At the village of Daours, just to the north of the River Somme, the 52nd Battalion was spending the night of 23 April in the rear. They were waiting with the other battalions of the 13th Brigade to be thrown forward to counter the expected next phase of the German Army’s Michael Offensive. All 150 men of Frankie and Taz’s company had crammed into an old barn. Lying side by side, head to toe on its hay-covered floor, the men each had a single blanket, using their packs for pillows.

Frankie and Taz were lying near the wide, open doorway. They looked out at the fog in the distance that spread from the river, hanging low over the dips in the countryside as it crept forward like a thief in the night.

‘I could do with a nice hot cup of tea,’ whispered Frankie, pulling the collar of his greatcoat up around his neck and readjusting his blanket, ‘delivered by a butler.’

‘With a plate of hot pikelets, running with melting butter,’ added Nash, who lay to Frankie’s left.

‘Might as well put in an order for scones and jam as well,’ said Taz, to Frankie’s right, as he draped his khaki army blanket over his legs and chest. ‘Four each.’

Frankie grinned in the darkness. ‘Wouldn’t want to be greedy. Two scones each will be plenty, thanks.’

‘I’ll just ring the bell for the butler,’ said Nash, laughing as he pretended to feel for a bellpull. ‘Hang on!’ he exclaimed. ‘Someone’s stolen the flipping butler’s bell! Aha! The butler did it!’

Frankie and Taz both cackled with laughter.

‘Wouldn’t you know it!’ said Frankie. ‘Never did trust them butlers.’

‘Will you three stop the prattle!’ Rait the Rat hissed from further inside the barn. ‘You’re like sodding schoolkids, the lot of you!’

Taz leaned in close to Frankie and whispered. ‘Little does he know that you and I should still be in school.’

‘Shush!’ Frankie cautioned, putting a finger to his lips.

Taz nodded. ‘My lips are sealed, mate.’

‘Besides,’ Frankie added, ‘I ran away from school when I was twelve.’

‘Really? Why?’ Taz asked.

‘It was a waste of time – all that two plus two equals the circumference of a square. The big, wide world’s the best education for someone like me. There’s too much to see and not enough time to see it in.’

‘Well, you’re seeing a lot now! Swapping a Flanders trench for a Somme trench.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I reckon the French will have a better class of trench. They’ll have it all over the stinking wet trenches in Flanders. More style, I reckon. They’d never teach you that at school back home.’

‘A French trench,’ Taz recited, ‘is much superior to the stench of a trench in Flanders’ interior.’

‘Nice one, Taz,’ Frankie chortled. ‘You’re a poet and didn’t know it!’

‘What did I tell you lot?’ growled Rait, who was now making his way towards them through the mass of outstretched bodies. ‘Shut up and let everyone else get some sleep. In case you’d forgotten, we could be mixing it with Fritz tomorrow.’

‘Bad luck for Fritz then,’ said Frankie, pulling his blanket up over his head and snuggling up against his pack.

Rait continued past them, making his way outside to where Lieutenant Blair was sitting. Blair, with his officer’s peaked cap on the back of his head, was sitting against the barn’s stone wall. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth as he gazed up at the sky watching as thin clouds slid across the moon.

‘Trouble sleeping, sir?’ Rait asked with a half-smile.

Blair turned his head to the corporal. ‘Just taking a quiet moment of reflection. Is everything in order with the platoon?’

‘Just about, sir,’ Rait replied.

‘Make sure the men have their gasmasks within reach. Jerry will probably lob over a bit of gas around sun-up.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Did I hear you disciplining some of the men in there?’ Blair nodded towards the barn entrance.

‘Just Pickles and Dutton again, sir. Those two are troublemakers.’

The lieutenant looked surprised. ‘Is that right? I thought those two boys showed great promise. So does the colonel.’

‘They’re cheeky buggers, sir. I’ve a mind to put them on report.’

‘What for?’

‘The pair of them were absent from camp without permission, sir, the night before we decamped up in Flanders. Flirting with some local girl, they were.’

‘Well, boys will be boys, Rait. Why didn’t you say something about it at the time?’

‘Had too many other things on my plate, sir.’

‘Hmmm.’ Lieutenant Blair was clearly unimpressed by Rait’s information. ‘We can worry about that when we come out of the line. How about we concentrate on the job ahead of us, Corporal? As far as I’m concerned, Pickles and Dutton are a pair of valuable non-coms. We’ll sure be relying on men like them in the days ahead.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Goodnight, Corporal.’ Blair returned his attention to the moon.

‘Night, sir.’ Rait gave the lieutenant a sloppy salute.

Returning to the place in the barn where he’d chosen to settle down for the night, Rait froze. His pack was where he’d left it, but his blanket had disappeared. ‘Some bugger’s nicked it!’ he cursed to himself. Rait looked at the men curled up around him. ‘All right, which of you lot took my blanket?’ he demanded. No one replied. All were either asleep or pretending to be. Looking in the direction of Frankie and Taz by the door, Rait growled, half to himself, ‘I’ve got a pretty good idea who took it.’ But he wasn’t certain. Looking at the man nearest to him, Rait ripped the soldier’s blanket from him.

‘Hey!’ the soldier protested, sitting up. ‘Give that back, Corporal.’

‘Tough luck, chum,’ Rait replied, lying down and covering himself with the purloined blanket. ‘R-H-I-P. Rank Has Its Privileges. Shut up and go to sleep. Tomorrow, we show the German Army what the 13th Brigade’s made of.’

 

Mephisto had broken down again. At Marcelcave, it had reached its allocated starting position for the morning’s attack, in the open north of the village, behind the spidery network of German frontline trenches. While Hartmann worked on the engine in the light of a candle, the rest of the crew covered their tank with camouflage netting and tree branches to prevent Allied aircraft spotting it in the twilight or in dawn’s early light next day. After eating bread and vegetable broth for dinner, Richard and his companions settled in a nearby trench to try to get some sleep. When they were in the rear areas, Lieutenant Skopnik always slept at headquarters with the other officers, but here at the front he spread a blanket among his men, ready to jump into his tank in a hurry if he had to.

Shortly after, a messenger from Colonel Kessel arrived to summon Skopnik to the headquarters dugout. ‘The oberst has new orders for Mephisto, Herr Oberleutnant,’ said the messenger, with a crisp salute.

As the messenger trotted away, Skopnik drew himself to his feet, then walked to where Richard was lying in the trench. With his jackbooted foot, the lieutenant nudged Richard’s leg. ‘Rix, come with me. I may need you to act as my runner.’

‘Yes, Herr Oberleutnant,’ Richard replied, yawning, before dragging himself upright. He quickly fell in behind the officer, following him through the darkness along a weaving communication trench to a low command dugout burrowed into the earth.

‘Wait here,’ the lieutenant ordered, leaving Richard outside the entrance to the dugout. A grey blanket hanging across the entranceway served as a makeshift door.

Pushing the blanket aside, Skopnik ducked his head and stepped into the dugout. Its walls and roof were all made from roughly hewn logs. Colonel Kessel, Lieutenant Theunissen and two signallers were sitting at wooden tables in the light of flickering candles. Skopnik came to attention, clicking his heels together, and saluted. ‘You sent for me, Herr Oberst?’

‘Yes, yes, Skopnik,’ the colonel replied irritably, returning his salute. ‘Come, see here.’ As Kessel unfolded a field map, Skopnik moved closer and bent to view it. ‘It seems we will only have thirteen vehicles for tomorrow’s assault, not the expected fifteen. Soon, we will be left with nothing but a handcart to fight with! So, as you know, I had divided the unit into three gruppen. Gruppe 1 is to attack the town of Villers-Bretonneux with the 228th Division, Gruppe 2 is to push past the south of the town with the 4th Guards Division, towards the wood known as Bois d’Aquenne, while the panzers of Gruppe 3 will attack the village of Cachy with the 77th Reserve Division.’

‘Yes, Herr Oberst. My orders were to attack Villers-Bretonneux as part of Gruppe 1.’

‘Indeed. Well, both Greiff and Stahl were to be part of Gruppe 2, but now that their panzers are out of commission, I must switch you to Gruppe 2 to fill their places. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Herr Oberst,’ returned Skopnik. ‘The 4th Guards are my old division. It will be an honour to support them.’

‘Good. And, Skopnik, keep alert out there tomorrow. Our reconnaissance aircraft reported seeing at least three British tanks in the woods. Where there is smoke there is fire. There may be more of their panzers in the woods to the west and south of the town. Be ready to deal with them.’

‘Yes, Herr Oberst.’

‘Otherwise, nothing has changed. Our gas bombardment will be launched at fifteen minutes before five in the morning, and the assault will commence at six. Carry on, Oberleutnant, and good hunting. I wish I were going with you.’

‘Thank you, Herr Oberst.’

‘Death or glory, Skopnik,’ called adjutant Theunissen, wearing the smug smile of a man who would spend the battle in the shelter of a dugout.

Skopnik gave him an ironic smile in return. Then, after another exchange of salutes with the colonel, Skopnik withdrew.

Richard was leaning against the doorpost outside, his mind wandering as he pondered what the next day might bring. He had never been in battle before. The big guns that he had loaded in the past had been situated well behind the lines, and he had never seen the enemy. Tomorrow would be different. He thanked God that he still wouldn’t have to look the Tommies in the eye, wouldn’t have to face them with rifle and bayonet. All he had to do was shove shells into the breech of Mephisto’s cannon, with the tank’s thick armoured hull between him and the enemy. He didn’t want to kill anyone. And he certainly didn’t want anyone to kill him.

As Lieutenant Skopnik emerged from the bunker, Richard quickly came to attention. Even in the moonlight, he could see that the lieutenant was not looking pleased. ‘Is everything all right, Herr Oberleutnant?’

‘British tanks,’ said Skopnik absently, propping himself against the frame of the bunker doorway and taking out a packet of Ecksteins, one of Germany’s most popular cigarette brands.

‘Pardon, Herr Oberleutnant?’

‘British tanks,’ Skopnik repeated. He lit a cigarette and took a long drag as he looked to the black sky. ‘We are likely to be going up against British tanks tomorrow, youngster. It would be the first tank-versus-tank battle in history. How do you feel about making history, Rix?’

‘I’m not sure, Herr Oberleutnant.’

‘There may be British tanks in our path, and there may not,’ said Skopnik, half to himself. ‘Only after the event do we learn the truth.’ He looked at his cigarette. ‘One day they will tell us that cigarettes are bad for us, and it will be too late. Only too late do we learn that death is stalking us.’ Dropping his cigarette, Skopnik ground out its burning tip with the heel of his jackboot. ‘Come, youngster. Let us do our duty.’ With that, the lieutenant turned to lead the way back along the communication trench.

As they trod through the darkness, there was a rushing sound overhead. Suddenly, British shells were bursting all around. Richard and the lieutenant threw themselves to the ground. One shell, landing closer to Skopnik than to Richard, sent shrapnel scything along the trench. The lieutenant’s body shielded Richard from most of the blast.

The British bombardment only lasted three or four minutes before silence returned to the night. Richard stood up and dusted himself off. To his surprise, he was perfectly calm and thinking clearly despite the fearsome shell-bursts. He was even feeling defiant. ‘Didn’t get me that time, Tommy,’ he said, looking west towards the British lines.

Looking down, he realised that Lieutenant Skopnik wasn’t moving. ‘Oberleutnant!’ Richard exclaimed, kneeling by the lieutenant’s side. Skopnik’s cap had come off. The lieutenant lay on his side with his eyes closed, and in the moonlight Richard could see that he was bleeding from a deep shrapnel wound to the forehead. But Skopnik’s chest was rising and falling. He was alive.

Jumping up, Richard ran back to the command dugout. Ignoring ceremony, he burst in through the blanketed entry. ‘Herr Oberst, Oberleutnant Skopnik – he’s been wounded,’ Richard blurted.

Kessel immediately dispatched the two signallers to help Richard, and soon the three of them were carrying the unconscious lieutenant into the dugout. Kessel briefly looked at Skopnik’s head wound, then picked up the field telephone and gave a brisk order for stretcher-bearers to be sent to carry the lieutenant back to the nearest aid station. All the while, the adjutant, Lieutenant Theunissen, had been a silent witness to events.

‘Theunissen,’ the colonel now said as he returned the telephone handset to its cradle, ‘you will take over the command of Skopnik’s panzer for tomorrow’s assault.’

A look of horror came over Theunissen’s face. ‘Me, Herr Oberst? But I am the adjutant. Without me here with you, the paperwork will be in chaos. Assign Hauptmann Greiff to Mephisto. His own panzer is out of action and he had battle experience with these machines at St Quentin.’

‘At this moment Hauptmann Greiff is at Marcelcave and you are here, Theunissen!’ the colonel retorted. ‘Besides, with luck, Greiff’s machine will be repaired by the morning and Greiff will join the assault in his own panzer. So be good enough to return to Skopnik’s machine with this youngster and take charge.’

The blood drained from Theunissen’s face. ‘Yes, Herr Oberst. As you instruct.’

‘Relocate Mephisto to the southern group at once for the assault towards Cachy,’ Kessel instructed. Then, lifting his walking stick, he prodded Theunissen’s chest with it. ‘Go!’

‘Yes, Herr Oberst.’ Theunissen turned to glower at Richard. ‘Lead the way, boy.’

Richard did as he was bidden and led Lieutenant Theunissen out of the dugout and along the communication trench, passing infantrymen who were already repairing the damage done to the trench by the British shelling. Richard and the lieutenant clambered up a wooden ladder and emerged into the open. Twenty metres away, Mephisto sat under its camouflage netting.

‘There she is, Herr Oberleutnant,’ said Richard. ‘There’s Mephisto.’

Theunissen didn’t reply.

As they came up to Mephisto, they could hear the tank’s engines ticking over. Hartmann was sitting on the ground with his back to the tank. His right boot and sock were off, and Papa Heiber was kneeling and applying a bandage to Hartmann’s toes, strapping the big toe to the one beside it.

‘What is going on?’ Theunissen demanded.

‘He kicked the machine, Herr Oberleutnant,’ Heiber replied with a faint smile, ‘in his frustration with the engines.’

Hartmann grimaced. ‘And I think I broke my big toe doing it.’

‘And as soon as he did,’ Hess called from the open front left hatch, ‘I was able to start the Daimlers!’

‘Permission to withdraw to the aid station, Herr Oberleutnant?’ asked Hartmann.

‘Permission denied,’ Theunissen abruptly replied. ‘Everybody back aboard the machine! Mephisto is to relocate and join Gruppe 2.’

Heiber looked around at Richard. ‘Where’s Oberleutnant Skopnik?’

‘Wounded in the bombardment,’ Richard replied. ‘Oberleutnant Theunissen is now in charge of us.’

Heiber raised his eyebrows. ‘God help us!’ he remarked softly.

Richard smiled weakly. He, too, was not looking forward to going to war under Lieutenant Theunissen’s command.

‘Get the netting off, then everyone to their posts,’ Theunissen commanded impatiently. ‘Quickly! Quickly! All of you.’

With others pulling away the tree branches and bundling up the netting, Papa Heiber helped Hartmann to his feet and through the rear hatch. The remainder of the crew came at the run. Richard clambered in via the front hatch and closed the door. Above, Heiber and Lieutenant Theunissen climbed up to the cupola then slid down into their seats.

Near Richard stood Krank, at his post beside Wagner. Leaning close, Krank yelled, ‘Where is Oberleutnant Skopnik?’

‘Wounded in the last Tommy bombardment,’ Richard yelled back.

A look of disgust came over Krank’s face. He shook his head. ‘The commander wounded and Hartmann with a broken toe? This machine is doomed. I can feel it in my bones. Mephisto is nothing but a coffin on tracks. You wait and see – Krank is always right.’

A chill ran down Richard’s spine. He grabbed the rope handle above his head and waited for Mephisto to jerk into motion.

Up in the cupola, Lieutenant Theunissen turned and yelled to Heiber. ‘Proceed! To Gruppe 2!’

With a nod, the driver engaged the left track. Abruptly, and with a roar of the left engine, the tank slewed around to the left. Then Heiber engaged both tracks and sent Mephisto crawling along behind the trenches in the darkness, bent on finding its three fellow Gruppe 2 A7Vs on the southern outskirts of the village of Marcelcave.