CHAPTER XIV
THE COMMAND OF A TANK
"Second-Lieutenant Setley's attention had been directed to a machine-gun emplacement that, notwithstanding the terrific pounding of the Hun lines, had somehow escaped the general demolition. It stood in a slight hollow, the dip in the ground enabling the machine-guns to fire diagonally across the line of advancing troops and, incidentally, into the crowd of demoralized Hun prisoners. Although the arc of fire was limited, the result was hardly less efficacious on that account.
The harmless splaying of bullets upon the Tank's armoured side had drawn Ralph's attention to the source of the hail of small missiles. He could discern the domed tops of the three portable steel cupolas in which the machine-guns were housed. Evidently these metal defence works had been kept in a deep dug-out during the bombardment, and when the British guns lifted had been raised from the bowels of the earth—giving trouble and asking for it.
Round swung the Tank, slowly, ponderously. Her "tail"—the pair of wheels used for steering purposes when on fairly level ground—was tilted clear of the crater-pitted earth. Grimly and remorselessly she set out to squash the viper's nest out of existence.
The Huns held on doggedly. They must have realized that they were already cut off by swarms of British infantry, and that sooner or later they would be "rushed" from all sides. Under the impression that no quarter is accorded to machine-gunners the Boches determined to fight to the last. Even the approach of the Tank, even if it spelt doom, did not make them desert their guns and with uplifted hands shout "Kamerad."
Right and left of the emplacement were lines of barbed wire, many of the posts still standing; but directly in front the entanglement had been flattened, scorched posts and short fragments of twisted wire alone remaining to mark the position. The path for the Tank was invitingly open, but that fact, combined with the determined stand of the Hun machine-gunners, struck Setley as being suspicious. Either the ground in front of the three cupolas was mined, or else a deep pit, with vertical sides, had been dug, and concealed by means of a covering of boards strong enough to bear the weight of a few men but unable to withstand the 200 tons dead weight of a Tank.
With one tractor band grinding ahead and the other reversed the Tank made a half turn in its own length and commenced to cross the front of its objective. Then climbing the rising ground with consummate ease the mammoth charger drew up to the flank of the machine-gunners' lair.
The Huns in the nearest cupola promptly bolted and surrendered to the nearest Tommies they met. Those in the second one, firing to the last, were neatly "done in," for the Tank, charging the metal-box obliquely, toppled it into the nearest mud and finished off by pulverizing the light steel plating and the crew within.
The men belonging to the third machine-gun, seeing that their mobile fortress was powerless against the immensely superior weight of the Tank, fled for the nearest dug-out. Three were shot down by the Tank's machine-gun, while two managed to reach the doubtful shelter. Too late they discovered that the dug-out had caved in under the impact of a huge shell, and only the entrance and a few steps were left.
Ralph ordered his command to be brought to a standstill. His work for the present was accomplished. The rounding-up of the two surviving Huns must be left to the infantry, numbers of whom were swarming over the captured lines, securing prisoners and exploring dug-outs lest the gentle Boches had left explosives with time-fuses in those cavernous depths.
Setley gave a whoop of surprise and delight as a dozen Tommies approached. They were the Wheatshires—his late regiment—and, to be more exact, men of his former platoon. But in vain he looked for Sergeant Alderhame. Penfold—well, he could hardly be expected to be out at the Front so soon. But there was Sidney, the lad with Polish blood in his veins. George Anderson, too.
Ralph felt tempted to shout as the little Cockney dashed past the stationary Tank. With his rifle slung across his back, and a bomb held ready to hurl, Ginger was the personification of activity and alertness. He had spotted the two Huns in the mouth of the dug-out. It would be obviously unwise for Ralph to attract the bomber's attention.
"Up with yer dooks!" shouted Ginger, swinging the bomb.
One of the men obeyed promptly, begging the while for quarter.
"Course you'll save your hide, Fritz," said his conqueror encouragingly. "Mike, take that blighter out of it, will yer?"
Remained one Hun, a tall, broad-shouldered lout, with a face that had animal cunning and ferocity written on every line of it. He stood with his rifle and bayonet at the "ready." His last cartridge had been spent. He was determined to fight to the last.
"Up with 'em!" yelled Ginger, brandishing the Mills bomb, while other men of the platoon gradually closed in upon the solitary Prussian.
The Hun made no attempt to comply. Snarling, he lunged ineffectually at a Wheatshire who had come almost within reach of the glittering steel.
"Hanged if I can do the bloomer in with this," exclaimed Ginger, placing his supply of bombs on the ground and grasping his rifle.
"Form a ring, chums, an' see fair play. Now, Fritz, it's either you or me."
"I haf no chance," replied the Prussian. "If out I come der odders vill shoot in my back."
"Don't talk rot, Dutchy," protested Anderson. "We ain't 'Uns. Either 'ands up or fight me!"
The Prussian had more faith in a British Tommy's word than he had in his own. Still snarling, he emerged cautiously from his retreat; then, finding that no attempt was made on the part of the other men to molest him, he crouched behind his bayonet and stealthily approached the imperturbable Cockney.
With a longer reach and armed with a rifle and bayonet of greater length than the British service weapon the Hun had a certain advantage; but lack of initiative and the slowness of his mental and physical powers neutralized his ascendancy over the short, sturdily built Wheatshire corporal.
Thrice the steel crossed. Once the Prussian's bayonet rasped against the wood casing of Ginger's rifle—a foiled effort to cripple his antagonist's fingers. By a brilliant parry Anderson knocked the point aside, and the next instant his bayonet was thrust deeply into the Hun's body.
"Well done, Ginger!" shouted his comrades.
"Too bloomin' well done," rejoined the victor. "'Ere, you chaps, who's gotter fust-aid dressin'? Mine's been kippered. Thanks, mate."
And almost before the heat of the combat had had time to cool Anderson was on his knees by the side of his late adversary, working diligently to staunch the flow of blood from the wound that he had made.
"Yer asked for it properly, Fritz," he exclaimed. "Why didn't yer put yer bloomin' 'ands up when I told yer?"
In answer, the wounded Hun turned his head and bit the hand of the man who was tending him.
"Yer rotten cannibal!" ejaculated Ginger, and disregarding the advice of his comrades to knock the fellow over the head, Anderson gathered up his bombs, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and vanished from Setley's view.
By this time the battle had rolled onwards. Away on the right German shells were pounding the slopes of Vimy Ridge. That was a good sign. It proved that the British troops had secured a footing in what was unquestionably a key to this section of the hostile line.
Hindenburg had had his wish gratified—to meet the British in the open. He had failed to gain anything by it. In trench warfare the New Army had proved itself superior to the product of the German High Command, and now, with their trenches left miles in the rear, the Tommies were "mopping up" the Huns as neatly as the most exacting commander could wish.
And yet an admirable restraint was noticeable in the movements of the attacking troops. In the heat of the battle and joy of victory it was pardonable for the men to wish to push on beyond the protection of their artillery. With a very few exceptions the various units kept well under control. Never was the maxim "Hasten slowly" better applied.
A motor-cyclist, riding furiously and yet avoiding the yawning shell craters with a dexterity acquired by long practice, pulled up by the side of the stationary Tank. With the engine still running and keeping the machine balanced by placing one foot on the ground, the grimy mud-caked dispatch rider delivered his message.
"There's a Tank bogged fifty yards south-east of Henricourt Farm, sir," he reported. "The CO. sends orders for you to proceed to her assistance."
"Very good," replied Setley, and closing and locking the door, he gave instructions for full speed ahead to the aid of his crippled consort.