Deborah and the War of the Tanks

After this, fresh battalions passed through them to continue the advance, and it seemed as though the offensive was back on track – much to the relief of the units that had struggled to take the village the day before, such as 6th Bn Gordon Highlanders: ‘The men were tired but very keen and pleased that the advance which had been held up the previous day had eventually been accomplished.’² One of their officers described them as ‘flushed with success’ and added: ‘As they lay down to rest they saw Cambrai a mile or two distant, and almost fancied they could strike the spires with a stone.’³

Nearby, 6th Bn Seaforth Highlanders were also relieved that the advance was back in full flow:

The sights which we witnessed as we lay in our new positions brought fresh hopes. There were enthralling scenes – the cavalry cantering into action in perfect formation (not, unhappily, to be maintained for long); the 4th Gordon Highlanders, with pipes and drums, marching as at a review in column of route; the sight of a real live battery galloping forward and coming into action at our ears; and the constant coveys of aeroplanes low-flying and intrepid. We were all out on the common task, and the sight of others in their might, enthusiasm, and strength, had an inspiring effect upon our portion of the British Army.⁴

And so the fighting flowed on past Flesquières as suddenly as it had arrived, and the attackers swept forward towards their next objectives, in a determined drive to capture the key Bourlon ridge which had eluded them the day before.

Though it now lay in the rear, the area round Flesquières remained a scene of ceaseless activity, and the village swarmed with troops sheltering in the cellars and catacombs formerly occupied by the Germans. The newspaper correspondent Philip Gibbs described the ‘fantastic and unimaginable scene’ as he crossed the former battlefield from Havrincourt to Flesquières two days later:

Every yard of it across the Hindenburg line – those great, wide trenches now empty of all life – was strewn with evidences of the enemy’s panic-stricken flight in the beginning of the battle … the slope where the Scots had to fight their way to the strong high wall of red brick surrounding the château grounds was littered with things the enemy had left behind him – his field-grey overcoats, his shrapnel helmets, innumerable pairs of boots, his goatskin pouches, his rifles, bayonets, bandoliers, tunics and gas-masks …

I followed the track of the tanks, and went through great gaps they had made in the barbed wire – acres of barbed wire – and went along the route of the Scots when they surged after the tanks on that great morning of surprise. Some of them had left their kilts behind, caught on barbed wire, and with no time to mind rents in the tartan of the Seaforths, they had gone on in their steel hats and very little else.

And all this way to the battle was littered with letters in German and English, as though there had been a paper-chase instead of the hunting of men. They were the intimate letters which men wear close to their hearts until war snatches them away and tosses them to the breeze. ‘Mein lieber bruder’ I read, as I picked up one of them, and ‘My darling hubby,’ began a letter to a London boy who was now away by Bourlon Wood …

Everywhere tanks were crawling over the ground, some of them moving forward into action, some of them out of action, mortally wounded, some of them like battle cruisers of the land, going forward in reconnaissance.

Across, the field guns were moving up and drivers of gun limbers were urging their horses forward over the muddy slopes with new supplies of ammunition for the forward batteries. Small bodies of cavalry rode about, and put their horses to the gallop when black shrapnel burst overhead with a high snarling menace.⁵

The tanks of H Battalion, which had attacked to the right on 20 November, also crossed the Flesquières ridge the next day to support the advance. One of their section commanders, Captain Daniel Hickey, told how they passed the wrecked tanks of E Battalion:

They lay there in the form of a crescent – I did not count them; but I believe there were anything up to eighteen of them – some with enormous holes blown in their sides and fronts. One or two were a shapeless mass of metal. There is no doubt that there were at least three, and probably four, batteries of German artillery, which between them did this damage … Then I caught sight of a grey object slightly ahead. It was the body of a German who had been terribly wounded in the abdomen. His hands were clasped in an agonised attempt to hold the rent together. I quickly averted my eyes, and thought: ‘There but for the grace of God lies Dan Hickey.’⁶

There were other terrible reminders of the battle, none more so than on the road leading out of Flesquières to the east. Here, moving forward on the day after the attack, Captain Douglas Wimberley of 232nd Machine Gun Company stumbled upon the wreckage of Deborah. The full horror of her crew’s fate – and the scene that had confronted Frank Heap and the other survivors as they fled – was revealed:

I rode through the village and turned sharp right to the sugar refinery. Here there was a nasty sight. A half burnt tank straddled half across the road and outside the door were two dead members of the crew, blackened and half burnt, one had an appalling wound in the body as he had tried to get out at the door, and his entrails were out of his body in the road. It nearly made me sick – though after Ypres I didn’t think a corpse could affect me, and I determined at once to change the rallying place – a half hour wait here would be bad for the men’s morale, as to be reminded of death, so vividly, is not good for troops going into action. Later on in the day the mess was cleared up, but for days afterwards it was interesting to see how every horse that passed shied violently at the place, smelling the blood and burnt flesh.⁷

Captain Robert Tennant Bruce of the Royal Army Medical Corps also passed this way with the Catholic chaplain of 51st Division, Reverend Andrew Grant, who no doubt said a prayer over the dead men. They were on a tour of forward first aid posts, but this ended in disaster when they strayed into the German lines and were captured – an act of ‘gross carelessness’ and ‘the most astounding stupidity’, according to comments in their service files.⁸ On the way they also passed the remains of Deborah and her dead crew: ‘So far there had been little in the way of shelling to trouble us and the walk had not been unpleasant. On the outskirts of Flesquieres we had passed a derelict tank, with two headless bodies lying beside it.’⁹

The task of burying the bodies fell to a party led by Captain Harold Head and Second Lieutenant James Macintosh, who retraced the route taken by their tanks the previous morning. This took them past Cemetery Alley, which had been the scene of his terrible killing-spree: ‘They … came to the trench which had provided Tosh with so much sport. The evidences of that sport were lying about, and he realized with something of a shock that these had been fellow-men he had so delighted to shoot.’¹⁰

Climbing the ridge, Second Lieutenant Macintosh came to the spot where his own tank, D45 Destroyer II, had been knocked out:

As they drew near they came first upon the dead gunner. Arms outstretched, eyes staring at the sky, on his face a complete negation of expression, he seemed to Tosh a poignant reminder of the vanity of the flesh, and a potent indication of the spirit’s immortality. These men with him – they had known the dead so much better than he – did they not feel the impossibility of this clay being all that was left of their friend and companion?

Leaving his men to dig the grave and compose the body, Tosh passed to the farther side of the tank. From this side had come the shells. As he looked at that battered, broken wreck, he marvelled that anyone had come out of it alive. Seven shells in all had entered, and the shape was almost unrecognisable. Drawing nearer, Tosh peered in, and was left in no further doubt of the fate of his seventh man.

Stepping back from the stench, he called for four men and a blanket.

‘My God,’ said one, ‘burnt to death.’

‘No, you fool,’ exclaimed Tosh, with a queer irritability, ‘can’t you see he was killed before he was burnt? Come on, let’s get it over.’

In the pitiful blanket shroud the body was carried to the grave. Setting up the cross they had brought, the men covered it in; Tosh nailed on the two name-plates; together they saluted the dead and passed on.’¹¹

After burying the dead from D41 Devil II nearby, they moved on towards Flesquières to find the remains of Deborah:

Together they then marched through the village which the day before had formed their final objective. Only one tank had penetrated the village; towards her their steps were now bent.

It was on the very extremity of the village that they came upon her. In the field beyond three field guns still lay. Having been warned of her approach, they had evidently watched for her appearance, and no sooner had she cleared the last house than they had reduced her to a flaming hulk.

Of her crew of eight, four had escaped and had crept back through the enemy lines to safety. The other four were known by name, but their bodies were quite unrecognisable.

On the way home that night, Tosh marvelled at his insensibility. He and his men had seen sights that day which might have haunted them for life. Yet here they were, within an hour, joking with one another, looking forward to a hearty supper and a dreamless night’s sleep. Yet they were not hardened or callous – at heart he knew them to be sympathetic almost to a fault.¹²

An artillery officer who later photographed the hulk of Deborah noted on the back ‘crew buried on other side of road’,¹³ and there, for the next two years, the dead men and their tank would remain.

Back home, the newspapers on 21 November carried a brief report saying operations had been carried out near Cambrai ‘with satisfactory results’.¹⁴ The full story broke the next day: ‘Great British Victory. Five-Mile Advance. Hindenburg Line Broken. A Battle of Tanks.’¹⁵ The news of a sudden breakthrough after months of stagnation in the Ypres Salient was greeted with rejoicing, symbolized by the ringing of church-bells across the country: in the words of The Times, ‘there was a continuous wave of cheerful sound carried from St. Paul’s to the far north, through all the little villages with their modest belfries, through the bigger cathedral towns to the west of England and to Wales.’¹⁶

But the celebrations were tinged with foreboding for anyone with a relative in the Tank Corps, since it was clear that tanks had led the advance, and although there was no news of casualties yet, some losses were inevitable.

A week after R.O.C. Ward’s death, a telegram arrived in London addressed to his wife. It said: ‘Deeply regret to inform you Major R.O.C. Ward Tank Corps was killed in action November twentieth. The Army Council express their sympathy.’ He was a well-known figure, and tributes soon appeared in the social and sporting journals, but that brought little comfort to his wife Florence, who now found herself alone with his three children, aged one, three and four, to bring up.¹⁷

In the case of twenty-year-old Second Lieutenant Richard Alun Jones, commander of D41 Devil II, whose burial had been supervised by his friend ‘Tosh’, there was a tragic twist: the local paper reported that his father, who was a Congregational minister in Wales, ‘received the official telegram almost the same time as a postcard from their son, which stated he was then “quite well”’.¹⁸

Meanwhile the families of so-called ‘other ranks’, whose deaths did not merit the urgency of a telegram, could only wait for the postman to deliver either the message they prayed for from their loved one, or the one they dreaded from his commanding officer.

And so it was that Mr Charles Foot opened with trepidation the letter from a Field Post Office that arrived at his home, The Roses in Great Missenden, Bucks. It was dated 25 November, and it read:

Dear Mr. Foote,

It is my very painful duty to write and inform you of the death of your son Pte. G. Foote D.C.M. of this Company.

He was killed in action on the 20th Nov. the car receiving a direct hit from hostile artillery when well within the enemy lines.

Knowing your son as I did, it was a great shock to me when I heard of his death; and I cannot say enough in support of the very excellent work your boy did out here.

His crew officer will write and give you full details as soon as possible. Again expressing my deepest sympathy,

I am, Sir,

Yours respectfully,

A. J. Enoch, Capt.¹⁹

The letter from Frank Heap followed the next day, and he made no attempt to disguise his pain:

Dear Mr. Foote,

It is with the deepest sympathy that I write to tell you of the death in action of your son George. He was in my tank in action on the 20^th of this month, when it was struck by a shell. He was killed instantly and painlessly, I am glad to say.

We buried him two days later where he had fallen. It may be some consolation that we had avenged him in advance.

We all feel his loss very deeply, for his cheery spirits and unfailing good nature had endeared him to all.

Of his courage, it would be impertinent on my part to speak, but his D.C.M. attested that. As a young officer in charge of a tank for the first time, I was helped to do my job by his tactful experience, and had he been spared, he would have made a splendid officer.

We have had sad losses in the Company, but none will be missed like George. The whole company regrets him bitterly. It strengthens one’s religious beliefs to suffer a loss like this. It is impossible that a soul like George’s should not go on living. I feel convinced I shall meet him again.

I am having a bitter evening now, as four more of my crew have also gone, all finer fellows than I shall ever be.

Please excuse these halting words, which utterly fail to express my sorrow and sympathy.

I envy you the honour of having given such a son to your country.

May God help and comfort you in this hour of need.

Yours in deepest sorrow.

Frank G Heap

2nd Lieut.²⁰

The letter makes it clear that one other member of his crew had died that day, in addition to the four who were killed when Deborah was knocked out, and who were buried together opposite their tank. This remains a mystery, though it could sometimes happen that crewmen lost their lives even if their tank survived – for instance from stray bullets entering through gaps in the armour. The normal procedure in this case was simply to roll the body out of the tank with a view to later burial. The fifth man could therefore have died earlier in the battle, or perhaps during their journey back to the British lines, though the accounts do not mention any casualties at that time.

The other letters that Frank Heap wrote on that day have been lost, though bereaved families would sometimes share messages of condolence with their local newspaper, and this happened with two of Deborah’s crew.

In the case of Joseph Cheverton, an obituary appeared in the Cambridge Chronicle in early December, along with a photograph – the same jaunty one on which he had written: ‘What do you think of it – bit of a knave’. The article said:

Letters to deceased’s father and to Miss Coote …, from his superior officer, pay a great tribute to Gunner Cheverton’s work with the Tanks, and tell of the high esteem in which he was held by officers and comrades alike, especially by the writer. One letter describes him as a splendid fellow, a willing worker and a cheerful comrade. Gunner Cheverton was killed instantaneously by a shell during the big battle on November 20th and buried two days later with other of his comrades who were killed. The writer adds that a cross to his memory will be erected shortly.²¹

The letter to Florrie Coote has not survived, though her descendants kept the Tank Corps badge that was sent with it as a keepsake. However, Joseph Cheverton’s family have preserved a battered ‘In Memoriam’ card: ‘In loving memory of our only dear son Gnr. J. W. Cheverton Tank Corps. Killed in action Nov. 20th, 1917 on his 20th birthday. Sadly missed by his sorrowing father, mother and sisters.’ The verse inside was no doubt much-used in those dark days, but nonetheless heartfelt:

Far away in a distant land,

Suddenly struck by death’s strong hand,

A son so dear a brother brave,

Lies buried in a soldiers [sic] grave,

His King and Country called him,

That call was not in vain,

On England’s roll of Honour,

You will find our dear boy’s name.²²

The Belfast Evening Telegraph carried an excerpt from Frank Heap’s letter paying tribute to Gunner William Galway: ‘In the course of a sympathetic communication to Mrs Galway, an officer says: “Your son was the life and soul of my crew, doing two men’s work and cheering us all up. He kept us in shrieks of laughter right up to the moment of his death, and died with a laugh on his lips, like the true Irish gentlemen he was”.’²³

Other local papers devoted even less space to the lengthening casualty lists. Three days before Christmas, the Nottinghamshire Guardian carried the briefest of items: ‘Killed in action, November 20th, Gunner Fred Tipping (late of Thomas Adams), beloved husband of Florrie Tipping.’²⁴

CHAPTER 32

A Bitter Evening