by Sapper
“‘If they start massing,’ were the Tank Commander’s orders, ‘pop outside with the guns, get them into shell-holes, and let ’em have it. Then get back inside.’
“At midday the Hun put down a barrage on our own front line, and almost at once their infantry started massing in the valley. They came on in line of small columns, paying not the slightest attention to the Tank, which they thought was deserted. A beautiful target, Peter, one to dream about. From about a hundred yards did our cheery warriors open fire, and allowing for exaggeration, the bag was about two hundred. So that counter-attack did not materialise, and the crew had dinner.
“But now the whole aspect of affairs had changed, for the Huns knew that the Tank was very far from deserted. Given a good sniper, unlimited time, and ammunition, and a hole to shoot at, however small, sooner or later he will get it. It was about four o’clock that the monotonous ping-ping of bullets on the Cow’s hide changed to a whistling flop, and with a drunken gurgle the painter crashed down on to the floor, and lay there drumming with his heels. Ten minutes later he died, and the crew had tea.
“Thereafter there was silence. Occasionally one of the men sitting motionless at his gun got in a shot at a fleeting target; but gradually dusk came on, the half-light time when one fancies things, when the bushes move and the hummocks of mud crawl with men. Then came the night.
“At 9 p.m. the Tank Commander had decided to send an NCO back to our lines to inform them of the situation; and at 9 p.m. therefore, the door was carefully opened, and a sergeant descended into the darkness. The next instant there was a guttural curse and a snarling, worrying noise. He had fallen on top of a Hun, and had only just time to stick a bayonet through his throat and jump back into the Tank again, and batten down the door when the Boches were all over them. For six long weary hours did they clamber over that Tank, bursting bombs on the top, trying to fire through loop-holes, shouting to the crew to surrender. And the only answer they got was: ‘For heaven’s sake go away: we can’t sleep.’ One proud Berlin butcher planted a machine-gun a yard from the door, and fired at it point-blank for an hour. Result – nil; except that just as he was going away, being a-weary of his pastime, his head coincided with the muzzle of one of the bigger guns of the Seasick Cow. A nasty death – though quick. And the evening and the morning were the first day.
“Twenty-four hours, Peter, up to date – quite enough, one would think, for the ordinary man. But not so for that Tank Commander. When the first chinks of light came stealing in through the loopholes, he took stock of his surroundings. Men can’t go on firing point-blank through a Tank for six odd hours without doing some damage; and though a cautious survey of the ground outside revealed a pretty bag of dead and dying Huns, a continuous groaning from the corner by the engine showed that there was trouble inside as well. The groaning came from the sergeant, who had got the splinter of a bomb in the stomach, and across his legs lay another of the crew stone dead, shot through the heart. The polisher of engines was morosely nursing a right hand which hung down limply and dripped, and yet another had taken a bullet through the shoulder.
“‘Boys,’ remarked the Tank Commander, ‘things have looked better – sometimes. But – they may put up another counter-attack today. What say you? Shall we pad the hoof?’
“‘An’ let them ruddy perishers ’ave the Cow? Not on your life, sir, not on your life.’ The engineer scowled horribly. ‘Besides, the boys may come back soon.’
“‘ ’Ear, ‘ear.’ The sergeant’s voice was very feeble. ‘Stick it out, sir, for Gawd’s sake.’
“‘Right you are, boys. Them’s my sentiments. Let’s have breakfast.’
“The next day was hot for a change – sweltering hot, and by the time the Boches put in another counter-attack the sergeant was delirious. It was a much more cautious affair this time, for they mistrusted that squat, silent machine. All the morning snipers had potted at her from three sides without effect, only the monotonous thud of the bullets lulled the remnants of the crew to sleep. It just requires a little imagination, Peter, that’s all, to get the inside of that Tank. Two dead, one delirious, two more wounded, and – well, we will not specify further details. And brooding over all, an oppressive, sweltering heat, through which the sergeant moaned continuously and begged for water, while the others slept fitfully as best they could.
“Then came the second counter-attack. Once again the barrage on our own front lines roused the crew and they stood to their guns: once again they saw those small columns of Huns coming on. As I said, it was a far more cautious affair this one, and targets were hard to pick up; but they did pick ’em up, and for the second time the counter-attack failed to materialise. The thing which did not fail to materialise was an odd shot through one of the loopholes which found that a man’s eye is not bullet- proof. And that made three dead…
“At dusk they held another council of war, and the Tank Commander gave tongue. ‘Go forth,’ he said, ‘even like the penguins from the Ark and tell unto the Feet behind us that we are sore pressed, but that our tails – in so far as they remain – are in a vertical position, above our heads. Also that we have slaughtered large quantities of Huns, and would have them join us in this most exhilarating sport.’
“‘Even so, O King,’ spake out he of the wounded flipper, ‘but who is to go? For upon casting my eye round the court circle, beside yourself there is but one unwounded man.’
“Forgive me thus bursting into language of rare beauty, but I’m afraid it’s the brandy.” James thoughtfully lit a cigarette. “I gather that words ran high in the Seasick Cow when the Commander insisted on the one unwounded man, accompanied by him of the damaged lunch-hooks, going back and leaving him. For a while they flatly refused to go, and it was not until he had sentenced them both to penal servitude for life that they reluctantly agreed to obey orders. And so at 8 pip emma on the second day they shook one another by the hand, grunted as is the manner of our race, and cautiously dropped out of the entrance and this story.”
“Which up to date is not bad for you, James,” I reassured him kindly.
“At the beginning of the second night, then,” he continued coldly, “we find our Tank Commander practically alone. Three of his crew were dead, the sergeant unconscious, and the rest in varying stages of delirious babblings. And though it is easy to talk of here, yet if you will picture your own wanderings in No Man’s Land, with the flares shooting up, and the things that were which jibber at you, and having pictured that, imagine yourself inside a Tank, with occasional shafts of ghostly light flooding through loopholes and shining on the set dead faces of the crew, I think you will agree that there are better ways of spending the night. Not a soul to speak to coherently: only one man who thought he was in Smithfield Market selling meat and monotonously called the prices, and another who was apparently playing mental golf round Westward Ho! Then, as a finale, the sergeant who occasionally came to and moaned for water; but being hit in the stomach, Peter, he couldn’t have any. Those three and the dead…
“At 10 pip emma came the Huns again. They swarmed all over the Tank for the second time, and dodging from loophole to loophole was the Tank Commander. Sometimes he blew a man’s head off from point blank range, sometimes a bullet whizzed past his own and ricocheted round the inside of the Cow. About twelve the golfer was hit through the heart, and shortly afterwards the Smithfield gentleman went clean crazy. He alternately fired a Verey pistol and one of the guns into the crowd outside, and, finding this too slow, endeavoured to open the door and charge. Then somewhat mercifully he collapsed suddenly and lay on the floor and babbled.
“About four next morning the Huns went away again, and the Tank Commander had just enough strength left to stagger to the gun and draw a bead on a stoutish officer some fifty yards away, who seemed very annoyed about something – probably the fact that the Cow was still there. He pulled the trigger, and the shell apparently burst on the officer; which must have been still more annoying for the poor man. Then with
a short sigh of utter weariness he collapsed and slept. And the evening and the morning were the second day…
“About three o’clock the next day we went forward, preceded by a creeping barrage. Funnily enough, I personally found the mechanic and the other warrior. They had encountered a Hun patrol, and things had evidently moved. They were all dead – four Huns, and the two Tankites. The mechanic had apparently used a spanner with effect: he still had it gripped tight in his right hand. Then we went on and saw the Tank for the first time, because, being fresh troops, we knew nothing about it. It was dead – lifeless: but not so dead or lifeless as the mass of Germans heaped around it. The barrage reached it, played on it, and passed on; we reached it, looked at it, and were about to pass on when suddenly the door opened and a haggard-looking, blood-stained wreck appeared in it.
“‘What a shindy!’ he remarked. ‘It’s woken me up.’
“Lord, how the men laughed. It takes a lot to make anyone laugh who is trying to walk over Flanders, but they howled – he looked so confoundedly peevish. Then a couple of them looked inside the Tank and ceased laughing to be sick.
“‘Got two stretcher-bearers?’ asked the apparition. ‘My sergeant’s been hit in the stomach for forty-eight hours.’
“We found him two, and the last I saw of him for a few days he was wandering back with his sergeant through the filth. Met him often since at Poperinghe in the club, and at Bethune… Night-night, Jonah. When are you going back?”
“In five days, old boy. It’s a hard life, is not it?”
Jonah and his girl passed slowly up the steps, and I watched them as they went.
“Poperinghe? Bethune!” I murmured slowly. “Is he the cause, by any chance, of your interesting but somewhat irrelevant yarn?”
As I spoke the glitter and scent, the lights and the women, seemed blotted out by another picture: a grim picture with a Tank for setting, a squat motionless Tank dripping with blood, surrounded by death.
“Of course,” answered James briefly. “Three days and three nights in the belly of the whale: three days and two nights in the belly of the Tank.
“But, by Jove! there’s Kitty on the move. Goodbye, old man. You might pay.”
Series Information
Dates given are for year of first publication.
‘Bulldog Drummond’ Series
These Titles can be read as a series, or randomly as standalone novels
1. Bulldog Drummond 1920
2. The Black Gang 1922
3. The Third Round 1924
4. The Final Count 1926
5. The Female of the Species 1928
6. Temple Tower 1929
7. The Return of Bulldog Drummond 1932
8. Knock Out 1933
9. Bulldog Drummond At Bay 1935
10. Challenge 1937
‘Ronald Standish’ Series
These Titles can be read as a series, or randomly as standalone novels
1. Knock Out 1933
2. Ask For Ronald Standish 1936
3. Challenge 1937
‘Jim Maitland’
These Titles can be read as a series, or randomly as standalone novels
1. Jim Maitland 1933
2. The Island of Terror 1937
Synopses - All Titles
Published by House of Stratus
Ask for Ronald Standish
Introducing debonair detective, Ronald Standish – good-looking, refined, and wealthy enough to be selective in taking cases that are of special interest to him. There are twelve tales in this compelling collection, written by the creator of Bulldog Drummond, who once more proves his mastery with the cream of detection.
The Black Gang
Although the First World War is over, it seems that the hostilities are not, and when Captain Hugh ‘Bulldog’ Drummond discovers that a stint of bribery and blackmail is undermining England’s democratic tradition, he forms the Black Gang, bent on tracking down the perpetrators of such plots. They set a trap to lure the criminal mastermind behind these subversive attacks to England, and all is going to plan until Bulldog Drummond accepts an invitation to tea at the Ritz with a charming American clergyman and his dowdy daughter.
Bulldog Drummond
‘Demobilised officer, finding peace incredibly tedious, would welcome diversion. Legitimate, if possible; but crime, if of a comparatively humorous description, no objection. Excitement essential... Reply at once Box X10.’
Hungry for adventure following the First World War, Captain Hugh ‘Bulldog’ Drummond begins a career as the invincible protectorate of his country. His first reply comes from a beautiful young woman, who sends him racing off to investigate what at first looks like blackmail but turns out to be far more complicated and dangerous. The rescue of a kidnapped millionaire, found with his thumbs horribly mangled, leads Drummond to the discovery of a political conspiracy of awesome scope and villainy, masterminded by the ruthless Carl Peterson.
Bulldog Drummond At Bay
While Hugh ‘Bulldog’ Drummond is staying in an old cottage for a peaceful few days duck-shooting, he is disturbed one night by the sound of men shouting, followed by a large stone that comes crashing through the window. When he goes outside to investigate, he finds a patch of blood in the road, and is questioned by two men who tell him that they are chasing a lunatic who has escaped from the nearby asylum. Drummond plays dumb, but is determined to investigate in his inimitable style when he discovers a cryptic message.
Challenge
When Colonel Henry Talbot summons Bulldog Drummond and Ronald Standish, it is to inform them of the mysterious death of one of their colleagues – Jimmy Latimer. At the time of his death, he was on a big job, and was travelling on a boat to Newhaven when he died. But there was no sign of any wound, no trace of any weapon when they found him in his cabin. What strikes Drummond and Standish is why millionaire, Charles Burton, would have been travelling on the same boat – arguably the most uncomfortable crossing he could choose and very out-of-character.
The Dinner Club
A fascinating collection of tales, including stories related by members of a select club consisting of an actor, a barrister, a doctor, a soldier, a writer and an ‘ordinary man’. Each member of this club is obliged to entertain his fellows to dinner from time to time, after which he relates a story connected with his profession or trade – the only penalty is a donation to a worthy charity should he fail to keep his audience awake. Readers of these excellent stories may rest assured that there is no such danger.
The Female of the Species
Bulldog Drummond has slain his archenemy, Carl Peterson, but Peterson’s mistress lives on and is intent on revenge. Drummond’s wife vanishes, followed by a series of vicious traps set by a malicious adversary, which lead to a hair-raising chase across England, to a sinister house and a fantastic torture-chamber modelled on Stonehenge, with its legend of human sacrifice.
The Final Count
When Robin Gaunt, inventor of a terrifyingly powerful weapon of chemical warfare, goes missing, the police suspect that he has ‘sold out’ to the other side. But Bulldog Drummond is convinced of his innocence, and can think of only one man brutal enough to use the weapon to hold the world to ransom. Drummond receives an invitation to a sumptuous dinner-dance aboard an airship that is to mark the beginning of his final battle for triumph.
The Finger of Fate
The title story in this wry collection concerns acquaintances Staunton and Barstow, who witness a bizarre spectacle outside a bar in an Austrian village. A thin-lipped aristocrat steps down from his plush horse-drawn vehicle, and commences formidable target-practice on some playing cards – the Five of Hearts and the Five of Spades. Barstow remains utterly still during this peculiar display, and it emerges that he has witnessed this on six consecutive days – the shooter is the husband of his mistress, and he is challenging Barstow to a duel. Further stories of love, revenge, jealousy and fate complete this stirring volume.
The Island
of Terror
When intrepid adventurer, Jim Maitland, returns to England for a brief visit, he meets a charming young woman named Judy Draycott, who solicits his help in a perilous matter. She relates the story of her brother, Arthur – drifting in South America until he meets an old sailor who, on his deathbed, tells him about a hoard of buried treasure. When Arthur is shot during an attempt to return to London, Maitland persuades his cousin, Percy, to accompany him to Lone Tree Island, where the treasure is allegedly buried. But what can they do with only half a map? And can they evade the undesirables on their trail?
Jim Brent
A soldier with a death wish is the subject of the title story in this inspiring collection of First World War experiences. Jim Brent, serving in Belgium with the Royal Engineers, has his heart broken when his sweetheart announces she is to marry someone else. He becomes instantly fearless and suggests a wild scheme to blow up a bridge – which could very well cost him his life.
Jim Maitland
Immaculate, charming, fearless wanderer, Jim Maitland, has a peculiar code of morals and an unforgettable character. Our enthusiastic narrator, Leyton, meets the legendary Maitland on the Island of Tampico – a flawless jewel in a sapphire sea, with more vice than the slums of a city – and leaps at the chance to accompany this charismatic man on his spontaneous travels.
John Walters
In the ranks of North Sussex – Number Three Platoon – serves a man whose physical stature is imposing, but whose mental state is said to be inert at best. This is the story of his remarkable awakening, one hot day in May, as he serves in the trenches of the front line. Other fascinating stories follow in this convincing commentary of wartime experience.
