CHAPTER XVIII
THE STRUGGLE FOR NEANCOURT VILLAGE
""Thank your lucky stars that you fellows aren't in Blighty," was the greeting Setley and Danvers received on the following morning, when they put in an appearance in the building pretentiously styled the Mess.
"What's wrong now?" asked Danvers. "Rotten news in the papers?"
"We were referring to your escapade last night," continued the speaker. "Your efforts are like the padre's egg: good in parts. We don't deny that the fellow who was shot by the sentry was a spy, but the other——"
"What about him?" enquired Ralph impatiently.
"Don't jump down my throat, old chap," was the feigned indignant protest. "That's the secret of the whole business. You simply leap at erroneous conclusions like a bull at a gate. Sometimes the gate goes, sometimes it doesn't, and then the animal is sorry for itself. Do you remember what Gladstone said in 'sixty-eight?"
"Nothing to do with this spy business, I'll swear," interrupted Danvers, seizing his tormentor by the scruff of the neck. "Now, you prevaricating blighter, out with it! What are you hinting at?"
"I was testing your knowledge of political history before enlightening you——"
The young officer had no further opportunity in that direction, for Setley gripped him by the heels and Danvers by the shoulders. Between them they bumped their victim till he yelled for mercy.
"Then straight to the point," declared Danvers, "or we'll strafe you again."
"I was recalling the Prime Minister's immortal quotation in the year of grace eighteen hundred and sixty-eight," gurgled the captive, whereat the bumping process proceeded, until the entry of the senior major restored things to their normal state.
"Yes," he remarked, when Danvers had informed him of the reason for the impromptu "rag." "You fellows have made a mess of part of the business. The man in British uniform is a major of the Coalshires. He is suffering from shell-shock, and is now under the doctor's care. Memory gone, and all that sort of thing. Got out of touch with his battalion and wandered into the ruined farmhouse for shelter. The plan he apparently took from a German prisoner, and although in the major's present mental state it conveys nothing to him it means a lot of precious information to us. It appears to be an accurate and official plan of the system of trenches surrounding the Von der Golz Redoubt and the fortress village of Néancourt."
"That's good, sir," remarked Danvers.
"I agree, and so does the C.O. In any case, the plan will enable the C.O. to communicate accurate information to the Brigade Headquarters, in which event be prepared for the fall of the hitherto impregnable Von der Golz Redoubt."
Outside Ralph encountered Sergeant Alderhame, who was busily engaged in dismantling a machine-gun.
"You might have got me to chip in last night's affair, sir," he said reproachfully.
"Couldn't be helped," replied Setley. "I would have done so, if possible. How do you like your new job?"
"Absolutely top-hole," declared the ex-actor enthusiastically. "I am just pining to have another slap at the Boches, this time inside one of these beauties."
And he indicated the array of landships, now quiescent, like Behemoths resting after a fray.
"You are getting quite vindictive," declared Ralph.
"I came out here with the idea that a German was a human being like ourselves," said Alderhame. "I have altered my opinion since then. Why, only this morning I met one of the Wheatshires back from out there. The wanton damage those brutes did before evacuating some of the villages shows that he is a beast. What puzzles me is that the German Staff isn't afraid of the consequences. They must know they're being beaten. I suppose it's a case of:
"Before the curing of a strange disease,
Even in the instant of repair and health,
The fit is strongest; evils that take leave,
On their departure most of all show evil."
"And I hope you're right," said Ralph. "There seems no doubt that the Huns are getting properly whacked. It'll be a tough job for some time, but they're on the down grade."
"To quote the bard again:
He that stands upon a slippery place
Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up.
You know, Mr. Setley, since I've been out here I firmly believe that Will Shakespeare must have foreseen this business. How appropriate many of his quotations are! However, quoting Shakespeare won't get this blessed machine-gun re-assembled, so here goes.
Before the day was out persistent rumours passed from man to man that the Great Push was to attain its culminating point—or, at least, a terrific intensity—on the following Monday. The guns had allowed the enemy no rest. On a front of twenty miles tons and tons of shells were being pumped into the Hun lines. It was a bombardment that presaged an infantry advance on a large scale, and that meant that the Tanks were to play a conspicuous part.
On the evening prior to the longed-for day rumour gave place to certainty. The advance was definitely fixed. Come storm or sunshine, mud or dust, the khaki-clad infantry were to go over the top at the hour of five-thirty. Every available Tank was to cooperate; once the positions were won the Tank commanders were to exercise their discretion in pushing on, keeping within the limits and following up the British artillery barrage.
At the final conference, the officers of the Tank Division pored over their maps and listened to elaborate but simply explained instructions from the C.O. The principle objective during the first phase of the advance was the Von der Golz Redoubt. The most practicable means of approach was pointed out—a circuitous route that first meant the occupation of the nest of fortified ruins that at one time formed the village of Néancourt.
"Gain that, gentlemen," concluded the C.O., "and your raison d'être is achieved. Afterwards you can rely upon your own judgment."
Setley, like many others, sat up late that night. There was much to be done on the eve of the battle. He had done it many times before, but there was always the same sort of ritual to be undertaken in case he "went West." The frequency with which he got his personal belongings together, and wrote a farewell letter home, to be forwarded in the event of anything happening, was becoming monotonous. He dreaded the preliminaries, although he knew that the moment the order for advance was received and the Tank set in motion all fears on that score would be flung to the winds and absorbed by the exhilaration of the battle.
The morning broke grey and misty. With the first signs of dawn the infantry stood to arms, clustered as closely as the narrow width of the trenches permitted. Overhead the British shells flew as thick as hail, dropping with admirable precision upon the expanse of tortured earth that recently had been the latest word in the system of German field fortifications. Néancourt village remained fairly intact, as far as observation from the British lines showed, while dominating it was the strongly held Von der Golz Redoubt, formidable in spite of the hammering it had received for the last forty-eight hours.
For good reasons, these two places had not been subjected to a bombardment from H.E. shells. So long as they remained free from the attentions of that sort of missile, the Germans kept their garrisons up to full strength. They held the positions tenaciously, and reckless of loss of life. Since every Hun put out of action meant an irreparable loss to their reserves, it was better for the British to leave a veritable death trap for their foes until the critical moment of the advance than to pulverize the place and thus release German troops for work in more extended positions.
"Those fellows will put up a stiff fight," remarked Danvers, as he walked with Setley towards the waiting Tanks. "Prussian Guard and Bavarian infantry: that's what we have in front of us. I hear that the Saxons and Badeners have been withdrawn. They surrender too freely to please old Hinder-beggar."
"Those blighters are obviously fed-up," agreed Ralph. "Sergeant Alderhame showed me a card he had picked up in a captured dug-out. I have it somewhere—yes, here it is."
He handed Danvers a piece of pasteboard, about four inches by three. On it in German characters was the following:—
"Yield yourself prisoner: any one can who wishes to do so. Clear out of your path those who lead you to the slaughter-house—they alone are your enemies. Think of your dear ones. Do not sacrifice yourselves for princes and the money bags of Prussia. Help yourselves and God will help you.—Hans von Rippach."
"That shows the way the wind blows in the South German principalities," commented Danvers. "Imagine our Tommies passing round a thing like that. Hullo, there's the signal! S'long, old chap, and the best of luck."
Five minutes later the array of Tanks ambled leisurely towards the first-line trenches. Hardly a hostile shell came near them; the few that did were "duds." Not only was the German fire diminished by the British artillery, but the few missiles they did send over were obviously deficient in quality.
Guided by the prearranged signals, the landships made for a part of the British trenches that had already been cleared in order to allow the mastodons to crawl over. As Ralph's Tank ground her way across the deep and narrow trench the subaltern had a momentary glimpse of a close line of steel-helmeted infantry, standing with one foot on the fire-step and with their bayonets fixed, awaiting the shrill blast of the whistles.
Fifty—a hundred yards ahead the Tanks went, greeted by a fierce yet ineffectual fire from scores of machine-guns. Despite the heavy bombardment, the Huns had again managed to keep a large proportion of these deadly weapons intact. Against infantry their scythe-like hail of bullets would be terribly effective. The Tanks, drawing the fire, made it possible for the men to charge without excessive losses.
Straight towards Néancourt village the squadron of landships advanced, but only to a certain point. Then, amid the yells of the exasperated Prussians, who had been hoping that the mammoth steel-clad machines would blunder into a series of pitfalls, the Tanks turned abruptly to the right and parallel to the hostile lines. Thanks to the plan that Danvers and Setley had taken from the supposed spy, the landships were able to attack effectively and without danger of being "bogged."
Within the confined space of the Tank the noise of the motors and rapid bark of the quickfirers and the metallic rattle of the maxims muffled all other sounds from without; yet Ralph caught the sudden roar of the inimitable British cheer as the Tommies swarmed over the top.
It was a case of concentrating all his attention on the enemy. Every hostile machine-gun put out of action meant greater security to the British infantry, and nobly Setley went about his task. Following the Tank next ahead he kept within fifty yards of the enemy lines, the nearest that the Tanks could approach without toppling over into cunningly concealed pitfalls. As hard as the gunners could open and snap to the metal breech-blocks, as rapidly as the maxims could use up their belts of ammunition, the Tank, like her consorts, poured shot and shell into every possible spot that might be a German machine-gun emplacement.
The Huns stood their ground. The terror that had seized them when first they had seen what they took to be supernatural monsters was no longer manifest. They knew what Tanks were, what damage they could do, and that, like other engines of war, they were vulnerable. The fact that a long, deep, covered pit lay between them and the oncoming landships gave them confidence—a confidence that was to be shattered when they realized that somehow the British had learned the secret of the hidden anti-Tank defences.
Again turning abruptly, this time to the left, the array of landships lurched and sidled over the partly flattened-out trench, almost simultaneously with the leading platoon of the charging infantry.
Although the foremost line was thinly held the Huns fought with a desperate and ferocious courage. They were Prussians, steeped in the belief that they are the finest troops in the world, and taught to despise the amateur army that had, Phoenix-like, arisen from the ashes of the "contemptible" little British expeditionary force that, outgunned and outnumbered, ought to have been wiped out by the German legions on the glorious retirement from Mons. Yet it had not. The Prussian military machine had not reckoned upon one thing—the dauntless bravery and stolid tenacity of the individual British soldier.
With bomb, rifle and bayonet, the Huns sought to defend themselves against the irresistible khaki-clad boys. Hardly once was the recreant cry of "Kamerad" raised. In five minutes the British troops were in indisputable possession of the first-line trenches. Here they paused for a well-needed "breather," while the Tanks cleared a path to the outskirts of Néancourt.
Three landships undertook this part of the operations. Others were executing a "turning movement" against the Von der Golz Redoubt. Two were already out of action—one receiving a direct hit from a 5-inch shell, the other toppling over into a concealed pit.
Fierce as had been the struggle for the Hun front trench the fight for Néancourt excelled it in savagery and tenacity. Setley soon had evidences of the desperate courage of the Prussian Guard, for on approaching the barricade at the outskirts of the village scores of Germans boldly quitted shelter and attacked the Tank with bombs. It was a futile, inane act, but characteristic of the temper of the Boches. In a trice the roof of the Tank was swarming with men who endeavoured to find a vulnerable joint in the massive armour. They even rained blows on the muzzles of the quickfirers and tried to jam the tractor-bands by means of crowbars and wedges, while in their mad excitement many were killed and injured by bombs hurled by their compatriots.
Ralph gave orders for the motors to be reversed. With the sudden change of motion the Huns on the roof rolled off like ninepins. Many were caught and crushed under the broad-flanged tractor-bands, others formed an easy mark for machine-guns; while the Tank, shaking herself clear, like a retriever emerging from the water, forged ahead again for the barrier thrown across the street.
It was a formidable obstacle. Trees had been felled so that their trunks—some of which were two feet in diameter—lay athwart the road. Before and behind these were piled sand-bags, stopped with a veritable forest of criss-crossed barbed wire. Between the tree-trunks were two studded-linked steel chains, which had been given plenty of "slack" so that they would "give," to a certain extent, under the initial impact of the assailing Tank. Machine-guns in plenty were behind the barricade; others were showing their snouts through the glazeless windows of the houses, while nearly a thousand picked German troops held the village.
With a dull thud the blunt nose of the Tank encountered the massive obstruction. Ralph had avoided making for the centre of the barricade, and had steered his command towards the right-hand side of the road. The tree-trunks were levered aside under the irresistible pressure of the ponderous mass of moving steel, sand-bags flew in all directions, while the chains, pinned down under the tractor-bands, failed utterly to justify the confidence that the Huns had placed upon them.
Thousands of machine-gun bullets splayed upon the Tank's sides, bombs burst all around her; yet scorning such trivialities the Tank bumped over the debris of the demolished barricade, her guns spitting lead with terrific effect upon the field-grey clad troops.
The first house in the street attracted Setley's attention. Save for a few shell-holes in the walls and that it was roofless the building was otherwise almost intact. From an upper window projected the nozzle of a Flammenwerfer apparatus. Although the weapon was not brought into use against the Tank, Ralph guessed that it was being kept inactive for a purpose. Should the British troops force an entrance into the street, the diabolical contrivance would then be brought to bear upon the dense crowd of khaki-clad Tommies.
Setley's command held on as if with the intention of traversing the village street, until with a sharp turn it bore down upon the house in which the liquid-fire party waited to do their barbarous work.
Striking the front wall obliquely the Tank smashed her way into the building. Stones and bricks were flung asunder, beams began to crash from the upper floors. The Huns, uttering yells of terror, either tumbled headlong upon the roof of the Tank and thence rolled off and were crushed between her sides and the tottering brickwork, or else they clung desperately to the remaining walls and beams. The liquid-fire apparatus fell with the men, the cylinder bursting and discharging its contents all over the Tank and the surrounding debris. Had any of the Boches seized the opportunity and applied a light to the inflammable fluid it would have resulted in Ralph and his men being roasted alive in their steel cage; but, fortunately for them, the disaster did not take place.
It had been Ralph's intention to force his Tank completely through the building, but this task was beyond the powers of the motor-propelled fortress. Vainly the tractor-bands revolved, grinding to powder the brick rubble, yet without gaining another inch.
Failing to forge ahead the Tank endeavoured to back out of the blind alley in which she found herself. With the reversing of her motors the landship jerked back a couple of feet or more and then sank perpendicularly for a distance of seven or eight feet, so that its roof projected only a couple of feet above the level of the street.
For a few seconds the sickening thud knocked the stuffing out of the Tank's crew. Used to bumps and jars though they were they had never before experienced the effect of falling with a hideous thud for a vertical distance of nearly three yards. They were in total darkness, for so dense were the clouds of dust and smoke that the daylight was completely obscured.
When the dust had subsided sufficiently to allow the murky light to penetrate, Ralph took stock of the position. Through the gap in the outer wall that the Tank had made he could see a considerable extent of the village street. Crowds of Germans were rushing up to reinforce the men at the partly demolished barricade, from which Ralph concluded that the British infantry had begun to make the attempt to rush the village.
"If only we had a gun able to bear upon that mob, sir," exclaimed Sergeant Alderhame, "we could enfilade the whole crowd."
It was a vain wish, for in falling the muzzles of the quickfirers had been held up by the brickwork, with the result that they had been wrenched from their mountings, while the mound of rubble was a few inches too high to enable the maxims to be depressed sufficiently to bear upon the Huns in the street.
None of the enemy paid any attention to the stranded Tank. Perhaps the imminent danger of the attacking infantry exercised the prior claim. At any rate, the crew of the landship were passive spectators of the combat, unable to bring a gun to bear upon their foes yet in a position to see most of what was taking place at the commencement of the village street.
Despite machine-gun fire and an incessant fusillade of bombs the storming party gained the gap in the barricade. Two companies of different regiments were the first to get to grips with the enemy. One was a Highland battalion, the other was comprised of men of Ralph's old regiment—the redoubtable Wheatshires.
Both the Jocks and the Tommies were yelling furiously. Amid the babel of voices could be heard the ominous shout of "No Quarter!" The men were up against the Prussian Guard, and there were old scores to pay off. Both the Wheatshires and the Highlanders had cause to remember a certain incident earlier in the war, when under pressure of overwhelming numbers the men had to give ground. Every wounded Briton left on the field was mercilessly bombed or bayoneted, and the perpetrators of this cruel and unnecessary act were Huns of the Prussian Guard. No wonder, then, that it was now a case of te quoque.
Magnificently the khaki-clad men came on. Numbers fell, but still the forward movement was maintained. Up and over they swarmed. Bombs met bombs, bayonet crossed bayonet, rifle-butts descended with sickening thuds on heads. Men badly wounded grappled madly on the ground, regardless of those who trampled on them, their one object being to "do in" their immediate antagonists. Shells from German light field guns were dropping into the pack of friend and foe, till the air rained blood.
In the fury of the fight the combatants were scornful of the dangers. To Ralph, temporarily a mere onlooker, the ghastliness of the whole business was apparent. The hollow mockery of modern civilization stood unmasked. Was it merely to satisfy the insensate craving for glory on the part of that megalomaniac Emperor that millions of Huns and their vassals poured out their blood like water, and more equal numbers of Britons and their Allies freely risked their lives to thwart the sanguinary ambitions of militant Prussianism?
The Kaiser had sown the wind and was now reaping the whirlwind. Whether the present war would be the last, and the sword finally beaten into a ploughshare, still remained to be proved. In calmer moments would the Great Powers grasp the full significance of the devastating and murderous effect of modern war, or is the primeval instinct so deeply rooted in mankind that as long as the world exists international disputes must be settled by the arbitrament of the sword?
The sight of the frenzied mob of hale, active men, most of whom had until a few months before been engaged in eminently peaceful commercial and agricultural pursuits and had been almost entirely ignorant of the use of the rifle, seemed to prove otherwise. Beneath the veneer of civilization the fighting instinct, controlled by centuries of law-governed authority, there still remained the pugnacious instinct. And now, to quote a well-known critic, "the lid of hell was off," with a vengeance.
For a futile ten minutes pandemonium reigned. Mingled with the rattle of machine-guns, the sharp reports of rifle-shots, and the crash of steel, were shouts of vengeful triumph and the cries of the wounded. Through the eddying clouds of dust and smoke tiles and bricks from the shelled houses flew in showers. Occasionally whole buildings would collapse like a pack of cards, burying the German machine gunners in the ruins. Fires, too, were breaking out to add to the horrors of the scene, while with typical indifference the German artillery were dropping shrapnel and gas-shells in the midst of the pack of swaying and struggling combatants.
Beyond the barricade the advance came to a standstill. For a few moments the tide swayed erratically, until the opposing troops were hampered by the dead and wounded. Masses of Germans were hurriedly rushed up through a gap in the otherwise faultless British artillery barrage, and hurled themselves into the fray.
The situation looked critical until a brawny Highlander sprang upon the captured barricade and, holding unsupported a ponderous Lewis gun, pumped in a tray of ammunition over the heads of his comrades. Then, with renewed shouts of "Scotland for Ever!" on the part of the Jocks, and the dogged "Stick it, the Wheatshires!" the British swept forward with an irresistible rush. The majority of the Prussians threw down their arms and fled, to find their retreat cut off by other British battalions, who, assisted by the Tanks, had completed the turning movement. Some of the Huns dashed precipitately to their underground retreats, with parties of British bombers hard at their heels to rout them out of their deep dug-outs.
The fortress village of Néancourt had fallen, but it was a mere incident in the vast field of operations in connection with the Greater Push. Until the Von der Golz Redoubt was in British hands the day's objective could not be considered as achieved.