Tank Boys

by Stephen Dando-Collins

  With a sigh, he followed the street to the south. Heavily loaded army wagons and teams of horses tugging field guns rumbled by, all heading towards the railhead and churning up the muddy road. Just as houses were becoming fewer and fewer and he could see countryside ahead, Richard came to an open gateway. Beyond it, the ruins of a brick mill-house stood beside a stream. Nearby barns, which must have once housed the miller’s wagons, were still intact, and the ugly grey metal snouts of several wagons of a different kind poked out from under their tiled roofs. These were A7V armoured war wagons. Tanks. Richard smiled to himself; he was in the right place.

  Passing through the gateway, Richard headed towards the barns. His pace quickened with a mixture of excitement and curiosity. So these brutes were the weapons that everyone was saying would win them the war? And he was to join the crew of one of them.

  The sounds of metal being bashed met his ears, coming from one of the barns. Someone cursed loudly.

  ‘Hey, you!’ a gruff voice called from his right. ‘What do you want here?’

  Richard, turning in the direction of the voice, fumbled in his pocket for his papers. A corporal sat on the doorstep of the ruined mill, stroking a cat that lay comfortably in his lap. A rifle stood against the wall beside him.

  ‘I’m assigned to Abteilung 3,’ Richard said, holding out his papers.

  ‘That way,’ said the corporal with disinterest, waving away the document. ‘The barn closest to the stream.’

  Looking around, Richard took in the collection of barns. ‘Over there? Thank you.’

  Richard followed the man’s directions until he came to a shed where four massive metal monsters sat side by side. A grey-haired, middle-aged sergeant stood in front of one of the machines. He wore a cap and a black leather coat typical of men in the transport corps, and he held a paintbrush in one hand. Richard watched as the sergeant painted over a large white skull and crossbones on the front of the tank, using grey paint.

  ‘What are you doing, Feldwebel?’ Richard asked.

  When the sergeant turned to him, Richard could see a smoking pipe jutting from the corner of his mouth. ‘Giving the old fellow a new look for his new detachment,’ the sergeant replied. ‘And who are you, my boy?’

  Richard quickly came to rigid attention. ‘Private Richard Rix, assigned to Panzerkampfwagen 506, Abteilung 3, Feldwebel.’

  ‘Indeed?’ First setting his brush on the lip of a paint tin, the sergeant took a puff on his pipe and looked Richard up and down. ‘You’ve found it. This is your panzer, boy. Number five-oh-six. You must be our new artillery loader.’

  ‘Yes, Feldwebel,’ Richard replied. ‘Private Rix, formerly of the 1st Field Artillery Regiment, 9th Bavarian Reserve Division.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The sergeant studied Richard’s fresh, round face. ‘You look too young for the army, boy.’

  Richard nodded. ‘There was a mistake on my call-up papers. The mayor of my town gave the wrong year of birth for me –’

  The sergeant halted Richard’s explanation with a raised hand. ‘We all have sad stories to tell in this war, boy. We just have to get on with it and thank God we’re still alive. I’m Feldwebel Heiber, driver of this beast.’ He nodded to the grey tank looming over them.

  ‘Are you in charge of this vehicle, Feldwebel?’

  ‘Me? In charge?’ Heiber chuckled to himself. ‘Hardly, boy. Your direct commander will be Feldwebel Eckhardt, the gunner. Toss your kit in the back of the barn. You will sleep in here with the rest of us. But first you must report to the beast’s commander, Oberleutnant Skopnik.’

  ‘Where will I find the oberleutnant?’

  ‘At our headquarters – a cottage just along the stream there.’ Bending to pick up his brush, the sergeant resumed his painting.

  Doing as Heiber had instructed, Richard dumped his haversack in the back of the barn with other bags before setting off along the bank of the stream, towards a brick cottage. As he walked he heard raised voices, laughter and the sounds of splashing water. Soon he came upon twenty or thirty naked soldiers bathing and playing like children in the brown waters of the stream. Richard shivered involuntarily at the sight. It was March, but there had been snow on the ground in Belgium only a week before, and these early spring days were still chilly. The water in the stream had to be icy cold.

  A fully clothed soldier sitting on the bank of the stream, smoking and watching the others frolic, looked up as Richard approached. ‘Going in for an early morning dip, youngster?’ he asked.

  Richard shook his head. ‘It looks cold in there.’

  ‘It’s fine once you’re under,’ the man returned. ‘At least it frees you of the lice for a while.’

  ‘I know. I hate lice.’

  The soldier squinted at Richard. ‘What do you know about lice? Look at you. You’re only a baby. A war virgin.’

  Richard smiled weakly. ‘I am looking for Oberleutnant Skopnik. I have to report to him.’

  The soldier nodded towards the nearby cottage. ‘The oberleutnant will be in there.’

  Richard resumed walking and soon reached the open door of the cottage that was serving as the headquarters of the tank group. Poking his head in through the doorway, Richard saw an overweight officer and a skinny corporal sitting at a table and concentrating on paperwork. The officer, a first lieutenant equipped with round spectacles and a small moustache, looked up at Richard.

  ‘Come! Come!’ said the officer impatiently, beckoning him with a waggle of fingers.

  Marching into the room, Richard came to attention and saluted the lieutenant. ‘Private Rix reporting for duty with Abteilung 3, Oberleutnant Skopnik!’

  The lieutenant sourly returned the salute. ‘I am Oberleutnant Theunissen, adjutant of this unit. Show me your transfer papers.’

  Knowing that the adjutant was the administrative officer, Richard quickly produced his papers.

  ‘Good,’ said the lieutenant as he read the document. ‘Very good.’ He passed the document to the corporal beside him. ‘Stamp this, then file it under “Reinforcements” in the Abteilung 3 records – organised by date, latest on top. A place for everything, and everything in its place – that is my motto in life.’ He looked at Richard and declared, ‘I may not ride around the countryside in one of the panzers, Private Rix, but my role here is essential. A war can only be efficiently run as long as accurate records are maintained. Just you remember that. Order is everything. Without order, there is chaos.’

  ‘Yes, Herr Oberleutnant,’ Richard stiffly replied.

  Turning to the doorway of an adjoining room, Lieutenant Theunissen yelled, ‘Skopnik! Come, I have more cannon fodder for you. Your new loader.’

  An officer of thirty or so, with a bushy moustache, strode into the room. Bareheaded, and fastening his Guards regiment tunic, the officer scowled at Richard. ‘Is this a joke? You are my replacement loader?’

  Richard could feel himself going red in the face. ‘Er, yes, Oberleutnant Skopnik. Private Rix reporting for duty as loader with Panzerkampfwagen 506.’

  ‘I asked for an experienced man, a mature man,’ Skopnik said angrily. ‘The artillery is supposed to send us the best men they have for panzer duty!’

  ‘A clerical error, perhaps,’ Theunissen suggested. ‘Rix is a common name.’

  ‘I am a good loader, Herr Oberleutnant,’ Richard said to Skopnik. ‘I’m fast and efficient. I’ve never dropped a shell.’

  ‘Heaven help us if you did!’ Skopnik replied, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘Too late to send for another replacement, Skopnik,’ said Lieutenant Theunissen. ‘The Oberst thinks we will receive orders to move to the front again any day now.’

  ‘A panzer is no place for children,’ Skopnik growled. Shaking his head, he turned and departed the way he’d come.

  Richard, confused, looked at Lieutenant Theunissen for direction.

  ‘Go! Go!’ said the adjutant. ‘Join your crew.’

  ‘Yes, Herr Oberleutnant.’ Richard snapped another salute then
hurriedly departed.

  Retracing his steps to the barn beside the stream, Richard found Sergeant Heiber still at work on his tank, paintbrush in hand. In Richard’s absence, Heiber had neatly painted the word ‘Mephisto’ on one side of the tank’s nose. Now he was painting an odd-looking figure in red on the other side.

  ‘What does “Mephisto” mean?’ Richard asked.

  ‘Come, come, my boy,’ said Heiber, turning to look at him. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t know the legend of Faust. Mephisto is short for Mephistopheles, the Devil. You will be riding to war in the Devil.’

  ‘The panzer has a name?’ Richard said with surprise.

  ‘They all have names, as ships do. The other panzers of Abteilung 3 you see here are Cyklop, Baden 1 and Gretchen. This old boy is Mephisto.’

  As Heiber resumed painting, Richard took in the other tanks inside the barn. They all looked like giant tortoises. Their grey armoured hulls were branded with identical black German crosses. ‘What is that you are painting now, Feldwebel?’ Richard asked, returning his gaze to Mephisto.

  ‘Can’t you tell from the tail and the horns? This little red fellow is the Devil and he is running away with a British panzer under his arm.’

  Richard laughed. ‘Now I see.’

  Heiber grinned. ‘Perhaps the British panzer crews will see this red devil and they too will run away, saving us the trouble of fighting them or running them over with our wonder weapon.’

  ‘Have our panzers and their panzers ever met in battle, Feldwebel?’

  ‘Not yet. But that time is not far off, I’m thinking. Our next battle, perhaps, will be against the British panzers, not just their infantry and artillery. It was bad enough when we went into battle near the St Quentin Canal last week, at the start of the Michael Offensive.’

  ‘Last week? Did we do well in the battle?’ On his way here Richard had heard nothing about the German tanks going into battle.

  ‘Mephisto did well. It blew apart the fortifications of the Pontchu Redoubt and ran down quite a few Tommies who got in our way.’ Heiber seemed pleased with the recollection of the tank’s work in battle, but then a frown soured his face. ‘We panzer men will not be popular with the enemy now, I can tell you. If you ever fall into the hands of the British, boy, do not admit that you are a panzer man – they might just kill you on the spot for squashing their friends into the earth.’

  ‘Oh.’ Neither the squashing into the earth or the killing on the spot sounded very appealing to Richard. He left the sergeant to get on with his painting and began to walk around Mephisto, taking in its craggy metal features. The A7V tank was basically a large metal box on two sets of tracks. The vehicle’s sides were flat but slightly angled back to help deflect bullets and shells. Mephisto’s front and rear were also angled to a point of sorts, like the bow of a ship. On top of the tank, in the middle, sat the cupola, an elevated armoured box where the driver and commander were positioned.

  Richard came to the tank’s front left hatch, which had ‘506’ neatly painted on it in large white numbers. ‘Can I look inside?’ he called to Heiber.

  ‘Of course! Go ahead. Your position will be at the front, with the gun.’

  ‘I know.’ Richard had never been inside a tank, but had been shown a diagram of the interior of an A7V German war wagon when being transferred from the artillery. Reaching up, Richard opened the rectangular hatch door and clambered in, entering the bowels of the devil.

  Here was the interior of the ‘land ship’, as German newspapers described these tanks. Richard knew that, overall, it was seven metres long, three metres across and 1.5 metres high – not quite high enough for him to stand up straight inside. With back bent and head bowed, he studied the features of his new home on tracks.

  Immediately in front of him was the 57 mm Maxim-Nordenfelt cannon that was Mephisto’s main weapon. It sat on a swivelling mount, with the barrel jutting out through the nose of the tank. Beside the gun was a metal seat for the gunner. Either side of the big gun, and on each flank of Mephisto, there were small square firing holes – machine-gun ports. There were another two in the rear. Richard guessed that the Maxim machine guns that usually poked out through these holes had been removed for servicing.

  When Mephisto was underway, two raised seats situated in the middle, above the two engines, would be occupied by Heiber and Lieutenant Skopnik. Somehow, a total of eighteen crewmen had to cram inside this metal box. To Richard, the thought of serving in this new ‘wonder weapon’ was both exciting and terrifying at the same time.

  On a farm southwest of Messines, a few days after the trench cave-in, Frankie and Taz sat together on the remains of a low stone wall, scooping the last of steaming-hot soup from their army pannikins. Ever since the cave-in, the two young Australian soldiers had been inseparable. They’d shared a lot that horrific day. The terror of being shelled. The desperation of digging the other men out. And the secret that both had carried ever since they’d enlisted in the Australian Imperial Force – that they were only sixteen, two years younger than the minimum legal age for enlistment.

  ‘What do you reckon the higher-ups would do if they found out we were under-age?’ Frankie asked, licking the back of his spoon.

  ‘We’d probably be withdrawn from the front and sent home.’

  ‘Do you want to be withdrawn? I hate it in the trenches. It’s like being in your grave and just waiting to die. But I’d die of shame if they made us go and leave the other blokes to do all the fighting.’

  Taz nodded. ‘We can’t let anyone know.’

  ‘It’s our secret.’ Frankie spat on his hand then held it out. ‘Shake on it, Taz.’

  Taz spat on his hand. ‘Our secret,’ he agreed, firmly shaking hands with his new chum.

  Both grew thoughtful and fell into a heavy silence.

  ‘Why’d you join up, anyway?’ Taz asked after a while.

  Frankie shrugged. ‘Seemed like a good idea at the time. I was bored and broke. And I thought I might come back a hero.’

  ‘Where’s home?’

  ‘A farm just outside Gympie, in Queensland. Do you know Gympie?’

  Taz shook his head. ‘Never been to Queensland. I was born and raised at Beaconsfield, in Tassie.’ A puzzled look came over his face. ‘The 52nd is a West Australian and Tasmanian battalion. If you’re from Queensland . . .?’

  ‘I was in WA, at Kalgoorlie, when I enlisted. Christmas before last I ran away from home and went west.’

  ‘Why’d you run away? Not happy at home?’

  Frankie shrugged. ‘I thought I’d make my fortune digging for gold. I’d heard about a place called the Golden Mile, in Kalgoorlie.’

  ‘But you didn’t make your fortune?’

  ‘Hardly, mate! It’s only mining companies that make money out of digging gold these days. They make it on the backs of silly coots like me. But I had to go there to find that out. What about you? Why’d you join up?’

  Taz didn’t answer right away. He kicked the dirt. ‘Two of my elder brothers were killed fighting,’ he eventually said. ‘One on Gallipoli. The other in Flanders.’

  ‘Oh.’ Frankie didn’t know what to say to that, so volunteered, ‘I don’t have any brothers. Just a pile of sisters.’

  Taz looked at his new friend. ‘I don’t have any brothers either now. After they were killed I wanted to do my bit . . . for them.’ He paused, pensive for a moment. ‘You can understand that, can’t you, Frankie?’

  ‘Course I can, mate,’ Frankie earnestly replied, patting him on the back. ‘It’s only natural.’

  Fighting back tears, Taz dropped his eyes to the ground. ‘My mother couldn’t understand. She said she’d lost two sons and didn’t want to lose the third. But I worked on Dad. He understood. I told him I’d never be able to live with the guilt if I had to go through life knowing I could have served but didn’t. He convinced Mum to sign the papers. But I know she didn’t want to. She hated Dad for making her do it.’ He fell silent for a moment, then added, ‘Poor old
Mum.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Frankie, trying to cheer Taz up, ‘you’ll soon have a chance to get a few Jerries for your brothers. Won’t be long before we’ve got some of the Kaiser’s boys in our sights. Then we’ll play merry hell with the buggers!’

  Taz nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, merry hell,’ he agreed without enthusiasm.

  Sitting on an ammunition box outside the barn with a dinner plate on his lap, Richard mopped up the last traces of thin gravy with a piece of bread. Other members of Mephisto’s crew had also improvised seats for themselves and were sitting around eating, talking and laughing. Richard noticed that they all had either a moustache or a neat beard. Barefaced, Richard was the only one without facial adornment. And if that wasn’t enough, all the men were years older than Richard, making him feel even more like the baby of the crew. In fact, some of his crewmates were old enough to be his father. Within hours of joining his new unit, Richard had decided to grow a moustache.

  For supper, the crew had split into several groups. Most of the twelve machine-gunners and loaders, who’d all come from the infantry, sat together. Sergeant Heiber sat with Corporal Hartmann, the mechanic, and his assistant, Hess; they were from the transport corps. The gunner, Sergeant Eckhardt, sat on his own. Earlier, Richard had introduced himself to Eckhardt, but the balding gunner had merely grunted and walked away. Another crewman, Krank, one of the machine-gun loaders, also sat alone, away from the others. He was a morose man who, Richard came to notice, never looked others in the eye and never seemed to talk to anyone.