To the Fore with the Tanks! — Themes and Context

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 WITH THE TANKS!

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

From a springless truck, on which was painted the legend, "40 hommes ou 8 chevaux," descended fifty-two tired but elated Tommies, thirsty, ravenously hungry, but quite able to keep up a bantering conversation with 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 the consistency of treacle. The gaunt gables of a dozen roofless houses, silhouetted against the constant glare in the sky, betokened ruined homes and uncomfortable billets; while the loud rumble of distant artillery was in itself ample proof that at last the Second Wheatshires had arrived somewhere on the Western Front--the goal of six months' constant and arduous training.

Into the squelching mud the men stepped blithely. They were used to it by this time. The double line of khaki-clad figures, showing dimly through the darkness, shuffled impatiently. Here and there a man would "hike" his pack to relieve the weight of the webbing equipment over his shoulders, or sling his rifle while he lighted the almost inseparable "fag." The distant flashes of the heavy guns glinted from the wet "tin-hats" of the Tommies, as the unaccustomed head-gear wobbled with every movement of the wearer's head. The issue of steel trench helmets given before the commencement of the railway journey had confirmed the rumour of the past fortnight--that No. 3 Platoon was to be sent to join the rest of the battalion at the Front.

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

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

The light flickered upon the honest, deeply tanned features of a typical British lad of about nineteen or twenty. In spite of a day of extreme discomfort in the over-crowded horse-box which the French Government placed at the disposal of Allied troops, his eyes twinkled with the excitement of the moment. At last he was within sound of the guns, and more, the chance of meeting a Hun was within measurable distance.

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

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

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

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

"'Cause 'tain't for no good; third chap as 'as a light from the same match allus goes West--honest fact," replied Ginger Anderson, a short, wiry man, who, according to his attestation papers, used to be a gamekeeper, although others of his platoon swore that he had been convicted 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 hungry Kentish man was endeavouring to persuade an ancient _paysanne_ to sell some eggs. Judging by the man's injured tone his efforts were not meeting with success.

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