To the Fore with the Tanks!

MADE IN GREAT BRITAIN First Published 1917 Frequently Reprinted

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?