“For that matter”, said Carter, “it’s a damn serious thing to steal Tank Corps petrol.”
So it was; and ultimately that view prevailed. The Guards had much less reverence for guardsmen than we had. They tried him and in addition to his flesh wound he received a stiff sentence— they probably managed to get him for a ‘self-inflicted wound’.
29
ALESS easily assimilated experience of a Guard’s battalion was my visit to co-ordinate operations with them in case of attack either by us or the enemy.
I was shown into the dug-out which was their headquarters in the part of the line they held. The Colonel, Adjutant and various orderlies were present and busy. A junior officer asked me my business and I told him briefly, but from Colonel and Adjutant I could get no attention though I had come at the time appointed for my appearance. As time passed I began to feel neglected, then nettled. I whispered to the junior officer who broke into the conversation between Colonel and Adjutant to say I was going. Both bade me good-morning in the politest possible indication of utter indifference. I was alarmed, thinking they did not know why I was there.
I expostulated, “But sir, I haven’t co-ordinated tank plans with yours.”
“My good man”, said the Colonel with astringent kindliness, “We shall take and hold any position, tanks or no tanks. Good morning.”
‘Good morning’, I had to understand, was an order. Exasperated, intimidated and humiliated all at once, I cleared out. As I proceeded back up a dried mud track I became aware that howitzer shells, five-nines, were bursting along the track; then that they were suspiciously close. I was still annoyed with the Guards. What made it more annoying was that the Colonel’s remark was almost certainly a statement of the obvious. I had seen them sweep up at Cambrai, like a very efficient housemaid tidying up warring children and putting them back, like their toys, into their proper boxes. I knew, and had even seen a little on our way up to Messines, what happened when they, with both flanks exposed, stood for three days before Hazebrouck and resisted any attempt by the enemy to tidy them up. It was no good being indignant; they were magnificent, blast them I
In the meantime it looked as if / would soon be tidied up. If I had not had any attention at the Guards Battalion HQI was having it in full measure now. Someone, probably yawning his head off with boredom, was passing away the idle hour by sniping me with his howitzer. The previous ‘bracket’ should have given him the exact range as I was about equidistant between the bursts, so at any moment now I could expect the packet right on target—me. I scurried into a scrap of disused trench and flattened out as I heard them coming—three shells together. This was personal attention with a vengeance.
It was a good shot; chunks of the trench fell on me. If only I had had field glasses I might have been able to pick out the observation post responsible. I was sure he would be watching his shooting through his field glasses so I got out sweating—it was a very hot day and flattening out and getting up is a hot occupation. I wondered if the Boche gunner had a cool beer by his side. Turning towards the line I stood up and, hoping he was watching, cocked a snook at him. But if he was using his glasses he would also see that I was sweating with fear—I felt he wouldn’t even need glasses to see that so… I got a move on. I was not going to run. I had only another hundred yards to go before the path reached the wood which would shelter me from sight. On the other hand the intersection of path and wood gave him a perfect map reference on which to register his guns as I approached. I could not run in any case; there was nowhere to run to. It was the cornered rat being clubbed to death all over again. Nothing happened. At the edge I stopped and before diving into the wood I pulled out my handkerchief and waved it; perhaps he could see my good-bye.
Shaken and very ruffled I went in to Aitches. Cook and Carter were there. “Well, what have you arranged?” We poured over the map together.
“Well”, I said, “this is their position.” I traced it with a shaky finger.
“Yes, we know that.”
“They are going to hold it.”
“Yes. Where are our tanks to be?”
I traced a wavy line behind the Guards position. “Alternatively”, I drew another wavy line, “we can if we prefer it, line up here in front of their position.”
“In front?” said Aitches in astonishment. “Where are the Guards going to be?”
“Same place as before—they are going to hold it.” Carter was grinning.
“Now”, said Aitches, “if the Guards attack the sugar factory here”, he pointed with his thumb, “that’s supposed to be the direction of the divisional advance, where do they want us?” I pointed to our village. “Don’t be a fool!” he said, “that is where we are now.”
“I know; that is where they want us. Or somewhere a damn sight warmer.”
“And what about the sugar factory?”
‘They will take it.”
“Is that what they said?”
“Notquite”, I admitted, “but that was the gist of it.”
“That’s no good at all Bion—you’ll have to go back and fix it up properly.”
“You try fixing things up properly with the Guards. They don’t like tanks mucking about on their battlefields—nobody’s.”
I was spared further argument the next day because I had to go to a Court of Inquiry into the accidental death of a civilian. By that time the discussion with the Guards had been referred to the Brigade where as far as I know it died out.
I reported to the President of the Board, Lord Wachett. “1 really shouldn’t be the President. There must be some mistake-according to these papers it is my accident.” He saw my ribbon. “That’s very nice”, he said, indicating the DSO. “Where d’ye get it?” I told him. He wagged his finger at me. “You be careful my lad. Once you get one of those things they collect others. As I always tell my son John, if you ever meet a man with more than two rows of ribbons you can be tolerably sure he’s a waster.” This was a novel view to me especially as it came from a regular soldier whose family had always been military. I said I thought it was unlikely I should run the risk of one row, let alone two. “Don’t you believe it. Look at me.”
I did. The first ribbon was a dark red affair. And it was in the right place. “When I got the first I thought I was safe, but if I get another I shall have joined the rogues’ gallery myself.”
He turned to the other officer who with me composed the Court. “This is damn silly. I can tell you just what happened. I was in the back of the car when Jenks, my driver, was crawling through this village—not a yard more than five miles an hour—when I saw this old crone standing on the kerb. As we came up to her she stepped smartly off the kerb to cross the road to the undertaker’s opposite. I suppose she was going to have her coffin tried on and may have been a bit preoccupied. Anyhow, she fell down and broke her hip.
When she died about a week later it turned out that she was worth millions of francs, the sole financial support of her son and grandsons, and now great-grandsons who aren’t a day older than thirty and therefore depend on her. So they want compensation so they can all carry on till they get over their teething troubles and start earning for themselves. Let’s go and get a drink. They’ll have to reconvene the Court. I can’t think what they are up to.”
It was a beautiful day and a pleasant change from polishing tanks. Lord Wachett followed up his views about decorations and their dangers with comments on the ‘hardships’ of the Navy who hadn’t any fighting to do and had to invent their exploits. “Not that they are a bad lot. I always liked their Grace—bang on the table and say, ‘Thank God!’—except when the padre’s there; then of course it has to be a long-winded affair. Why do they always think God perfers long-windedness? Or even Latin? Or both? What’s wrong with ‘Thank God’?”
Back with my section I found that two eminent war artists had been painting the tanks as they appeared concealed beneath the foliage of the trees. They were indeed so eminent that they assumed a proprieta
ry dictatorial right over the task.
“Now mind young fella, if you move those tanks you must put them back in exactly the same position— exactly mind you!”
It was refreshing to find that getting the war into perspective meant for these two eminences the getting of perspective precisely into their pictures. “I don’t think I care for your composition” was countered by “Well, I don’t see why you think your composition is an improvement”. They did not talk much to each other, and not at all to us beyond impressing upon me the vital need for tanks to be at the proper place at the proper time—to get painted.
The next night we moved, never to return. “I hope it didn’t spoil the picture”, said one of the gunners. Everything was of tremendous importance: I felt I had this impressed on me so incessantly that it would be impossible ever to forget it. “Mind you put those tanks back—if you must move them—exactly in the same place.”
“Mind”, said Carter, “absolute secrecy. Tonight at rail-head at ten fifteen. What arrangements have you made about disguising the tank tracks so they cannot possibly show in air photos?”
I knew the answer to this; I had thought of it at Cambrai. “We have a large harrow affair towed by the last tank. On it we have all our kit to weigh it down. This will destroy all the tracks made by the whole section.”
“My God, that’s a good idea! Do you mind if I pass it on to Aitches? It should be passed on to Battalion.”
“It’s a battalion show then? Whole of one Corps?”
“It’s a damn sight more than that—I can tell you that now. But absolute secrecy!”
‘Tell Battalion; or Tank Corps HQ for all I care. But get a decoration for it.”
“Decorations are not for the likes of reconnaissance officers. I shouldn’t be too keen on winning your DSO either if I were you.”
30
THE scheme of track obliteration worked well. Reconnaissance planes reported next day that no tracks were visible. Our crews were not worn out by wearisome and inefficient spade work through hours of darkness.
Taisez-vous! Mefiez-vousl Les oreilles ennemies vous ecoutentl’ The legend on the platform at Etaples was the French injunction to their civilian population—absolute secrecy! But absolute!… The din of the silence seemed to swell into a row. Who the hell cared anyway? We had heard it all before. The sky was cloudy and overcast. Enemy planes must have seen it—whatever it was.
No, only one plane had been over and that had been shot down. Our planes had orders to shoot down any enemy plane—without fail. Absolutely without fail.
So they got it? No, it was fetched down by AA fire.
It was too tiring even to bother to call the man who told us that a liar.
It was August; since it was a Great British Offensive it seemed reasonable to suppose it would rain like hell. So it was not altogether implausible that the cloud screen was so thick that air observation was difficult. But, only one enemy plane over! And that shot down by the gunners! If it weren’t so bloody silly one might even laugh.
We could see we were at a very big marshalling yard. AMIENS it said. It was the morning of August 6th. “Tell one of your officers to get your tanks off; you are to take cover at once. The guides are there. We” —it was Cook speaking— “must go to Brigade HQ at once for the conference.”
It was a large tent, full of officers; they were all Tank Corps. Whatever kind of show required the whole Tank Corps in support? “They must be arranging to end the war”, said Hauser sarcastically.
Silence fell on us. The General was speaking. “On your left, extending as far as Villers Bretonneux will be the Australian Corps.”
Christ! Those bastards! We did not love the Australians. There had been a local attack, which was a failure, in which tanks had taken an even worse beating than usual because the Australians had gone too far and too fast without mopping up. Uncleared-up anti-tank guns had therefore arisen behind them and destroyed the tanks.
‘Those bloody tanks”, said the Australians. “Too slow, too damned cowardly to keep up. We had broken right through! Where were the tanks? Nowhere—as usual!”
As I say, we did not love each other. For us their magnificent indiscipline was just indiscipline, paid for in blood—Tank Corps blood.
The General continued: “Extending from the right flank of the Australian Corps to the Amiens-Roye Road will be the 10th Southland Division and the Canadian Corps. The Southland Division will leap-frog through the Canadians. The 5th Tank Battalion will have its right flank over the Amiens-Roye Road and will be there supporting the Nancy Division, the 11th.”
Australians, Canadians and the Corps de Fer: it sounded as if somebody meant business.
“The 5th Battalion will continue to advance”—just like Cambrai, German gunners permitting?—”and will then support the Canadian Corps for the rest of the advance.”
The ‘lecture’ went on; it was not interesting, not novel. The tent was hot, but we listened. The river Luce ran across and parallel to the 5th Battalion front; there was not much water in it. In fact it was not an obstacle; 5th Battalion would find out if it was swampy. In any case there was a brick bridge across it and the 5th would cross by that. The bridge of course was not standing—it had been blown to bits when our line was stabilized at the end of the March 31st show. Still, the rubble might stiffen it up a bit. It would be much safer than anywhere else. Though of course the enemy would shell it… and so forth. He droned on.
“The 1st Battalion will…” I could relax, go to sleep even? Better not. “At Villers Bretonneux… 1st, 4th 5th, 7th…” Obviously a big show. At last. “Any questions? Right. Now company and section commanders will be briefed. Carry on.”
We broke into small groups. The river Luce… that is what I wanted to know about. The ground was like Cambrai—beautiful except for the river Luce.
“Any resemblance to the Steenbeck?” I asked. It looked like it on the map; it squiggled about a bit.
“God no!” said the briefing officer. “It’s hardly a trickle.”
“That is exactly like the Steenbeck.”
“My dear chap, this place is as dry as a bone. Not even a Grand Ravine to have nightmares about. Forget it! Anyhow, the Steenbeck’s at Ypres.”
“So long as they keep it there I don’t mind”, said Carter. “I hope they will keep an eye on it.”
“Somebody must go and reconnoitre it”, said the Staff officer. “I shall be going. What about you?” He turned to me and I agreed. I would as soon know the worst and know it myself as depend on someone else. “There’s no time to spare. Will you be ready at 12.15? Right. Meet here.”
We finished our company and section briefings and map scrutinies. We could think of nothing to say—but still I said it to Carter.
“My God, I hate this. It puts the wind up me.”
He turned to me angrily. “Why the hell do you keep on talking about it then?”
“I don’t. And aren’t you?”
“Of course. I’m scared out of my wits. I’m not daft—you’d have to be daft or a nit-wit not to be scared. But why talk?”
I was angry and felt no better for feeling he was right. I went off in a huff and discovered that the officer with whom I was going to reconnoitre was a man well known to almost any regular soldier for his war exploits.
He had been trained from his boyhood days in a German public school to serve in the British Secret Service. His endowment of hatred had been carefully but unwittingly nourished by his school mates. He spoke German so faultlessly that he was reputed to have commanded a German regiment in the Line for a week before he ‘deserted’ back to the British lines. He was said to have been dropped behind the German lines by British planes when such a feat was unheard of—except on the occasions when it was linked with his name. As I have already said, I was not feeling brave although for the moment I had a meritricious courage through being cross.
We looked at the Luce; it seemed dry. We poked it with a stick; it seemed damp. I fell between s
ome large stones; my feet had become wet. “Let’s lie out here for a bit and see if we can find out anything.” It was a beautiful, clear and hot afternoon. But I was shivering—only partly through fatigue. I did not feel aware of fear, but I was excited.
I started to take compass bearings as my way of keeping fear at bay and giving myself something to do; I hoped it looked military.
I took bearings of the bridge in relation to the mud track by which we were to approach. I took bearings from the point ten yards beyond the Luce bridge where we were to swing left and take up our battle positions. My companion was very patient. I was grateful to him for not asking why I was engaged on so idiotic a procedure. When I began to take bearings for the rest of the battalion whose right hand company was A Company on our left, he drew the line at further topological enthusiasm.
We crawled out between two British outpost positions. It was quiet, hot and very peaceful. My companion kept using his binoculars. I tried to think of ways of dissuading him from crawling further. At last he thought he had found out enough.
We started back. “You must have got the position of the river Luce mapped out with an exactitude never before achieved.” He didn’t seem to be trying out his sarcasm on me. Suddenly remembering how glad I had been to know the direction of our front line trench at Chinese Wall I said, lying, “I often find it useful to know some bearings.”
31
ON my return the company, to my surprise, were very busy. I reported to Aitches; he said a message had come through that zero was the next morning, 8 o’clock, August 8th.
I was met by Asser, a spectacled, cheerful lad who had joined us a week earlier. I suppose he reminded me of what I and my friends had been like in England. He was about a year younger than I. I had told him to act as second in command to me and to take over if I was killed.
The Long Week-End 1897-1919 Page 26