A week after Frank Heap’s arrival at La Lovie, D Battalion was back in action again, but if he imagined he would be in the thick of it so soon, he was in for a disappointment. His company, No. 12, had more or less fought itself to a standstill on 22 August and 20 September, while No. 11 Company had also been badly mauled on 27 August. This time it was the turn of No. 10 Company, which had not yet seen action in the bogs of Passchendaele.
Major Watson’s view was that ‘“No. 10” was a lucky company, and deserved its luck, until the end of the war’.1 One manifestation of this was that it had not fired a shot in anger since the end of April 1917, when it took part in the ill-starred Battle of Arras. The reason for this inactivity may have been that the man appointed as company commander, Captain the Honourable John Dennis Yelverton Bingham, had been called away to play a key role in one of the most extraordinary operations of the war.2
This was the secret plan to land an amphibious invasion force behind enemy lines near the town of Ostend on the north Belgian coast. The so-called ‘Operation Hush’ formed an integral part of the British offensive in the Ypres Salient, and would begin as soon as the Germans had been driven back far enough back to allow their flank to be threatened by a coastal landing. With this in mind, three huge pontoons had been constructed, each 170 metres long, and at the appropriate time they were to be pushed across the Channel by warships and driven onto the beach.3
The flotilla would carry a formidable force including nearly 14,000 men, with nine tanks to lead the charge ashore. These had a crucial role, since the invasion beaches were lined by a sloping concrete sea-wall which could only be surmounted by tanks that were specially adapted for the purpose. Their tracks were spiked to climb the steep gradient, and they would push wooden frames which fitted the lip of the sea-wall and would – all being well – allow the invasion force to swarm over the obstacle and move inland. The beachhead would then be held until the main British armies attacking in the Salient were close enough to link up with them.
The plan was clearly beset with hazards, and total secrecy was essential if it was to have any chance of success. The enormous pontoons were moored up in the Thames Estuary, and the men who would take part were sealed off in a secure camp, awaiting the right combination of weather and tides as the British offensive ground forwards. Secret preparations were also under way for the tank crews involved, who were formed into a ‘special detachment’ headed by Captain Bingham. A replica of the sea-wall was built at the Tank Corps Central Workshops in Erin, and there they rehearsed with their modified machines in readiness for the moment when the plan would receive its ultimate test in action. Until his return, No. 10 Company was temporarily commanded by Captain Edgar Nisbet Marris, the son of a Lincolnshire solicitor whose thirst for adventure had taken him to the USA, where he enlisted in the army and served with the celebrated 7th Cavalry in the Philippines, before returning to join the British army after the outbreak of war.4
The attack on 4 October 1917, in which his men were to participate, had all the makings of a typical Salient tank disaster. Once again they had to advance along the shell-blasted road out of St Julien, but the approach route was now much longer since the front line had been pushed a mile further back towards the pulverized village of Poelcappelle, where the tanks were to support the infantry in attacking yet another series of concrete strongpoints.
Perhaps it was the luck of No. 10 Company, but for once everything went perfectly. The drivers had been honing their skills at the Wailly training area, and not one tank slipped off the road and ditched, while the German artillery fire was less intense than usual and none of the machines were knocked out, at least until the very end of the attack. Instead the tanks penetrated the village doing execution with anti-personnel ‘case-shot’ ammunition packed with shrapnel balls, which was used for the first time and was said to have had ‘many opportunities of proving its value’.5
All the objectives were taken and the tanks withdrew with the loss of a single man. It was regarded as ‘one of the most successful tank actions of the whole of the Flanders campaign in 1917’,6 but the luck ran out five days later when No. 11 Company followed up with another attack intended to push into and beyond Poelcappelle. After thirty hours of rainfall, any tank that left the road faced instant disaster, and the German gunners were back on devastating form – which could not be said of all the tank drivers.
The leading tank, D29 Damon II commanded by Lieutenant Jack Coghlan, reached the edge of the village where it was destroyed by a direct hit, and the same fate befell the next tank under Second Lieutenant Horace Birks. The rest of the column were unable to pass, and as they swung round on the slippery road, the machine bringing up the rear scraped against the hulk of D44 Dracula, abandoned after its heroic role on 20 September, and slithered across the road. The convoy was now caught in a trap, unable to go forward or back or to leave the road, and eventually all eight were destroyed or ditched.7
One of the section commanders disappeared after the tank he was travelling in was destroyed. This was Captain Frederick Talbot, who had fought as a cavalryman in the Boer War and begun the present war as a sergeant-major in 4th Dragoon Guards.8 Major Watson, who called him ‘the old dragoon’, commented: ‘I never had a better section-commander.’ It had been a day of desperate tragedy: ‘We had failed, and to me the sense of failure was inconceivably bitter. We began to feel that we were dogged by ill-fortune: the contrast between the magnificent achievement of Marris’s company and the sudden overwhelming disaster that had swept down on my section was too glaring. And we mourned Talbot …’9
* * *
Whatever happened next, it was inevitable that No. 12 Company would be involved, and Frank Heap could not be far from his first trial by combat with the crew of Deborah. At the same time, the Third Battle of Ypres was clearly dragging to an end, and only a few more weeks of fighting were possible before the weather closed in and the war shut down for the winter. Some tank brigades had already been withdrawn from the Salient, and although D Battalion stayed behind, the heavy rain and poor ground conditions made it unlikely that they would be called on to support the offensive.
Amid the boredom and inactivity, the camp at La Lovie became a hotbed of speculation, with much talk of a ‘grandiose scheme’ for an all-out attack against the Passchendaele ridge. According to Major Watson: ‘The whole Brigade, it was planned, would advance along the Poelcapelle and Langemarck Roads and deploy in the comparatively unshelled and theoretically passable country beyond. To us, perhaps prejudiced by disaster, the scheme appeared fantastic enough: the two roads could so easily be blocked by an accident or the enemy gunners …’10
Second Lieutenant Birks also recalled the wild stories that were circulating: ‘The end of operations was obviously in sight, and as so often happens on these occasions rumour followed rumour: tanks were to be abandoned as an instrument of war and the recently formed Corps disbanded, all available machines were to be assembled in a last despairing attempt to reach Roulers, the whole Corps was to be withdrawn and transferred to Palestine. And then the final one, like a ray of sunshine through the early morning mist, we were to move south for a secret venture.’11
The last rumour, though vague, seemed to have some basis in fact, for on 27 October came a ‘move order’ from the adjutant, Captain Fred Cozens: ‘“D” Battalion, Tank Corps will move into the Wailly area commencing about 30th inst. Detailed times, dates and train arrangements will be notified later.’12 This meant they were pulling back to the training area near Arras that served as a driving school and advanced base for the Tank Corps. It was a promising sign, and whatever lay behind it, one thing was certain: they were finally leaving the dreaded Salient. There would be no more sodden sojourns in the camp at La Lovie and the bleak tankodrome in Oosthoek Wood, no more time-wasting trips to the estaminets and concert-halls of Poperinghe, and no more doomed forays across the Canal into the dead zone beyond.
Birks recalled the impact of the announcement: ‘Although the Corps had experienced more than a fair share of frustrations, setbacks and possibly casualties, morale had always been surprisingly high, and confirmation of orders to move out of the Ypres salient sent it rocketing sky-high; with almost indecent haste we withdrew across the canal, scarcely bothering to take a last look at Essex crossing, Ypres, Vlamertinghe, Oosthoek Wood, or any of the other spots which linger in the memory as accursed beyond belief.’13
There was known to be a shortage of accommodation at Wailly, and when D Battalion left they had to take along the huts and tents that had been used by G Battalion at La Lovie. After a few days of frantic preparation the trains drew into the sidings in Oosthoek Wood to be loaded up with tanks and stores. There was no need for secrecy now, and Captain Edward Glanville Smith recalled the unmilitary spectacle of their departure: ‘A tank battalion on the move was always reminiscent of a tortoise in that it had to carry its home about with it. No rows of comfortable hutments were allotted it in the new area and tank trains carried not only the machines themselves, but tents, tarpaulins, duckboards, pit-props, floor-boarding, wire-beds, etc., etc., and anything that made for increased comfort. And so it was that on the evening of October 30th, when we bade our farewell to the Salient, our train resembled a timber-dump infinitely more than a mobile fighting unit. And at midnight we rumbled out of Belgium back to France.’14
* * *
Amid the excitement and uncertainty, there was little time to dwell on what they were leaving behind. D Battalion had arrived in the Ypres Salient nearly four months ago, and since then it had been in action for just six days. Out of fifty-four fighting tanks that had gone into action, only twenty had returned; of the remainder many had subsequently been salvaged and one or two captured, but the rest were abandoned or blown up where they lay. From its total strength of just over 900 men, D Battalion had lost twenty-one men killed, fifty-three wounded and eight captured,15 which was a heavy enough price to pay, though negligible compared to the dreadful losses suffered by many other units.
To set against this, D Battalion could point to precious few positives – they had captured a few concrete strongpoints, led the successful action of 4 October, and given the infantry whatever support they could in terms of firepower and morale. While noone doubted the courage and determination of the crews, it was clear the tanks had not justified their presence, or their existence. Even the commander of 1st Tank Brigade, Colonel Baker-Carr, conceded the Third Battle of Ypres had been a ‘ghastly failure’ for them, but underlined what had been obvious all along: ‘The tanks failed through being employed in hopelessly unsuitable conditions. If the first submarine had been tested on Salisbury Plain, the results would not have been encouraging.’16 Looking back over the past few months, Major Watson summarized the frustration they all felt: ‘Why had tanks ever been sent to destruction at Ypres? There must be whole cemeteries of tanks in that damnable mud. And we had lost Talbot there.’17
For Frank Heap, there was no doubt a feeling of frustration that he had not yet taken part in an attack, but after all he had seen and heard of the Salient, probably also a guilty sense of relief. Wherever the next battle took place, it promised to be something entirely different, though whether that would be for better or worse remained to be seen. For the moment he faced the practical challenges of preparing D51 Deborah and his crew for the move, and coaxing her onto the railway truck that would transport them all south to meet whatever the future might hold.