CHAPTER IX
THE ADVANCE OF THE TANKS
"Slowly the mechanical mastodons advanced, reeling from side to side as they skirted the edges of the largest shell-craters. Through their multi-coloured sides guns, as yet ominously silent, grinned menacingly. The weapons, moving easily on their mountings, began to search for their objectives.
Through the waist-deep slime the Tanks floundered, displacing tons of mud under the resistless pressure of the broad-flanged endless belts. A shell from a distant German gun burst close alongside one of the steel mammoths, converting the "invisible" colour-scheme into a hideous daub of greenish yellow, but beyond that the H.E. missiles had no effect upon the mobile fortress. Straight from the triple row of barbed wire the Tanks waddled deliberately and remorselessly. The Huns watched their approach with evident concern, so much so that the bombers engaged in a duel with the Wheatshires across the traverse abandoned the task and scurried to their dug-outs. A few, more courageous than their comrades, directed their energies towards hurling their missiles against their uncanny foes. It was like shooting peas at a crocodile.
As matchwood the stout stakes supporting the entanglements snapped under the impact of the leading Tank's snout. Wire, coiling like writhing snakes directly the tension was released, was swept aside as easily as if made of pack thread. Then, lifting its bluff bows, the Tank ambled awkwardly up the parapet of the hostile lines, displacing sand-bags by the score, and finally coming to a standstill, like a steel Bridge of Sighs, across a canal of liquid mud with grey-coated Huns in place of gondolas.
"She's bogged!" yelled Penfold.
"No fear," retorted Alderhame. "She's just having a little rest. See, her wheels aren't moving."
The Tank was making good use of the stop, whether forced or otherwise, for astride of the trench she opened a terrific fire, enfilading the Germans as they crowded, panic-stricken, in the limited space 'twixt parapet and parados.
Up went scores of hands, but in vain. Mingled with those of the Huns who wished to surrender were several "die-hards," who with bullet and bomb tried in vain to find a vulnerable spot in the armour of their titanic antagonist. A few even scaled the side of the Tank and rained savage but ineffectual blows upon it with the butts of their rifles.
The second and third Tanks were now grinding their way through the hostile parapet. One, bridging the trench, landed immediately over the entrance to a dug-out. The reinforced concrete, set upon a mud foundation, was unable to resist the strain of hundreds of tons deadweight. The fore part of the landship sank until its vertical axis was inclined at an angle of forty-five degrees.
"She'll never get out of that," thought Setley, for the mere possibility of that mass of metal extricating itself from the chaos of mud and shattered concrete seemed out of the question. For perhaps five minutes the Tank remained in this ignominious position, the while spitting out flame from the muzzle of her guns, her tractor bands revolving uselessly since they found no resistance in the soft earth.
The wheels ceased to revolve. To outward appearance the Tank was out of action. Her guns no longer fired, since the Germans had evacuated the trench and were either risking certain death by bolting across the open or else obtaining a doubtful shelter in their dug-outs.
Then the traction bands were restarted, this time in a reverse direction. Slowly the huge mass of metal, disengaging itself from the debris, backed through the passage it had previously cleared in the parapet, and descended the glacis. Choosing another spot, the Tank again crawled forward, this time bridging the trench and disappearing beyond the parados.
All save the first mastodon had now passed the fire-trench. The one that remained did so with a set purpose. While it bridged the trench it was certain death for a Hun to show himself. A few, armed with bombs, did issue from their dug-outs, but caught by a hail of bullets from a machine-gun they ceased to be effective units of the Kaiser's legions.
The colonel of the Wheatshires saw the chance of straightening the line. He knew his men had suffered severely, but the time to rest was not yet. Armed only with a stick the gallant, grey-haired C.O. sprang upon the shell-scarred parados.
"The Wheatshires will advance," he shouted. "Come on, men; we've stuck in this trench quite long enough."
A hoarse shout rose from the parched throats of the indomitable Tommies as the remainder of the battalion leapt out of the trench they had held so stubbornly. In thirty seconds their former shelter was untenanted save for the dead and wounded and a handful of men told off to guard the entrance to the dug-outs that contained prisoners.
"Hang on to the tail of that Tank," shouted Sergeant Ferris to the men of his section. "We'll have our work cut out to settle the Huns who aren't squashed. Don't leave a single Fritz with a rifle in his hand behind you—I've had some."
The sergeant looked a most ferocious object despite his inches, for he was just five feet one and a half. His steel helmet was dented and bespattered with mud. His face was black with dirt thrown up by a shell that exploded less than twenty yards from him. His great coat was torn away at the waist, while one puttee was ripped away entirely. His left wrist was clumsily swathed in first-aid dressings that momentarily threatened to fall off, while to complete the picture a partly dressed goose dangled from his belt.
Ferris had always the resources of an old campaigner. In one of the captured dug-outs he had found the bird, and with the idea that it would "come in handy after the dust-up" he had lashed the goose's legs round his belt.
"Don't think I'm greedy, boys," he shouted. "You'll all stand in later on."
The Germans in the second and third line trenches were fairly trapped. Their own guns were putting up a barrage behind them. Mere "cannon fodder" the defeated infantry received no consideration from their own artillery. The latter, their one idea being to attempt to hold the British attack, were furiously pouring in shells that no troops could hope to pass through in the open.
There was a stubborn resistance offered by the Huns in the second line of trenches, but the Tanks, assisted by the now wildly excited Wheatshires, were not to be denied. With bayonet and bomb the Tommies rushed the defences and made prisoners of the surviving Huns.
There was still plenty of work to be done before the attack was resumed upon the third and last of that section of earthwork. The captured trench had to be consolidated as a matter of precaution, in case the final attack failed.
"Who's got a fag?" enquired Penfold, stopping in the act of transferring a sand-bag from the parapet to the parados. "Hang it all, did you ever see such mud? It's a jolly sight worse than our trenches."
"Here you are," said Ralph, tendering a very soiled cigarette. "Let me give you a hand."
Penfold lighted the cigarette, then, shouldering the heavy sack, descended very cautiously from the fire-step to the floor of the trench. His feet sank into the slime until the mud and water reached to his knees. Vainly he tried to extricate himself. It was not until Setley and Alderhame threw down a couple of pieces of timber as footholds and tugged at their comrade by main force that Penfold was free from the tenacious mud.
It was an even more difficult matter to heave the sand-bag into position. Again Penfold's legs sank ankle deep. Perspiring freely in spite of the cold he struggled to maintain his balance without dropping the sand-bag from his shoulder. In his efforts his steel helmet slipped over his eyes. Still holding on with one hand to his burden he grasped the rim of his "tin hat." As he did so a bullet pinged sharply against the metal head-covering, the glancing blow causing Penfold to stagger and drop the sand-bag. Blood was streaming down his face.
"I always said that steel helmets were a rotten swindle," he exclaimed, then he broke off abruptly and looked dully at his right hand. The middle finger had been completely severed by the bullet.
"Thought it was my head!" he said. "Hanged if I felt this at all."
"You are a lucky bounder, Penfold," declared George Anderson. "It'll get you back to Blighty for a dead cert."
"Thanks, you're welcome to my luck," replied the wounded man as he submitted to the surgical attentions of Setley and Alderhame. "I call it jolly hard lines, just as we are going forward. Now, if this had happened while we were held up in our trenches I wouldn't have minded. Jolly rough luck, I call it."
Just then Sergeant Ferris came bustling along the captured trench.
"Hullo! Copped it?" he enquired laconically.
"Rather," replied Penfold dolefully. "Suppose there's no chance of my having a slice of that goose now?"
"Where is the bird, sergeant?" enquired Alderhame.
Dumfounded the non-com. clapped his hands on his belt. The goose had vanished—all but the legs, that were still fastened to the sergeant's equipment.
"Must 'a' lost it in the charge," decided Ferris. "I'm off back to look for it."
Regardless of the risk he ran the N.C.O. doubled across the shell-pitted ground. In five minutes he was back again, holding what appeared to be a flattened lump of mud.
"Got it!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "Found it in the track of a Tank. Only the head was to be seen, but I managed to hike it clear of the mud."
"Not much of a goose now, sergeant," remarked Ginger.
"True, lad, true; but it'll wash all right while it's boiling. One can't afford to be too particular these times."