To the Fore with the Tanks!

  Produced by R.G.P.M. van Giesen

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  TO THE FORE WITH THE TANKS!

  THE GREATADVENTURESERIES

  PERCY F. WESTERMAN:THE AIRSHIP "GOLDEN HIND"TO THE FORE WITH THE TANKSTHE SECRET BATTLEPLANEWILMSHURST OF THE FRONTIER FORCE

  ROWLAND WALKER:DEVILLE MCKEENE THE EXPLOITS OF THE MYSTERY AIRMANBLAKE OF THE MERCHANT SERVICEBUCKLE OF SUBMARINE V2OSCAR DANBY, V.C.DASTRAL OF THE FLYING CORPSTHE PHANTOM AIRMAN

  S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.4, 5, & 6 SOHO SQUARE,LONDON, W.1.

  TO THE FOREWITH THE TANKS!

  BY

  PERCY F. WESTERMAN

  AUTHOR OF"A WATCHDOG OF THE NORTH SEA"; "A SUB. OF THE R.N.R.""THE RIVAL SUBMARINES," ETC., ETC.

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  S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.4, 5 & 6 SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.1.

  MADE IN GREAT BRITAIN

  _First Published 1917__Frequently Reprinted_

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I. TO THE FRONT II. THE COMMUNICATION TRENCH III. THE NIGHT ATTACK IV. GRUB V. THE EXPEDITION TO NO MAN'S LAND VI. A PRISONER OF WAR VII. THE FIRST ADVANCE VIII. CUT OFF IX. THE ADVANCE OF THE TANKS X. THE WRECKED LANDSHIP XI. AN INTERVIEW WITH THE C.O. XII. "THE BEST OF LUCK" XIII. THE BEGINNING OF THE GREATER PUSH XIV. THE COMMAND OF A TANK XV. THE BOGGED LANDSHIP XVI. ALDERHAME'S GOOD SHOT XVII. THE SPY XVIII. THE STRUGGLE FOR NEANCOURT VILLAGE XIX. THE MINED TUNNEL XX. THE FALL OF THE VON DER GOLZ REDOUBT XXI. TRAPPED XXII. TANK VERSUS LOCOMOTIVE XVIII. THE LAST STAND

  TO THE FORE WITHTHE TANKS!

  CHAPTER I

  TO THE FRONT

  THE jolting cattle-trucks pulled up with a disconcerting jerk at thetermination of a fifty-mile railway journey, performed in theremarkably record time of fifteen hours.

  From a springless truck, on which was painted the legend, "40 hommesou 8 chevaux," descended fifty-two tired but elated Tommies, thirsty,ravenously hungry, but quite able to keep up a bantering conversationwith the peasants who had gathered by the side of the temporary line.

  It was a miserable night, even for the Somme district in early March.Rain was falling solidly. The ground was churned into deep mud of theconsistency of treacle. The gaunt gables of a dozen roofless houses,silhouetted against the constant glare in the sky, betokened ruinedhomes and uncomfortable billets; while the loud rumble of distantartillery was in itself ample proof that at last the SecondWheatshires had arrived somewhere on the Western Front--the goal ofsix months' constant and arduous training.

  Into the squelching mud the men stepped blithely. They were used toit by this time. The double line of khaki-clad figures, showing dimlythrough the darkness, shuffled impatiently. Here and there a manwould "hike" his pack to relieve the weight of the webbing equipmentover his shoulders, or sling his rifle while he lighted the almostinseparable "fag." The distant flashes of the heavy guns glinted fromthe wet "tin-hats" of the Tommies, as the unaccustomed head-gearwobbled with every movement of the wearer's head. The issue of steeltrench helmets given before the commencement of the railway journeyhad confirmed the rumour of the past fortnight--that No. 3 Platoonwas to be sent to join the rest of the battalion at the Front.

  "Ah, well, 'tis certain he hath crossed River Somme,'" quoted PrivateGraham Alderhame formerly of the Shakesperian Repertoire Company andnow a humble foot-slogging Tommy in a noted Line Regiment. "Well, ifthis is across the Somme I don't think much of it. Another ten milesby motor-bus, I suppose, and then something in the way of grub. Got acigarette on you, dear boy?"

  Private Ralph Setley, who seven months previously had been abank-clerk in a busy provincial town, placed his rifle against a pileof equipment that was serenely resting in the mud, and fumbled for apacket of smokes. Then, having handed one of the contents to hischum, he struck a match.

  The light flickered upon the honest, deeply tanned features of atypical British lad of about nineteen or twenty. In spite of a day ofextreme discomfort in the over-crowded horse-box which the FrenchGovernment placed at the disposal of Allied troops, his eyes twinkledwith the excitement of the moment. At last he was within sound of theguns, and more, the chance of meeting a Hun was within measurabledistance.

  Having lighted Alderhame's cigarette and his own, Setley was about tothrow the vilely sulphurous match to the ground when another voiceinterposed:

  "Hold hard, chum. Let's have a light."

  Ralph was about to comply with the request when a hand shot out andsent the still flaring match flying through the air.

  "What's that for, George?" asked the disappointed applicant for alight, with mingled truculence and resentment.

  "'Cause 'tain't for no good; third chap as 'as a light from the samematch allus goes West--honest fact," replied Ginger Anderson, ashort, wiry man, who, according to his attestation papers, used to bea gamekeeper, although others of his platoon swore that he had beenconvicted three times for poaching.

  "Listen!" exclaimed Alderhame, placing a hand on Setley's shoulder.

  A short distance along the double line of waiting Tommies a hungryKentish man was endeavouring to persuade an ancient _paysanne_ tosell some eggs. Judging by the man's injured tone his efforts werenot meeting with success.

  "Wot, no compree?" he asked. "Des woffs, des woffs. Blimey, these oldFrenchies don't understand their own bloomin' language. Woffs, Isaid, missis--them wot we calls heggs."

  A motor-car with dimmed head-lights dashed up, throwing showers ofmud on either side like miniature cascades. From it descended agreat-coated staff-officer. The ranks stiffened. Something was in theair. Information, perhaps, as to the place where the tired Tommieswere to be billeted.

  "Who's in charge of this platoon?" rasped out an authoritative voice.

  "I am, sir," replied a subaltern fresh from home, a beardless youthof about nineteen, Stanley Dacres by name. "Details for the SecondWheatshires."

  "Quite about time," rejoined the staff officer. "You are to take yourmen to the reserve trenches. Motor-buses for the first five miles.With luck you ought to be there by midnight. Arms and equipment allcorrect?"

  "All correct, sir."

  "Gas masks?"

  "Two per man, sir."

  "All right; see that one is returned. New pattern gas-helmets will beissued. A guide will accompany you. Good night and good luck."

  The staff officer vanished in the darkness, his place being taken bya sergeant who had evidently emerged from an _estaminet_.

  In single file the No. 3 Platoon marched off, ankle deep in liquidmud, the coldness of which penetrated the thick puttees and boots ofthe men as they made their way towards the supply depot.

  The depot was a long, rambling stone building that originallypossessed one doorway. Now there were two, a Hun shell havingobligingly knocked away twenty or thirty square feet of masonry inthe end wall, while of the roof only a few rafters and tilesremained. Tarpaulin sheets had been nailed to the woodwork to form atemporary shelter from the driving rain. The corners of the canvas,flapping in the wind, threatened to demolish the remaining structure,besides allowing a steady stream of water to pour upon the earth andlime-trodden floor.

  As each man entered the building he threw one of the two gas-masks ina corner, and in return had a complicated anti-poison-gas devicethrust unceremoniously into his hand. Three paces further on he wasgreeted with half of a very dry loaf and a tin of bully-beef, whileas he emerged into the night another gift in the shape of one hundredand fifty rounds of ball ammunition in clips was bestowed on thealready heavily weighted Tommy.

  "Repairs executed while you wait!" exclaimed Ginger Anderson. "Oh,dash! There goes my bloomin' tucker."

  The half-loaf had slipped from his grasp and was rolling in the mud.As he
stooped to retrieve it the man next to him cannoned into hisunstable form, with the result that Ginger went on all-fours, plusequipment, in the Artois mud.

  "Say, sergeant," remarked the luckless private, holding up the bread."Wot am I ter do wi' this?"

  "Get outside it when you're hungry," was the N.C.O.'s unsympatheticreply. "If you've never got to eat stuff worse than that you canthank your lucky stars."

  "All aboard for 'Appy 'Ampstead!" shouted a wag as a line ofmotor-buses, some possessing the original advertisements they haddisplayed in London Town, snorted up through the blinding rain.

  "Silence in the ranks!" ordered the platoon commander.

  Even had his order not been given absolute silence fell upon the menas a blinding flash stabbed the darkness, followed by an appallingcrash like a concerted roar of a dozen thunder claps. The groundtrembled. A partly demolished gable collapsed with a long drawn-outrumble.

  "We're under shell fire at last, then," remarked Second-LieutenantDacres to the sergeant told off as guide to the platoon.

  "Fritz's evening hate, sir," replied the N.C.O. imperturbably. "Hedrops them occasionally on the high road well behind our lines on theoff chance of strafing some of our chaps. That one fell quite fivehundred yards away. You'll soon get used to it, sir. There'll be twomore coming, and then we can get a move on."

  Private Setley could feel his heart beating against his ribs as hewaited. Being under shell fire for the first time was decidedly anuncanny sensation. Dimly he wondered if he would ever get used to it.

  The second and third projectiles came almost simultaneously, onebursting a quarter of a mile away on the right, the other landing inan already ruined farm building on the outskirts of the village.Beams and masses of brick-bats were tossed sky-high like straws in agale of wind, while some of the men felt certain that they sawportions of a field gun hurled upwards in the glare of the burstingshell.

  "That's the lot," declared the sergeant coolly. "'Tain't like what itused to be. Fritz thinks twice about wasting heavy gun ammunition."

  Silently the Tommies boarded the waiting buses. For the time beingtheir natural hilarity was subdued by the unwonted display of war.

  "Seeking a bubble reputation at the cannon's mouth,'" declared theex-actor. "If it weren't for the fact that I've come a very long wayto see the fun, I, like Pistol's boy, would give all my fame for apot of ale and safety. What say you, Setley?"

  Private Setley did not reply. Mentally he was comparing his presentposition with that of a few short months ago. Then he would havegiven almost anything to be "clear of the Bank." The long hours spentin making up the "half-yearly balance" were loathsome. It was arelief to be able to live an open-air life. Now he was about torealise the dreams of months--yet, somehow, he hardly relished thosebursting shells. It was too one-sided to his liking--to be potted atfrom an unknown distance and be unable to lift so much as a littlefinger in self-defence.

  "Wait till it comes to bayonet work," he mused. "Then our fellowswill give the Huns a bit of a surprise."

  The detachment was really good at bayonet practice. While attached tothe Fifth Battalion at home the men had earned unstinted praise fromsuper-critical instructors at the way in which they prodded thesuspended sacks.

  With a few exceptions all the men of No. 3 Platoon were either Derbymen or conscripts. They all had good excuses--or they individuallyfirmly imagined they had--why they should not "join up." It wasn'tthat they were not patriotic, yet circumstances urged them to holdback as long as possible. They groused while they awaited thelong-deferred call. The uncertainty of the whole business was theworst part of it; but when they did join up they made the very bestof an unwanted job, went through the training like Trojans, andlonged for the order for the Front.

  Socially they were a motley lot. In addition to the "formeroccupations" of men already mentioned there were two solicitors, a'Varsity graduate, an artist, a general manager, half a score ofsmall business men, several mechanics and labourers and twoex-convicts--all firmly determined to have a slap at Kaiser Bill'sgrey-coated Huns.

  For twenty minutes the line of motor-buses jolted and swayed,sometimes making abrupt turns to avoid deep shell holes, at othersslowing down or stopping to allow convoys proceeding in oppositedirection to pass. All the while the deafening din continued,increasing in intensity as the distance decreased.

  At length the vehicles pulled up at the end of that stage of thejourney. The stiff-limbed and sleepy men, hampered by their heavyequipment, got down into the mud once more.

  There was very little talking. Every man seemed to be too interestedin the novel form of Brock's fireworks to indulge in conversation. Asfar as the eye could reach the countryside--slightly undulating--waspin-pricked with flashes of gun-fire. Overhead star-shells of varyingcolours threw a lurid glare upon the mounds of brickwork that at onetime formed populous and prosperous villages. Half a mile to theright a church tower still stood, with a jagged hole in one angle. Itseemed marvellous that the whole structure had not collapsed. Aheadthe road ended abruptly in a mound of earth and stones thrown up bythe impact and explosion of a Hun eleven-inch shell. Almost touchingthe outer edge of the crater was a Calvary--the cross standing outsharply against the artificially lighted horizon. The crucifix wasthe only object left standing within a radius of a hundred yards fromthe place where the shell had dropped.

  Suddenly a lurid flash, followed almost simultaneously by a roar thatoutvoiced the distant rumble of the artillery, seemed to burst fromthe ground within thirty paces of the platoon as they formed up tocontinue their journey on the march.

  The spurt of fire directed upwards at an acute angle was followed bythe hideous tearing screech of a huge projectile. A British gun, socleverly screened that none of the detachment was aware of itsexistence, had just been fired. "It's only 'Gentle Gerty' saying goodnight to the Boches, sir," explained the guide. "Now, sir, singlefile, and no smoking in the ranks."

  The Tommies, throwing away their cigarette ends and knocking outtheir pipes, set out on the last stage of their journey. They werenow at the Front.