In Monument Farm’s orchard, Richard and his nine comrades from Mephisto’s crew had relocated to a smaller shell crater. Some ten metres across, and 1.5 metres at its deepest, it was a stone’s throw from the massive crater where Mephisto lay stranded. This shell hole contained the bodies of three British soldiers killed earlier in the day, but at least it didn’t attract Allied shells the way Mephisto’s crater had. From the lip of their new hideaway, Richard and his companions could see the tank’s cupola jutting above the edge of the crater, outlined by the glow of house-fires raging in Villers-Bretonneux.

Since ten o’clock, the surviving tank crewmen had listened to the Allied bombardment of the town and had heard the German artillery response. And more recently, they had seen the sky to the west light up with flares and had listened to the sounds of an infantry battle growing increasingly close to their hiding place – rifles firing, grenades exploding, Maxim and Lewis guns blasting away and the bloodthirsty cheering of the attacking troops.

‘Get ready, my friends,’ said Papa Heiber, preparing his two stick grenades for use. ‘The English are coming.’

 

Outpacing the others in their platoon and their company, Frankie and Taz had scampered across a road that ran diagonally through the battlefield between Villers-Bretonneux and the village of Domart and had continued on until a shallow, unoccupied trench appeared in their path. Into the trench the pair dropped, and there they paused to catch their breath and wait for the others to catch up.

‘I – thought – I – was – fitter – than – this,’ Taz panted.

‘I know,’ Frankie said, holding his side. ‘I’ve got a flaming stitch.’

They were soon joined by eleven men of their platoon. The rest had been killed or wounded since they’d crossed the starting tape. English soldiers isolated in this trench earlier in the day had abandoned it after sunset, carrying their dead and wounded with them as they retreated under the cover of darkness. As the Australians hunkered down, Lieutenant Blair and Corporal Rait warily poked their eyes above the trench’s parapet to study the dark landscape ahead.

‘I can make out tree stumps, sir,’ Rait remarked, ‘but we can’t have reached Monument Wood.’

‘Monument Wood’s over to our right,’ Blair returned. ‘This must be the Orchard. What’s that shape over there in the shell crater?’

‘A blockhouse, sir?’

‘Too small for a blockhouse.’

Frankie, poking his head up, caught sight of the object. ‘Could be a Jerry tank, sir,’ he ventured. ‘The ones me and Taz saw this morning had tops like that.’

Blair nodded. ‘That’s what it is, Pickles. A Jerry tank. Probably stuck in there. We were told there was one of those monsters on its side in a quarry over near Villers-Bretonneux, from this morning’s fighting. This must be another of the brutes.’

‘Question is, sir, is this Fritz tank abandoned or manned?’ said Rait.

‘Wait here, Corporal. Cover me.’ With that, Blair climbed from the trench and slithered snake-like on his belly across the ground until he reached the lip of the massive shell crater. At that moment, German flares burst in the air not far to his left. With their light Blair was presented with a picture of Mephisto sitting wedged in the crater. Turning, he crawled back to his men and slipped into their trench.

‘What’d you see, sir?’ asked Rait.

‘It’s a Jerry tank, right enough,’ Blair replied. ‘Looks deserted to me. Hatch’s open, and there’s a crewman lying dead beside it.’

From away to their left there rose the sound of Australians cheering. German machine guns chattered, but the Australian cheering continued. Blair paused and cocked his head to listen. Before long the machine-gun fire petered out and then stopped, and the men of the 51st Battalion let out a mighty roar.

‘Sounds like those blokes have taken care of the Jerry machine-gun posts over there,’ said Frankie.

‘Sounds like it, Pickles,’ the lieutenant agreed, pensive. ‘The advance seems to be going to plan. But we’re still well short of the 52nd’s objective.’ As he spoke, ghostly shapes moved past on their left – other platoons from their company pressing forward. ‘I wonder where the British are?’ Blair pondered aloud. ‘The Bedford Regiment is supposed to be moving up on our right. If we could get them to secure the tank, we could keep moving forward.’

As if to answer his question, a lone soldier wearing a British helmet appeared from out of the gloom to their right. Staggering along the rim of the crater, he was heading towards the rear. A corporal, he carried a rifle in his left hand while he held his right arm up against his chest as if it were broken. The men of the Australian platoon could hear him sobbing.

‘Where are you going, soldier?’ Lieutenant Blair called up to him.

The man stopped and looked down at the Australians blankly. ‘Who are you?’ he called.

‘Lieutenant Blair, Australian 52nd Battalion. What battalion are you?’

‘I’m with the Bedfords, sir,’ came the reply, in a Bedfordshire accent. ‘I couldn’t get my lads to keep going forward, over Monument Wood way,’ he said, snivelling up his tears. ‘They all bolted on me. Fritz machine guns were murder. And then I fell. I think I broke my arm.’

‘Get yourself back to an RAP,’ Blair instructed.

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I did the best I could, sir.’ The English corporal kept going west and was soon reclaimed by the night.

‘Well, there’s the answer to my question,’ said Blair. ‘Doesn’t look like we can expect any help from the Bedfords. It’s up to us to deal with the Jerry tank. Let’s go, boys! And keep your eyes open, all of you.’

Out of the trench sprang Blair and the men of his platoon. Crouching low, they moved quickly towards the crater with their rifles at the ready. Frankie and Taz ran just a little behind their officer. Nash was to their immediate left, and Rait to their right.

 

‘Look! There!’ Krank whispered hoarsely. ‘The English!’

‘I see them,’ said Heiber calmly, as he and his eight companions peered over the lip of their crater.

‘Do we open fire, Feldwebel?’ asked Richard.

‘Let them get closer, youngster,’ Heiber whispered, carefully taking aim at the leading khaki-clad figure. ‘They don’t know we’re here. We will surprise them. Wait . . . Wait.’ And then he squeezed the trigger.

 

As Frankie and Taz ran, Lieutenant Blair suddenly let out a cry and dropped down in front of them. Moments later, the pair saw muzzle flashes from beyond the crater that was their immediate goal.

‘Down!’ bellowed Rait.

The men around him were already going to ground. Taz almost fell over Lieutenant Blair. Hitting the earth, he flattened himself.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ Rait called to the lieutenant, letting off a shot from his .303 in the direction of the muzzle flashes.

‘I’m fine,’ Blair answered, looking at the upper part of his left arm to find the cloth sticky with blood.

‘A few more inches to the right, sir, and you would’ve been a goner,’ said Taz. ‘They were aiming at your heart.’

‘I said I’m fine,’ said Blair, angry that he’d been hit. ‘Return fire, all of you! Rapid fire! Get those Jerries’ heads down long enough for us to make a sprint for the shell crater.’ Lifting his revolver, Blair let off three rounds in the direction of the enemy.

Following his example, men of the platoon began firing, working the bolts of their Lee-Enfields to eject each spent cartridge and ram a new bullet into the chamber, then firing again.

‘Let’s go!’ cried Blair, pulling himself to his feet. With his left hand on his chest to rest his wounded arm, he dashed forward, letting off another two shots in the direction of their adversaries as he ran.

Frankie and Taz, running close behind their commander, launched themselves feet first into the shell crater as if they were jumping into a swimming hole on a hot summer’s day.

‘Will you look at that!’ said Taz in amazement, once they were kneeling in the crater with the massive shape of Mephisto looming over them. ‘What a monster!’

‘Where’s Nashie?’ said Frankie, checking the face of each of their companions in the crater.

‘He was right beside me a moment ago,’ said Taz.

‘Well, he’s not here now,’ said Frankie, removing a spent magazine from his rifle and ramming in a fresh one.

Taz quickly counted the men around him. ‘Two missing,’ he remarked unhappily as he, too, slipped a fresh five-round magazine into his rifle. ‘They’re still out there.’ He nodded to the exposed ground they’d just rapidly vacated. ‘Nash and Corporal Hughes.’

Frankie looked at Taz. ‘Nashie’s copped it, then,’ he said numbly.

 

Richard looked around at his companions as he huddled below the rim of the shell crater, out of the path of the .303 bullets that had come their way thick and fast. The man immediately to his right, one of the machine-gun loaders, was lying on his face and not moving.

‘Hey,’ said Richard, shaking the man’s shoulder. ‘Are you hit?’

But the man didn’t respond. Only then did Richard see that his companion had been shot through the temple. Recoiling from the corpse, Richard pushed himself away, closer to Papa Heiber. The fifty-year-old sergeant was a reassuring presence to young Richard. The youngest member of Mephisto’s crew took up a new position to the left of the oldest member.

Several other crewmen were groaning, wounded in the upper body by the same Australian fusillade that had killed Richard’s neighbour.

‘Those English swine are good shots, damn them!’ cursed Corporal Hartmann, wincing from the pain of his earlier leg wound.

‘They have rifles while we only have pistols,’ Sergeant Eckhardt said sourly. ‘What do you expect?’

‘Yes, but we have grenades,’ said Papa Heiber. ‘They must be in the same crater as Mephisto now. Let them have our grenades, my friends.’

With that, Heiber yanked the ball that hung from a string inside the hollow wooden handle of one of his grenades, then lobbed the grenade with all his might, before ducking his head. Five seconds later, the stick grenade detonated with a hollow boom.

‘Your grenade didn’t even reach the English, Heiber,’ said Eckhardt disparagingly. ‘By my calculation, they’re a good twenty metres away.’

With a stick grenade in his hand, the gunner came to his feet. First priming the grenade by yanking the ball and string, Eckhardt heaved it with all his might, letting out a grunt of exertion. As he dropped back to the earth, the grenade tumbled end-over-end through the air and disappeared. The grenade exploded dully.

‘That didn’t reach the English, either,’ said Krank. He took up a grenade and came to his feet. ‘I threw the javelin as a boy. Let me show you how it is done, Feldwebels. With a good throw, these things can go thirty metres.’

‘And Krank is always right,’ said Eckhardt, under his breath.

With his feet planted and right arm well back, Krank heaved his grenade then ducked back down.

The explosion from his grenade brought a shriek of pain from the direction of their adversaries.

‘Aha!’ Krank exclaimed with satisfaction. ‘As I thought. That grenade reached the English.’ Jumping back to his feet, he primed and tossed another as several of his comrades followed his example.

 

First one German grenade, then another and another came flying into the shell crater and detonated. As shrapnel flew all around them and clattered against the armoured skin of the tank, Frankie and Taz hugged the ground. A platoon member close by cried out. And then there was silence. So far the two youngsters had been protected by the abandoned German tank. But those on the other side of the tank, nearest to the Germans, received the full force of the blasts.

‘Come on, boys, grenades!’ yelled Lieutenant Blair. ‘Give them as good as we got!’

Crawling on his hands and knees, Taz came around Mephisto’s hulking rear end. He found Rait and three other men lying beside the tank. Rait was trying to sit up. The other three were clearly dead. Taz quickly came to his feet and was joined by Frankie. Each taking Rait under an arm, they dragged him into a seated position, with his back resting against the tank’s track mechanism.

‘Where’d it get you, Corporal?’ said Taz, as Frankie knelt and fossicked in Rait’s ammunition pouches for more grenades.

‘Don’t worry about me, Dutton,’ Rait responded, his face twisted with pain. ‘Get those sodding Fritzes!’

‘I’ll get you inside the tank,’ said Taz, moving to lift Rait under both arms. ‘It’ll be safer in there.’

‘Leave me!’ Rait growled. ‘Fritz probably booby-trapped the tank.’

‘Let them have it, boys!’ yelled Lieutenant Blair, as he ran to the far end of the crater and lobbed an egg-shaped British grenade – a Mills bomb – in the direction of the Germans. Frankie followed suit, jumping up with a grenade he’d taken from Rait. Hurrying to the end of the crater, he whipped out the pin and bowled the grenade overarm towards the Germans, before ducking low.

‘Good job, Pickles!’ Lieutenant Blair cried with delight, hunching beside him and looking for another Mills bomb in his pouches.

Taz took out his only grenade and looked at Rait. ‘You’ll be all right, Corporal.’

‘Like hell I will!’ Rait barked, wincing with pain as he spoke. ‘Just go, Dutton!’

Taz nodded. Leaving his rifle leaning against the side of the tank, he rose and ran towards the end of the crater. ‘Heave ho, Frankie!’ he yelled, before letting go of his grenade and ducking for cover.

There was another dull explosion.

‘I don’t think that one reached the Jerries,’ Lieutenant Blair remarked.

‘Pathetic, Taz,’ said Frankie. ‘I used to open the bowling at school. I bet mine go further than yours every time!’

‘Any more Mills bombs?’ Taz asked.

‘Just this one,’ Frankie replied, taking out the last of Rait’s grenades. ‘Watch this. Jerry clean-bowled by Pickles, middle stump, for no score!’ With a powerful swing, he launched the grenade.

 

Krank, having plundered two more stick grenades from the belt of the dead machine-gun loader, was on his feet and about to prime another when a small oval shape came sailing over the edge of their crater towards him.

‘Attention!’ yelled Sergeant Eckhardt. ‘Grenade!’

Every man in the crater threw himself away from the flying Mills bomb. Except Krank. He stood there looking at it as if mesmerised. The grenade was still in the air when it exploded. Krank sank to the ground, crumpling like a marionette whose strings had been cut. More grenades came flying into the crater, exploding lethally. Then, silence.

Heiber lifted his head. ‘See to Krank,’ he instructed Richard. ‘And get his grenades.’

Richard, amazed that he’d survived the blasts, crawled to where Krank lay on his stomach and rolled him over. ‘You should have taken cover,’ he said, looking down at Krank.

With blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and soaking one side of his neat beard, Krank gazed up at him. ‘As I told you, youngster,’ he said weakly, ‘Mephisto has turned out to be a coffin on tracks.’ He smiled. ‘Krank is always right.’

Richard watched as the life ebbed from Krank. How ironic, he thought, that the man had died with a smile on his face.

‘Bring his grenades, boy!’ Heiber yelled impatiently.

Grabbing the grenade that Krank had dropped, and dragging the second from his belt, Richard scuttled to rejoin his sergeant. As he did, Eckhardt and several others were on their feet and lobbing grenades at the Australians. Heiber, taking one of the grenades from Richard, came to his feet to throw.

 

‘Look out – grenade!’ Frankie yelled, just as he and Taz were getting to their feet again.

The pair threw themselves back on the ground, trying to curl up into balls to avoid the blast. The stick grenade hit the lip of the crater, then rolled down the side, coming to a rest at the bottom.

‘A dud?’ Frankie wondered aloud.

‘Must be,’ said Taz, looking in amazement at the unexploded grenade.

‘Don’t touch the sodding thing!’ called Rait.

‘More of the same, boys,’ called Blair, ‘then we’re following the eggs over there to finish off those Jerries!’

Half-a-dozen men joined Blair in lobbing grenades. Even as the deadly eggs were sailing through the air, Blair was clambering to the top of the crater. As soon as the grenades boomed, he was over the lip, pistol in his right hand and left arm now dangling uselessly.

As Frankie began to mount the crater wall, he looked back to see Taz turning away. ‘Taz?’

‘Just getting my rifle, Frankie. I’ll be right behind you.’

Blair was cheering like a maniac as he ran in the direction of the Germans. Frankie and the others who joined the dash ran, yelling, with rifles levelled and bayonets jutting out ahead like the spears of charging Roman legionaries.

 

Richard saw more grenades come over the edge of their crater. Beside him, Papa Heiber was standing upright, about to toss a stick grenade. Richard buried his head in his arms. There was an explosion, and Sergeant Heiber collapsed lifelessly onto Richard. Moments later, the youth felt an anonymous crewman fall onto Heiber.

Lying there, pinned beneath the sergeant and the second man, Richard heard bloodcurdling cheers and the sound of scuffling feet. From his limited viewpoint, close to the earth, he could see the wounded Corporal Hartmann attempt to stand, firing his pistol, only to fall back with a bayonet in his chest. Richard saw a blur of figures and heard Sergeant Eckhardt cursing loudly.

‘English swine!’ Eckhardt bellowed. ‘I will take some of you with –’

A rifle shot silenced him.

And then a boot stomped down beside Richard’s face. Certain that the foreign soldier would spot him, and that he was about to die, the young man prepared for a bullet or a bayonet.