There was Colonel F. Searle, C.B.E., D.S.O., Chief Engineer of the Corps, a true civilian with a well-cut khaki jacket and lion-tamer’s boots. He could not understand the military ritual, and we soldiers seemed never to be able to explain it to him. Throughout the war, in spite of his immense mechanical labours, I verily believe he had only one wish, and this was to erect a guillotine outside a certain holy place. There was Major G. A. Green, M.C., Colonel Searle’s deputy, the father of terrible propositions, the visitor of battlefields, the searcher after shell-holes, the breather of profane words. The Corps owed a lot to Green; a firm believer in seeing things before criticising them, he was a very great asset.
The “King of Grocers,” this was Colonel T.J. Uzielli, D.S.O., M.C., D.A. and Q.M.G. of the Corps, business-like, and an administrator from boot to crown. Suave yet fearless, tactful yet truthful, the Corps owed much to his ability. It was never left in want, his decision gave it what it asked for, his prevision cut down this asking to a minimum. Ably seconded by Major H. C. Atkin-Berry, D.S.O., M.C., and Major R. W. Dundas, M.C., the “A” and “Q” branches of the Tank Corps Staff formed the foundation of the Corps’ efficiency.
On the “G” side there was myself. Under me came Major G. le Q. Martel, D.S.O., M.C., very much R.E. and still more tanks, the man who “sloshed” friend or foe. One day, in March 1918, I was at Fricourt, then none too healthy. Martel walked down the road: “Where are you going?” I shouted. “To Montauban,” he answered. “I hear it is full of Boche,” I replied. “Well, I will go and see,” said Martel, and off he moved eastwards. There was Major F. E. Hotblack, D.S.O., M.C., lover of beauty and battles, a mixture of Abelard and Marshal Ney. Were Ninon de l’Enclos alive he would have been at her elbow; as she is dust, he, instead, collected “troddels”[5] off dead Germans—a somewhat remarkable character. As G.S.O.2 Training, Major H. Boyd-Rochfort, D.S.O., M.C., from West Meath, his enthusiasm for tanks nearly wrecked a famous corps; yet Boyd only smiled, and his smile somehow always reminded one of Peter Kelly’s whisky, there was a handshake or a fight in it. The two G.S.O.s3 were Captain the Hon. E. Charteris and Captain I. M. Stewart, M.C. Charteris was the “Arbiter Elegantiarum” of our Headquarters. He kept the Corps’ records, as already stated, and without these it would scarcely have been possible to write this history. He was our maître d’hôtel; he gave us beach nut bacon and honey for breakfast, kept his weather eye open for a one-armed man, elaborated menus which rivalled those of Trimalchio, and gave sparkle to us all by the ripple of his wit. Lastly, Ian Stewart of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. In kilts, no girl between Hekla and Erebus has ever been known to resist him; but his efforts, whilst in the Tank Corps, did not lie in conquering hearts but in perpetually worrying my unfortunate self to become party to his own suicide—for nothing would keep him from the battlefield.
The first three brigadiers of the Corps were all remarkable men. Brigadier-General C. D’A. B. S. Baker-Carr, C.M.G., D.S.O., commanding the 1st Tank Brigade, started the war as a gentleman chauffeur, a most cheery companion, the Murat of the Corps, ever ready for a battle or a game. I remember him at Montenescourt, during the battle of Arras 1917, fighting with the telephone, at Ypres fighting with the mud, at Cambrai fighting with a comfortable, vacant, rotund little man, but ever cheerful and prepared to meet you with a smile and a glass of old brandy. Commanding the 2nd Tank Brigade was Brigadier-General A. Courage, D.S.O., M.C. He possessed only half a jaw, having lost the rest at Ypres; yet at conferences he was a host in himself, and what a “pow-wow” must have been like before the Boche bullet hit him is not even to be found in the works of the great Munchausen. No detail escaped his eye, no trouble was too great, and no fatigue sufficient to suggest a pause. The successes of Hamel and Moreuil in 1918 were due to his energy, and on these successes was the battle of Amiens founded. The last of the original Brigadiers was Brigadier-General J. Hardress-Lloyd, D.S.O., commanding the 3rd Tank Brigade. He started the war as a stowaway. This resulted in no one ever discovering what his substantive rank was; by degrees a myth as to his origin was cultivated by innumerable “A” clerks both in France and England; these lived and throve on this mystery, which no doubt will at a distant date be elucidated by some future Lemprière. Hardress-Lloyd was one of the main causes of the battle of Cambrai. He, I believe, introduced the idea to General Sir Julian Byng, this away back in August 1917. Hardress-Lloyd was a man of big ideas and always kept a good table and a fine stable—in fact, a beau sabreur. I will leave Hardress at that.
Above are to be sought the real foundations of the Corps’ efficiency under its gallant Commander, Major-General H. J. Elles, C.B., D.S.O., who endowed it with that high moral, that fine esprit de corps and jaunty esprit de cocarde which impelled it from one success to another. These foundations no future historian is likely to be so intimately acquainted with as I—and now for the story.[6]
The history itself is purposely uncritical, because any criticism which might have been included is so similar to that directed against the introducers of the locomotive and the motor-car that it would be but a repetition, tedious enough to the reader, were it here repeated.
Human opinion is conservative by instinct, and what to mankind is most heterodox is that which is most novel: this is a truism in war as it is in politics or religion. It took 1000 years for gunpowder to transform war. In 1590, a certain Sir John Smythe wrote a learned work: “Certain discourses concerning the forms and effects of divers sorts of weapons, and other very important matters militarie, greatlie mistaken by divers of our men of warre in these daies; and chiefly, of the Mosquet, the Caliver, and the Long-bow; as also of the great sufficiencie, excellencie and wonderful effects of Archers,” in which he extols an obsolete weapon and decries a more modern one—the arquebus. “For the reactionaries of his time George Stephenson with his locomotive was the original villan of the piece; he was received with unbridled abuse and persecution. Most of Stephenson’s time was spent in fighting fools.”[7] At the beginning of the present century nearly every English country gentleman swore that nothing would ever induce him to exchange his carriage for a motor-car—yet the locomotive and the motor-car have triumphed, and triumphed so completely that all that their inventors claimed for them appears to-day as hostile criticism against their accomplishments.
So with the tank, it has come not only to stay but to revolutionise, and I for one, enthusiastic as I am, do not for a minute doubt that my wildest dreams about its future will not only be realised but surpassed, and that from its clumsy endeavours in the Great War will arise a completely new direction in the art of warfare itself.
That the Tank had, and still has, many doubters, many open critics, is true enough; but there is no disparagement in this, rather is it a compliment, for the masses of mankind are myopic, and had they accepted it with acclaim how difficult would it have been for it even to come, let alone stay and grow.
The criticism directed against this greatest military invention of the war was the stone upon which its progress was whetted. Without criticism we might still have Big Willie, but we enthusiasts determined that not only would we break down this criticism by means of the machine itself, but that we would render our very machine ridiculous by machines of a better type, and it is ridicule which kills. So we proceeded, and as type followed type, victory followed victory. Then our critics tacked and veered: it was not the tank they objected to but our opinions regarding it; they were overstatements; why, we should soon be claiming for it powers to boil their morning tea and shave them whilst still in bed. Why not? If such acts are required, a tank can be built to accomplish them, because the tank possesses power and energy, and energy is the motive force of all things.