<h3>PREPARATIONS FOR THE SHOW<span class="totoc"><SPAN href="#toc">ToC</SPAN></span></h3>
<br/>
<p>That night the engines were started up, and one by one the tanks
crawled off the train. Although the day had begun with brilliant
sunshine, at dusk the snow had begun to fall, and by the time the
tanks came off, the snow was a foot thick on the ground. The tanks
moved down to the temporary tankdrome which had been decided upon near
the railway, and the sponson trucks were towed there. The night was
spent in fitting on the sponsons to the sides of the machines. It was
bitterly cold. The sleet drove in upon us all night, stinging our
hands and faces. Everything seemed to go wrong. We had the utmost
difficulty in making the bolt-holes fit, and as each sponson weighs
about three tons they were not easy to move and adjust. We drove ahead
with the work, knowing that it must be done while the darkness
lasted.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</SPAN></span>Finally, about two hours before dawn broke, the last bolt was
fastened, and the tanks were ready to move. The night was blacker than
ever as they lumbered out of the tankdrome, and were led across the
snow to a halfway house about four miles from the railhead, and an
equal distance from the front-line trenches. We had not quite reached
our destination when the darkness began to lift in the east, and with
feverish energy we pushed ahead, through the driving snow.</p>
<p>Late that afternoon, Talbot was again sent ahead with five or six
troopers and orderlies to a village in the front line. It was
necessary for us to spend three or four days there before the attack
commenced, in order to study out the vulnerable points in the German
line. We were to decide also the best routes for the tanks to take in
coming up to the line, and those to be taken later in crossing No
Man's Land when the "show" was on. We rode along across fields denuded
of all their trees. The country here was utterly unlike that to which
we had been accustomed in "peace-time trench <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</SPAN></span>warfare." This last
expression sounds like an anomaly, but actually it means the life
which is led in trenches where one may go along for two or three
months without attacking. In comparison with our existence when we are
making an offensive, the former seems like life in peace times. Hence,
the expression. But from this it must not be supposed that "peace-time
trench warfare" is all beer and skittles. Quite the contrary. As a
matter of fact, during four or five days in the trenches there may be
as many casualties as during an attack, but taking it on an average,
naturally the losses and dangers are greater when troops go over the
top. Curiously enough, too, after one has been in an attack the
front-line trench seems a haven of refuge. Gould, who was wounded in
the leg during a battle on the Somme, crawled into a shell-hole. It
was a blessed relief to be lying there, even though the bullets were
whistling overhead. At first he felt no pain, and he wished, vaguely,
that he had brought a magazine along to read! All through the burning
summer day he stayed there, <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</SPAN></span>waiting for the night. As soon as it was
dark he wriggled back to our trenches, tumbled over the parapet of the
front-line trench, and narrowly escaped falling on the point of a
bayonet. But he never forgets the feeling of perfect safety and peace
at being back, even in an exposed trench, with friends.</p>
<p>The fields across which we rode had been ploughed the preceding autumn
by the French civilians. Later, when the snow had disappeared, we
could see where the ground had been torn up by the horses of a German
riding-school of ten days before. On some of the roads the ruts and
heavy marks of the retreating German transports could still be seen.
It was a new and exciting experience to ride along a road which only
two or three days before had been traversed by the Germans in a
retreat, even though they called it a "retirement." The thought was
very pleasant to men who, for the last two years, had been sitting <i>in
front</i> of the Boche month after month, and who, even in an attack, had
been unable to find traces of foot, hoof, or wheel mark because of
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</SPAN></span>the all-effacing shell-fire. Here and there were places where the
Boche had had his watering-troughs, and also the traces of scattered
huts and tents on the ground where the grass, of a yellowish green,
still showed. The front line of defence here was really no front line
at all, but was merely held as in open warfare by outposts, sentry
groups, and patrols.</p>
<p>At night it was the easiest thing in the world to lose one's self
close up to the line and wander into the German trenches. In fact,
over the whole of this country, where every landmark had been
destroyed and where owing to the weather the roads were little
different from the soil on each side, a man could lose himself and
find no person or any sign to give him his direction. The usual guide
which one might derive from the Verey lights going up between the
lines was here non-existent, as both sides kept extremely quiet. Even
the guns were comparatively noiseless in these days, and were a man to
find himself at night alone upon this ground, which lay between two
and three miles behind our own lines, the only thing he <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</SPAN></span>could do
would be to lie down and wait for the dawn to show him the direction.</p>
<p>As we rode toward O—— our only guide was a few white houses two or
three miles away on the edge of the village. The German had not
evacuated O—— of his own free will, but a certain "Fighting
Division" had taken the village two days before and driven the German
out, when he retired three or four hundred yards farther to his rear
Hindenburg Line. The probable reason why he hung on to this village,
which was really in front of his line of advance, was because at the
time he decided to retire on the Somme, the Hindenburg Line was
incomplete. In fact, the Boche could still be seen working on his wire
and trenches.</p>
<p>We arrived in O—— at nightfall. Some batteries were behind the
village, and the Germans were giving the village and the guns a rather
nasty time. Unhappily for us, the Boche artillery were dropping
five-nine's on the road which led into the village, and as they seemed
unlikely to desist, we decided to make a dash <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</SPAN></span>for it. The horses were
a bit nervous, but behaving very well under the trying circumstances.
(With us were some limbers bringing up ammunition.) Shells were
exploding all around us. It would never do to stand still.</p>
<p>The dash up that hundred yards of road was an unpleasant experience.
As we made the rush, the gunners tearing along "hell for leather" and
the others galloping ahead on their plunging horses, we heard the dull
whistle and the nearer roar of two shells approaching. Instinctively
we leaned forward. We held our breath. When a shell drops near, there
is always the feeling that it is going to fall on one's head. We
flattened ourselves out and urged our horses to greater speed. The
shells exploded about thirty yards behind us, killing two gunners and
their mules, while the rest of us scrambled into the village and under
cover.</p>
<p>In the darkness, we found what had once been the shop of the village
blacksmith, and in the forge we tied up our horses. It was bitterly
cold. It was either make a fire and trust to luck that it would not be
observed, or freeze. <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</SPAN></span>We decided on the fire, and in its grateful
warmth we lay down to snatch the first hours of sleep we had had in
nearly three days. But the German gunners were most inconsiderate, and
a short time afterward they dropped a small barrage down the road. The
front of our forge was open, and we were obliged to flatten ourselves
on the ground to prevent the flying splinters from hitting us. When
this diversion was over, we stirred up our fire, and made some tea,
just in time to offer some to a gunner sergeant who came riding up. He
hitched his horse to one of the posts, and sat down with us by the
fire. The shell-fire had quieted down, and we dozed off, glad of the
interlude. Suddenly a shell burst close beside us. The poor beast,
waiting patiently for his rider, was hit in the neck by the shrapnel,
but hardly a sound escaped him. In war, especially, one cannot help
admiring the stoicism of horses, as compared with other animals. One
sees examples of it on all sides. Tread, for instance, on a dog's
foot, and he runs away, squealing. A horse is struck by a large lump
of shrapnel <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</SPAN></span>just under its withers, and the poor brute trembles, but
makes no sound. Almost the only time that horses scream—and the sound
is horrible—is when they are dying. Then they shriek from sheer pain
and fear. Strange as it may seem, one is often more affected by seeing
horses struck than when men are killed. Somehow they seem so
particularly helpless.</p>
<p>It was during these days at O—— that Talbot discovered Johnson.
Johnson was one of his orderlies. Although it did not lie in the path
of his duty, he took the greatest delight in doing all sorts of little
odd jobs for Talbot. So unobtrusive he was about it all, that for some
time Talbot hardly noticed that some one was trying to make him
comfortable. When he did, by mutual agreement Johnson became his
servant and faithful follower through everything. The man was
perfectly casual and apparently unaffected by the heaviest shell-fire.
It is absurd to say that a man "doesn't mind shell-fire." Every one
dislikes it, and gets nervous under it. The man who "doesn't mind it"
is the man who fights <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</SPAN></span>his nervousness and gets such control of
himself that he is able to <i>appear</i> as if he were unaffected. Between
"not minding it" and "appearing not to mind it" lie hard-won moral
battles, increased strength of character, and victory over fear.
Johnson had accomplished this. He preserved an attitude of careless
calm, and could walk down a road with shells bursting all around him
with a sublime indifference that was inspiring. Between him and his
officer sprang up an extraordinary and lasting affection.</p>
<p>The wretched night in the forge at last came to an end, and the next
morning we looked around for more comfortable billets. We selected the
cellar of a house in fairly good condition and prepared to move in,
when we discovered that we were not the first to whom it had appealed.
Two dead Germans still occupied the premises, and when we had disposed
of the bodies, we took up our residence. Here we stayed, going out
each day to find the best points from which to view No Man's Land,
which lay in front of the village. With the aid <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</SPAN></span>of maps, we planned
the best routes for the tanks to take when the battle should have
begun. Not a detail was neglected.</p>
<p>Then something happened to break the monotony of life. Just back of
the village one of our batteries was concealed in such a fashion that
it was impossible to find it from an aeroplane. Yet every day,
regularly, the battery was shelled. Every night under cover of the
darkness, the position was changed, and the battery concealed as
cleverly as before, but to no avail. The only solution was that some
one behind our lines was in communication with the Germans, <i>every
day</i>. Secrecy was increased. Guards were doubled to see that no one
slipped through the lines. Signals were watched. The whole affair was
baffling, and yet we could find no clue.</p>
<p>Just in front of the wood where the battery was concealed, stood an
old farmhouse where a genial Frenchwoman lived and dispensed good
cheer to us. She had none of the men of her own family nor any
farmhands to help her, but kept up the farmwork all alone. Every day,
usually <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</SPAN></span>in the middle of the morning, she went out to the fields
behind her house and ploughed, with an old white horse drawing the
plough. For some reason she never ploughed more than one or two
furrows at a time, and when this was done, she drove the white horse
back to the barn. One day, an officer noticed that a German plane
hovered over the field while the woman was ploughing, and that when
she went back to the house, the plane shot away. The next day the same
thing happened. Later in the day, the battery received its daily
reminder from the Boche gunners, as unerringly accurate as ever.</p>
<p>Here was a clue. The solution of the problem followed. The woman knew
the position of the battery, and every day when she went out to
plough, she drove the white horse up and down, making a furrow
directly in front of the battery. When the men in the German plane saw
the white horse, they flew overhead, took a photograph of the newly
turned furrow, and turned the photograph over to their gunners. The
rest was easy.</p>
<div class="fig">><SPAN name="imagep072" id="imagep072"></SPAN> <SPAN href="images/imagep072.jpg"> <ANTIMG border="0" src="images/imagep072.jpg" width-obs="85%" alt="A Tank going over a Trench" /></SPAN><br/> <p class="cen" style="margin-top: .2em;">A TANK GOING OVER A TRENCH ON ITS WAY INTO ACTION<span class="totoi"><SPAN href="#toi">ToList</SPAN></span></p> </div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</SPAN></span>The next day we missed three events which had become part of our daily
life. The German plane no longer hovered in the air. Our battery, for
the first time in weeks, spent a peaceful day. And in the field behind
her house, a woman with an old white horse no longer made the earth
ready for the sowing.</p>
<br/>
<hr style='width: 15%;' />
<br/>
<p>For three days now we had received no rations, and were obliged to
subsist on the food which the Boche had left behind him when he fled.
Finally, when all our plans were complete, we were notified that the
point of attack had been shifted to N——, a village about four miles
away. This practical joke we thought in extremely bad taste, but there
was nothing for it but to pack up and move as quickly as possible. We
learned that our troops at N—— had tried twice to break through the
German lines by bombing. A third attempt was to be made, and the tanks
were depended upon to open the way. Hence the change in our plans.</p>
<p>Early the next morning we left O——, and dashed along a road which
lay parallel with our <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</SPAN></span>line, and was under direct observation from the
German trenches. Owing to the fact, probably, that he was not properly
settled in his new line, the Boche did not bother us much, excepting
at one place, where we were obliged to make a run for it. We arrived
at N—— just after the tanks had been brought up. They were hurriedly
concealed close up to houses, in cuttings, and under trees.</p>
<p>The show was scheduled to come off the next morning at 4.30. That
night we gathered at Brigade Headquarters and made the final plans.
Each tank had its objective allotted to it, and marked out on the Tank
Commander's course. Each tank was to go just so far and no farther.
Talbot and Darwin were detailed to go forward as far as possible on
foot when the battle was in progress, and send back messages as to how
the show was progressing. Talbot also was given the task of going out
that night to make the marks in No Man's Land which would guide the
tanks in the morning.</p>
<p>At eleven o'clock, in the bright moonlight, Talbot, with Johnson and a
couple of orderlies, <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</SPAN></span>started out. They climbed over the front line,
which was at present a railway embankment, crawled into No Man's Land,
and set to work. Immediately the Boche snipers spotted them and
bullets began to whistle over their heads. Luckily, no one was hit,
but a couple of "whizz bangs" dropped uncomfortably close. The men
dropped for cover. Only Johnson stood still, his figure black against
the white snow gleaming in the moonlight.</p>
<p>The shells continued to fall about them as they wriggled back when the
work was done. As they reached N—— the tanks were being led up
toward the line, so that later, under cover of the darkness, they
might be taken farther forward to their starting-points.</p>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<SPAN name="VI" id="VI"></SPAN><hr />
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</SPAN></span><br/>
<h2>VI</h2>
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