Deborah and the War of the Tanks

At 9.10 a.m., the headquarters of 48th Division received a message by carrier pigeon from Second Lieutenant James Clark in D48 Diablo. The tiny slip of paper conveyed a vivid picture of the chaos around him: ‘Have not yet established contact with infantry … Heavy fire on bend of Winnipeg-St. Julien Road. On the whole heavy retaliation. Tanks visible D50, knocked out: D47 ditched: Mr. Macdonald’s ditched: [Mr] Shaw’s ditched: my tank held up by ditched tanks in front and by impassable ground.’³ He could therefore see virtually every tank in the southern group, trapped in the mud and lashed by a ferocious German counter-bombardment. D50 Dandy Dinmont had been knocked out by a direct hit from a shell which wounded its commander, Second Lieutenant Harold Dobinson. D47 Demon, commanded by Second Lieutenant James Vose, had been ditched four times and was now half-submerged with water over its carburettor. Clark himself had become ditched three times and his tank was finally put out of action when a shell splinter punctured its petrol tank. The only tank he could not see, D49 Dollar Princess, had been ditched twice and its massive unditching beam was smashed during attempts to free it.⁴

Somewhere in this doomed convoy were George Macdonald and the crew of D51. They had ditched twice on their way along the road, but their journey was finally ended by mechanical trouble, with the right track of their substitute tank out of action. D52 Despot, the other tank that was detailed to attack Schuler Farm, was also ditched but the crew managed to extricate it, though not before its commander, Second Lieutenant Harry Shaw, had been wounded in the head and shoulder.⁵ Despite this he was the only member of the group that made it home, according to a report on the debacle: ‘This was the last tank on the road, and was prevented in any case from going forward owing to the impossibility of passing the ditched tanks in front of it.’⁶

An aerial photograph shows a mottled moonscape of shell craters traversed by the thin streak of the road from St Julien to Winnipeg, and beside it a string of stranded hulks marked ‘Abandoned tanks’.⁷ This bleak picture shows the remains of the southern group, but the prospect was far bleaker for the infantry who now had to attack across this pockmarked ground without the promised tank support.

The 5th Bn Royal Warwickshire Regiment were to capture Winnipeg and a nearby German cemetery, as well as some abandoned gunpits to the right of the road, and their War Diary describes what happened: ‘Owing to the tanks being unable to get on, the main objective was not attained. About 9AM the enemy counterattacked strongly and drove us back to our original position.’⁸ The records show that thirty men from the battalion were killed.

A fuller account was given by Lieutenant Charles Carrington, who fortunately missed the attack as he was away on a training course. Had he taken part, he might not have lived to write his acclaimed memoirs, A Subaltern’s War and Soldier from the Wars Returning. Carrington pieced together what happened from survivors:

The day was disastrous. C Company on the right captured the gunpits, but not a tank reached its objective, so impassable was the mud. The leading platoons of D Company went on alone into a withering fire, and were destroyed – to a man. Six weeks later some of their bodies were found, where they had fallen, far up the slope before the Langemarck line. In accordance with orders no more waves went forward, and many more casualties were caused by the German barrage on the men crouching in shell holes waiting for instructions. A heavy counter-attack drove back C Company for a short time, but they rallied and captured the gunpits a second time … It was found impossible to extend the positions further.⁹

All that the crews of the ditched tanks could do was dismount their Lewis guns and provide fire support to the infantry from their shell-holes,¹⁰ but they were shooting at long range over the heads of the infantry, so it is doubtful if this was of much benefit. However, it was the only contribution to the battle by any of the tanks in the southern group.

This meant the crews were now out in the open and exposed to the full force of the German counter-bombardment, and during the course of this Second Lieutenant George Macdonald, the commander of D51, suffered a wound which finally ended any hopes he may have had of sticking a German in the gizzard. In his own words: ‘I was wounded on Aug 22nd a piece of shell penetrating the lung.’ A medical report makes it clear he had had a narrow escape: ‘He was hit by a fragment of [high explosive] shell which entered his chest below lower angle of left scapula [i.e. shoulder blade] & lodged near front wall of chest as shown by X Rays. There was no haemoptysis [i.e. coughing up of blood], no haemothorax [i.e. collection of blood in the chest cavity], nor any lung symptoms.’ It was his second ‘Blighty’ wound, and from the casualty clearing station he was taken to hospital in Camiers, and from there to England.¹¹

Captain Edward Glanville Smith summed up the overall results of D Battalion’s efforts on 22 August: ‘The net gain on the front during the day was some 200 to 300 yards and, in proportion to this small advance, the casualties were large, especially as regards the crews of Lieuts. Lewis and Lawrie. The crews of the ditched tanks, who had assisted the infantry by forming M.G. posts, were eventually withdrawn to camp – begrimed and “done up” – together with the few surviving tanks. Two valuable lessons had been learnt, (1) the strength of the concreted strong-points of the enemy, and (2) the impossibility of 30 tons of tank to leave the roads and go across the sponge-like shelled marshland.’¹²

It goes without saying that both these facts should have been obvious beforehand, and they hardly justified the loss of seven of the company’s tanks (not to mention the four damaged at Bellevue), nor the deaths of six men including Lieutenant Lawrie and Sergeant Weeks, nor the capture of the entire crew of D46 Dragon. Three of the six tank commanders in the southern group had been wounded, including Second Lieutenant Macdonald, as well as sixteen other men in the battalion – among them Lance-Corporal Bert Marsden, who may have been in the crew of D51.

The company’s reconnaissance officer, Second Lieutenant Horace Furminger – known as ‘Contours’ because of his pre-war occupation as a map engraver with the Ordnance Survey – was also wounded, and by now he had reached the end of the line. Four days after the attack he applied for a transfer to the Indian Army, but he would have to survive several more battles before he could leave for his new posting with the 26th Punjabis.¹³

Although the southern group of D Battalion tanks was out of action, there was still a chance that Schuler Farm could be taken by the tanks of F Battalion and the men of 61st (2nd South Midland) Division. Three battalions of infantry were taking part in this attack: in the first wave was 2/4th Bn Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry (known as the ‘Ox and Bucks’), followed by 2/4th Bn Royal Berkshire Regiment and then 2/5th Bn Gloucestershire Regiment in support.

We have already heard from Private Arthur Judd of 2/4th Ox and Bucks, and now it is time to find out what happened as he advanced across No Man’s Land, keeping as close as possible to the creeping artillery barrage:

Looking about me, I can see one or two others, that’s all. In and out of shell-holes, over rough ground, through smoke and in uncertain light we soon lose all sense of touch and order.

The barrage lifts again. Still forward. Suddenly between the rolling clouds of smoke a little to my right and so near that I could cast a stone into it, is the German pillbox ‘Pond Farm.’ It almost takes me by surprise. I had forgotten about it.

Yet in our rehearsals back behind we had practised passing it dozens of times in the same relative position as it is to me now. But astonishing sight. Three or four Boches are walking leisurely about on the top of it! Huge men. Do they want to give themselves up? No, they have rifles in their hands.

I am already in the nearest shell-hole, another fellow plunges down beside me. I point hastily to the pillbox. He has already seen.

Our rifles are at the aim, we cannot miss. I take the first pressure on the trigger and squeeze – nothing happens. Damn!

Force of habit, or was it the Providence to which we all trusted made me drop under cover to see what was wrong? The safety-catch of my rifle was back. Even as I pushed it forward, and all in the space of a second, I felt an ominous ‘crack’ beside me, a barely perceptible ‘Uh!’ and the man sharing my shell-hole slithers down on top of me.

A bullet has hit him straight between the eyes, smashing his forehead into a ghastly hole. My left trousered leg is soaked in blood. I am dumbfounded; for the time being unnerved. I shudder to think what may have been my fate.

But what shall I do now? Other bullets strike viciously into the earth with resounding smacks, or whine overhead, apparently in scores. That sniper from inside that pillbox is probably waiting for me to show my head. I think of that old ruse I had seen ‘worked’ on the pictures – a hat placed on the end of something, and cautiously raised above cover – result, smack, smack, ping. I immediately decide that I shall have to lie low for a space.

So here I am in the midst of a great battle, alone in a shell-hole, with a dead man for company, powerless to move a yard – held fast, and fatal event: the barrage has passed far ahead. I wonder if there can be other of our men nearby, as I can certainly neither see nor hear anyone here.

With all the hundreds taking part in this battle I have not seen more than twenty. I imagine there must be several of our men around this spot, judging by the volume of fire coming from that pillbox. Since our barrage has passed beyond it again, leaving it unharmed, ‘Jerry’ is probably dealing out terrible execution from the security of its concreted interior.

To add to the unpleasantness of the situation, enemy shells now begin to fall perilously near. All around I see huge fountains of earth thrown up by the explosions and hear the whizz of flying bits of metal. I crouch down in my hole listening, waiting and hoping for a break when I can perchance take a peep out over the top.

I look at my poor dead comrade. I have no idea who he is. I have never seen him before to-day. He belongs to the Royal Berks – whose men are going over with us as ‘moppers up.’ Quite a young fellow – probably in the early twenties I decide – and unmarried I should say; but I think of the distress the news of his death will cause in some home in England.

I feel I should like to write to his people. It might help to lighten their sorrow to know that his death was mercifully instantaneous. None of his associates know of his end. He will probably be reported ‘missing’; his body will perhaps never be recovered.

Bodies of men of several Irish regiments who attacked over this ground three weeks ago are lying about here now, and, of course, several more will have been smashed or buried by the shell-fire – the usual fate of the ‘missing.’ But it is now quite light, and our final objectives should have been reached. Attacks have to be pushed forward quickly; delays are fatal to success.

One of our ’planes appears, flying low overhead. I can see the occupant as he passes directly over me; he is evidently ‘spotting’ for our artillery and seems to be signalling. Yes! It seems a little quieter too. I decide to have a peep over the top.

Just as I imagined. Churned up mounds of earth like the rugged surface of the moon. A region apparently deserted, but no! I can see one man wriggling forward very slowly a little way behind me nursing a Lewis gun.

Cautiously, I raise myself a little higher. Who is that? Someone else still farther back seems to be beckoning to me and anyone else to get back to where he is.

He keeps hastily motioning with his arm, as if to say, Here! Here! Why, there are one or two already doubling back in crouched positions and I cannot see that they are even shot at. I am perilously near the pillbox, but the man who is waving must surely be seen by the garrison too, unless – cheerful thought – the pillbox is now in our hands.

I decide to make a dash, I want company, and news of some sort, so running, ducking and dodging in approved rugby style, I join a party of about a dozen of our men – my platoon officer among them, in the shelter of an old German gun-pit.

‘The “heavies” are going to have another “crack” at “Pond Farm,”’ they say, hence the anxiety to withdraw anyone around it.

According to scraps of news gathered here and there, this is the only ‘thorn’ still left in our side, so to speak. The biggest part of our company had been held up by this formidable stronghold, but it is believed that the rest of our battalion has reached its objective, and if ‘Pond Farm’ can be reduced we shall link up with the other companies later.

But definite news is scarce, the general situation obscure. Of one thing we are certain. Our company’s numbers have been so sadly reduced that we are no longer an effective fighting force …

We bunch together in the shelter of the gun-pit all day, the sun pouring down from above, our nerves continually on edge from the nearby crashes of the 5.9’s. It almost seems that ‘Jerry’ knows we are here; he certainly does know of the existence and whereabouts of the gun-pit of course. The whole area is being carefully and methodically raked from time to time.

One of our ‘refugees’ is killed. He had just ventured outside for a while, when the scream of a shell was heard, an appalling crash, and when the smoke cleared – there he lay an awful mess. He was buried on the spot.

There are times during the day when our own bombardment rises into a positive frenzy, smashing up all enemy attempts to concentrate for counter-attack on the positions taken from him, and the rattle of machine-guns, with occasional bursts of rifle-fire from isolated groups continue all day.

Darkness at last. We creep forward and occupy a line of shell-holes and link up with our other companies. ‘Pond Farm’ is now in our hands.¹⁴

Throughout this ordeal, Private Judd makes no mention of the tanks from F Battalion that were supposed to work with them. Like those of D Battalion to their left, they had struggled to make any headway against the treacherous ground conditions and enemy shellfire.

The tank that was to spearhead the attack on Pond Farm and Schuler Farm was F42 Faun, but it suffered a direct hit at the starting point and then became ditched after only 200 yards. The commander and entire crew were wounded as they struggled to put on the unditching gear, and although a fresh crew were sent up, they were unable to free the tank under heavy fire.¹⁵

The best chance of seizing the two objectives now lay with the supporting tank, F46 Fay commanded by Second Lieutenant Gerald Brooks. The already cramped interior held an additional passenger in the form of his section commander, Captain Arthur Arnold, who had formerly commanded Dracula. He described what happened after they moved off at zero hour:

Progress was very difficult owing to the very boggy condition of the ground and the tank was unable to keep pace with the time-table. The tank commander eventually succeeded in penetrating the German system but it was impossible from the tank to locate the machine guns to whose fire we had been continuously subjected for about an hour. The tank commander was endeavouring to locate a machine gun by moving in the direction from which its fire appeared to be directed when the tank subsided in the mud. By this time the time-table of the attack had elapsed, including our protective barrage and it was evident that the infantry had failed to reach their objectives.

The tank was in full view of the enemy and still under heavy M.G. fire and within about a minute of stranding was ranged upon by enemy artillery. The projecting Lewis-guns, being un-armoured, were all damaged and, several of the men being already wounded, in my opinion it was useless to keep the crew in the tank until it received a direct hit. I therefore ordered the tank commander to evacuate it. This was done, the men bringing their guns with them. About a minute after leaving the tank I was struck by a M.G. bullet in the left arm and chest and lay in a shell hole. The next thing I knew was that I was being menaced by some five or six Germans who took me prisoner.¹⁶

The commander of Fay was lucky to evade capture, as described in the War Diary: ‘The officers and crew crawled in the direction taken by the infantry, who had retired in the meantime. The enemy overtook the officers and crew and 2/Lt. Brooks was spoken to by a German, and waved back to the enemy lines – He got into a shell-hole where he remained till dark, and came into our lines.’¹⁷ One of the crew was killed, both officers and two crewmen were wounded, and three others were captured along with Captain Arnold, who was now taken for interrogation with the crew of Dragon.

The final resting-place of Fay was several hundred metres short of Schuler Farm, which therefore remained unmolested by the tanks of either D or F Battalion. Desperate, confused fighting continued throughout the day with the British struggling forward to Schuler Galleries, the network of bunkers that guarded Schuler Farm, only to find that Pond Farm to their rear had been reoccupied by the enemy.

In summary, the Official History said that ‘the 61st Division advanced its line about six hundred yards … on the whole, little was gained by the XIX Corps.’¹⁸ A report by 61st Division concluded: ‘The tanks during the whole operation fought as well as could be expected, but the ground was all against them. They were of service in the early stages of the fight, but the majority quickly became ditched.’¹⁹

The most celebrated exploit involved F41 Fray Bentos, whose name must have seemed grimly appropriate when she became ditched and the infantry supporting her pulled back, leaving her trapped in No Man’s Land. The crew stayed there under siege for 48 hours, beating off groups of Germans who made determined efforts to blast their way inside, until finally abandoning their tank on 24 August. Unlike Dragon, which was stuck behind German lines with no hope of escape, the crew of Fray Bentos had some respite during the daytime, but it was still a harrowing ordeal which left one crew member dead and all the rest wounded, and for which every one of the survivors received a gallantry award.²⁰

On 26 August, an intelligence officer at the German Fourth Army completed his interrogation report on the twelve prisoners from D and F Battalions.²¹ There was much the Germans did not know about tanks, and they were keen to extract as much information as possible. However, the men were clearly mindful of the dreadful warnings about Sergeant Phillips that had been issued only a few days previously, and the interrogators were in for a frustrating time.

Captain Arthur Arnold’s refusal to talk was all the more impressive since he had been hit by a bullet which he said ‘entered the upper portion of my left arm, passed through the left lung and emerged about half-way down my back close to the spine. I was spitting up blood for some eight or nine days after this.’²² Despite this, the report on his interrogation said that ‘Objectives are not revealed, nor which infantry units they were attached to at the time … He sets great store by the tanks and puts the failure of 31 July and 22 August 1917 down to the unsuitable terrain. The prisoner refused to answer any question that seemed to him of military importance, but answered other questions willingly and with apparent honesty. He seemed to attach particular importance to us not knowing anything about the construction of the propulsion motor.’²³

They did not get any more out of Lieutenant David Lewis: ‘He does not have very high expectations of the tanks, as the losses are out of all proportion to their achievements. His conduct with regard to military questions was the same as the above.’ According to the report, the officers ‘said they were very appreciative of their treatment since being captured’.²⁴ That may have been true at the time, but by the end of the war Captain Arnold would have many complaints about the medical treatment he received from the Germans, and almost as many about the way his own government handled his case.²⁵

In the meantime, the interrogators might have hoped to get more out of the crewmen, who were ‘mostly transferred without being asked beforehand. Of the ten men taken prisoner, only one had joined the Tank Corps voluntarily … The average age of the prisoners is twenty-seven, only one is over forty, but they are to some extent badly shocked from their experiences and exertions. The driver was still completely deaf on the morning of the 23rd, his hearing returned slowly during the course of the day.’²⁶ One cannot help wondering if the driver’s deafness was a ploy to avoid giving away even the most basic information: ‘Propulsion is effected by a six-cylinder Daimler engine, further details of horsepower, cylinder diameter and piston stroke are unobtainable, also the driver did not know the weight of the tank, while the officer refused to give any information on technical matters.’²⁷

The crew members did a good job of playing down their extensive knowledge and training, and some of what they told their interrogators was little short of ludicrous: ‘The men never got into a tank before it set off for an attack. More than half of the prisoners had been in a tank for the first time early on the morning of 22 August 1917. The officers selected men for their crew who had been into action in a tank a few times, but not too often.’²⁸

They also did their best to avoid revealing where the tanks were hidden beforehand, though the Germans knew enough to make an inspired guess: ‘For more than a month, the camp of 12 Company has been situated in close proximity to Poperinghe, while the tanks were in a large wood between Ypres and Poperinghe (Oosthoek?) The prisoners did not express any knowledge of other camps. They left their camp shut up on the afternoon of the 21st, and met the tanks at a place they could no longer recall.’²⁹

Lacking any concrete information, the interrogators had to make do with some predictable grumbling: ‘The crew nearly all have a very low opinion of tanks, they would rather still be in the infantry. Their stay in the machine was portrayed as a veritable hell of heat, noise and terrifying experiences. One of the prisoners asserted that he prayed continuously, and attributed his preservation from danger to this measure. The officers admitted that conditions inside the machine were very unpleasant … The officers thought enough volunteers would always be found to replace them, whereas the crew stated it would be very hard to find people to serve in the tanks.’³⁰

The men now began their long journey to prisoner-of-war camps in Germany, but at least they could take pride that they had revealed nothing that would be of use to the enemy in their future encounters with tanks.

After the British attack had drawn to a close on the evening of 22 August, the commander of the Staigerhaus, Leutnant Dürr, crept out to examine the remains of D41 Devil with its dead commander and driver still on board. Despite the grim situation, the raid ended on a note of slapstick thanks to the travails of a tubby drummer:

At 7 o’clock in the evening a counter-attack got under way on our left, where the enemy seemed to have had more success. We could clearly see the waves of attackers setting out. Leutnant Dürr used this moment, while the English on our front were distracted, to clear out the destroyed tanks; with him were Unteroffizier [i.e. Corporal] Sontheimer, Musketier [i.e. Private] Rock and Tambour [i.e. Drummer] Hag. Already the gallant men are coming under fire from the infantry. The tank crew think they’re still the owners of their vehicle. The Württembergers have to go across at all costs. They creep up like Indians. They’re soon there. Leutnant Dürr stands guard with his pistol poised, the others climb inside the steel carriage. They find two dead men, one of them still sitting at his place beside the revolver cannon, with eight bullets in his head and neck. The sharpshooter Günther has certainly found his mark. Three machine guns are twisted out of their housings, ammunition drums, provisions and revolvers seized, and then they form up for the return journey.

The English are firing after them viciously. Leutnant Dürr brings up the rear. In front of him, Tambour Hag, who is somewhat corpulent, is getting weaker. He can’t go on. Although Leutnant Dürr is lacking strength due to a serious arm wound he suffered earlier, he takes Hag’s captured machine gun on his back and walks slowly behind the deadbeat Hag. Suddenly and silently, Hag falls head-first into a large, water-filled hole and disappears. Leutnant Dürr jumps into the water up to his chest and searches for the missing man. He manages to hold Hag’s head out of the water. He is not strong enough to do any more. However, it’s enough. His men have been watching from the Staigerhaus and rush to help. The heavy, lifeless man is carried to safety, along with the machine gun. The English are firing after them. Hag has a small gunshot wound to the nape of his neck, he is bandaged, opens his eyes, and is saved.³¹

Since D41 Devil was hit by a shell, it is hard to explain the bullet-riddled corpse, unless the ‘sharpshooter’ Gefreiter (i.e. Lance-Corporal) Günther had fired into the body after it was exposed by damage to the armour plating – which would also explain the arm that Private Addy saw protruding from the wreckage. Similarly it is unclear why one body was found beside a gun, since those who died were the commander and driver.

Neither side had an opportunity to bury Lieutenant Lawrie and Sergeant Weeks, and they are now commemorated on the memorial to the missing at Tyne Cot Cemetery, along with nearly 35,000 other men whose bodies were lost for ever in the mud of the Salient.

CHAPTER 11

Deborah, the Dead Man and the Drummer