. But it would be several months before this conflict came to a head, and in the meantime, Baker-Carr merely observed that ‘General Harper was much in evidence at the Corps Conferences and, although he was inclined to belittle the value of the tanks, he did not fail to put in a claim for a far greater number of machines than that to which he was justly entitled’.19
As it turned out, anyone involved in the fighting on 20 September might reasonably have had some doubts about the future of armoured warfare. For D Battalion, the battle followed a familiar pattern: the foreboding as they crossed the Canal, the carefully planned approach to their lying-up positions, the mounting tension during the 24-hour bombardment before the attack, and then, as soon as they got under way, the slow-motion slide to disaster as their efforts were swallowed up by the swamp.
Of the twelve tanks that took part, one was knocked out by shellfire before it had even left St Julien, and most of the others became irretrievably ditched within a few hundred yards of their starting-point, or broke down with mechanical trouble. The crew of D16 Derek, commanded by Second Lieutenant James Macintosh, were incapacitated by fumes from the exhaust, while a number of other tanks suffered direct hits.20
The only bright spot was provided by D44 Dracula, commanded by Second Lieutenant Charles Symonds who had hardly distinguished himself in the previous attack on 22 August, but now, in the words of his section commander Captain Edward Glanville Smith, performed ‘almost superhuman deeds’.21 Dracula was ordered to advance along the road from St Julien towards Poelcappelle and attack an enemy position called Delta House. Symonds’ citation for the Military Cross told how he ‘brought his tank through almost insurmountable obstacles. In his journey he surmounted over thirty trees felled slantwise across the road before reaching his final objective, which until his arrival was holding up the infantry. His tank was ditched on four separate occasions; but under heavy shell fire, and showing a total disregard to danger he collected material to make ramps, thus enabling his tank to reach firm ground.’22
The commander of D Battalion, Lieutenant-Colonel Kyngdon, described how Symonds ‘then advanced with the infantry to their objective … doing great execution with his Lewis guns, on the enemy who retired before them. On reaching a point just short of Delta House his engine gave out altogether, and although his crew worked for 2½ hours to repair the trouble it was of no avail.’23 The crew handed over their Lewis guns to the Gordon Highlanders and showed them how to use the tank’s 6-pounder gun, before making their way to the rear.24 Two of the crewmen, who had worked in the open under fire four times to free their tank, received the Military Medal.25
It was a textbook example of co-operation with the infantry, though on that occasion sadly a unique one, as none of the other tanks from D Battalion got anywhere near their objectives. The only other one that made any contribution at all was D43 Delysia, commanded as before by Lieutenant Alfred Enoch, which advanced behind Dracula until its way was blocked by another tank that had slipped on a fallen tree, and then provided overhead fire to disrupt an enemy counter-attack.26
It was an even more depressing story for E Battalion, which had arrived from the UK to join 1st Tank Brigade in June, and had been awaiting its first taste of action in Oosthoek Wood ever since. No fewer than nineteen of their tanks took part in the attack, with Schuler Farm among their objectives, but it turned out to be less a baptism of fire than a baptism of mire. One after another they were swallowed up by the mud, and their commanding officer described the outcome: ‘Owing to a succession of ditchings in the majority of cases, and direct hits on stationary tanks, no tank was able to be of any material assistance to the infantry.’27
As always the chaplain was on hand to provide moral support, and this time Captain the Reverend Huxtable travelled to the starting point inside one of E Battalion’s tanks. However, any hopes of divine protection were dashed when a metal shrapnel ball hit him in the leg at Janet Farm, near the spot where George Macdonald’s progress had been halted a month before.28 It was the end of the chaplain’s war, but his citation for the Military Cross said that even when wounded ‘he refused to go back … until he was satisfied he could do no more to assist the men’. The citation recognized all the occasions when he had gone forward with the crews, ‘remaining with them under heavy shell fire, holding services in the tanks, assisting the men with their meals, and doing all in his power to encourage them and make them comfortable’.29 One of D Battalion’s tank commanders, Lieutenant Gerald Edwards, summed up his departure: ‘A great loss to us.’30
* * *
It was another gloomy return to Oosthoek Wood for the tank crews, who knew they could not have done any more, but it had still not been nearly enough. Most of their tanks were left behind, awaiting salvage as soon as the conditions allowed, though D44 Dracula soon found itself under new ownership following a German counter-attack. Photographs show soldiers in jackboots and coalscuttle helmets posing proudly beside their trophy, but despite their best efforts the Germans were unable to get her moving, and instead blew up the hulk, where it remained to play a fateful role in a further attack by D Battalion.
The good news was that the offensive, which was officially christened the Battle of Menin Road, was overwhelmingly successful and the British gained virtually all their objectives, pushing their front line forward and then clinging onto the captured ground. Even the bunkers at Schuler Farm, which had been D51’s objective on 22 August, finally fell.31 It had been the first trial of a ‘step-by-step’ approach, and the Official History described it as an almost complete success: ‘The much vaunted new German defence tactics had failed to stop the new method. The change was not appreciated in England or in France, and the success was underrated by the public, but not by the troops themselves, or by their adversaries.’32
While the advance was a cause for celebration, it also highlighted how superfluous tanks were to the overall military effort. The 51st (Highland) Division had swept forward with little armoured support, and one journalist told how groups of men who had been trained to deal with the German blockhouses ‘went like wolves about them, firing their machine-guns and rifles through the loopholes if the garrisons would not come out’.33 If Major-General Harper had been implacably opposed to tanks, he might have been expected to make the most of this, but the report from his headquarters simply said: ‘Of 12 Tanks … allotted for work on the Divisional front, one only, which did excellent service in an advanced position, was able effectively to assist in the attack.’34 If anything, this was rather more positive than the report by Tank Corps headq
uarters, which noted glumly: ‘1st Brigade Tanks of little use – only 1 out of 30 reaches its objective.’35
The attack on 20 September was yet another example of what Winston Churchill, a notable proponent of tanks, called their ‘misuse by Sir Douglas Haig … in the bogs of Passchendaele’.36 The question was how much longer that misuse could continue, and there was a growing awareness that the powers-that-be were running out of patience. In the words of Captain Glanville Smith: ‘During this period it was apparent that the fate of the Tank Corps was hanging in the balance. Numerous tank battalions had been thrown into the attack and though small successes had been gained, it was strongly rumoured that GHQ had come to the conclusion that the results did not justify the large waste of material, and incidentally money.’37 Or as another member of D Battalion, Lieutenant Jack Coghlan, put it: ‘The High Command was naturally disappointed at the poor results, and one school of thought held that persistence in the use of these expensive toys was damaging to the self-reliance of the infantry. Gross tactical mismanagement was the true cause of the failure, held the opposite school.’38
It was the worst possible time for a keen young officer to join the Tank Corps; but a newly-commissioned second lieutenant called Frank Heap had just completed months of training in England, and was even now crossing the Channel by troopship to join D Battalion. Whatever the War Office might decide about the future of the Tank Corps, for him at least there could be no turning back.