Tank Boys

by Stephen Dando-Collins

  Mephisto had broken down again. At Marcelcave, it had reached its allocated starting position for the morning’s attack, in the open north of the village, behind the spidery network of German frontline trenches. While Hartmann worked on the engine in the light of a candle, the rest of the crew covered their tank with camouflage netting and tree branches to prevent Allied aircraft spotting it in the twilight or in dawn’s early light next day. After eating bread and vegetable broth for dinner, Richard and his companions settled in a nearby trench to try to get some sleep. When they were in the rear areas, Lieutenant Skopnik always slept at headquarters with the other officers, but here at the front he spread a blanket among his men, ready to jump into his tank in a hurry if he had to.

  Shortly after, a messenger from Colonel Kessel arrived to summon Skopnik to the headquarters dugout. ‘The oberst has new orders for Mephisto, Herr Oberleutnant,’ said the messenger, with a crisp salute.

  As the messenger trotted away, Skopnik drew himself to his feet, then walked to where Richard was lying in the trench. With his jackbooted foot, the lieutenant nudged Richard’s leg. ‘Rix, come with me. I may need you to act as my runner.’

  ‘Yes, Herr Oberleutnant,’ Richard replied, yawning, before dragging himself upright. He quickly fell in behind the officer, following him through the darkness along a weaving communication trench to a low command dugout burrowed into the earth.

  ‘Wait here,’ the lieutenant ordered, leaving Richard outside the entrance to the dugout. A grey blanket hanging across the entranceway served as a makeshift door.

  Pushing the blanket aside, Skopnik ducked his head and stepped into the dugout. Its walls and roof were all made from roughly hewn logs. Colonel Kessel, Lieutenant Theunissen and two signallers were sitting at wooden tables in the light of flickering candles. Skopnik came to attention, clicking his heels together, and saluted. ‘You sent for me, Herr Oberst?’

  ‘Yes, yes, Skopnik,’ the colonel replied irritably, returning his salute. ‘Come, see here.’ As Kessel unfolded a field map, Skopnik moved closer and bent to view it. ‘It seems we will only have thirteen vehicles for tomorrow’s assault, not the expected fifteen. Soon, we will be left with nothing but a handcart to fight with! So, as you know, I had divided the unit into three gruppen. Gruppe 1 is to attack the town of Villers-Bretonneux with the 228th Division, Gruppe 2 is to push past the south of the town with the 4th Guards Division, towards the wood known as Bois d’Aquenne, while the panzers of Gruppe 3 will attack the village of Cachy with the 77th Reserve Division.’

  ‘Yes, Herr Oberst. My orders were to attack Villers-Bretonneux as part of Gruppe 1.’

  ‘Indeed. Well, both Greiff and Stahl were to be part of Gruppe 2, but now that their panzers are out of commission, I must switch you to Gruppe 2 to fill their places. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Herr Oberst,’ returned Skopnik. ‘The 4th Guards are my old division. It will be an honour to support them.’

  ‘Good. And, Skopnik, keep alert out there tomorrow. Our reconnaissance aircraft reported seeing at least three British tanks in the woods. Where there is smoke there is fire. There may be more of their panzers in the woods to the west and south of the town. Be ready to deal with them.’

  ‘Yes, Herr Oberst.’

  ‘Otherwise, nothing has changed. Our gas bombardment will be launched at fifteen minutes before five in the morning, and the assault will commence at six. Carry on, Oberleutnant, and good hunting. I wish I were going with you.’

  ‘Thank you, Herr Oberst.’

  ‘Death or glory, Skopnik,’ called adjutant Theunissen, wearing the smug smile of a man who would spend the battle in the shelter of a dugout.

  Skopnik gave him an ironic smile in return. Then, after another exchange of salutes with the colonel, Skopnik withdrew.

  Richard was leaning against the doorpost outside, his mind wandering as he pondered what the next day might bring. He had never been in battle before. The big guns that he had loaded in the past had been situated well behind the lines, and he had never seen the enemy. Tomorrow would be different. He thanked God that he still wouldn’t have to look the Tommies in the eye, wouldn’t have to face them with rifle and bayonet. All he had to do was shove shells into the breech of Mephisto’s cannon, with the tank’s thick armoured hull between him and the enemy. He didn’t want to kill anyone. And he certainly didn’t want anyone to kill him.

  As Lieutenant Skopnik emerged from the bunker, Richard quickly came to attention. Even in the moonlight, he could see that the lieutenant was not looking pleased. ‘Is everything all right, Herr Oberleutnant?’

  ‘British tanks,’ said Skopnik absently, propping himself against the frame of the bunker doorway and taking out a packet of Ecksteins, one of Germany’s most popular cigarette brands.

  ‘Pardon, Herr Oberleutnant?’

  ‘British tanks,’ Skopnik repeated. He lit a cigarette and took a long drag as he looked to the black sky. ‘We are likely to be going up against British tanks tomorrow, youngster. It would be the first tank-versus-tank battle in history. How do you feel about making history, Rix?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Herr Oberleutnant.’

  ‘There may be British tanks in our path, and there may not,’ said Skopnik, half to himself. ‘Only after the event do we learn the truth.’ He looked at his cigarette. ‘One day they will tell us that cigarettes are bad for us, and it will be too late. Only too late do we learn that death is stalking us.’ Dropping his cigarette, Skopnik ground out its burning tip with the heel of his jackboot. ‘Come, youngster. Let us do our duty.’ With that, the lieutenant turned to lead the way back along the communication trench.

  As they trod through the darkness, there was a rushing sound overhead. Suddenly, British shells were bursting all around. Richard and the lieutenant threw themselves to the ground. One shell, landing closer to Skopnik than to Richard, sent shrapnel scything along the trench. The lieutenant’s body shielded Richard from most of the blast.

  The British bombardment only lasted three or four minutes before silence returned to the night. Richard stood up and dusted himself off. To his surprise, he was perfectly calm and thinking clearly despite the fearsome shell-bursts. He was even feeling defiant. ‘Didn’t get me that time, Tommy,’ he said, looking west towards the British lines.

  Looking down, he realised that Lieutenant Skopnik wasn’t moving. ‘Oberleutnant!’ Richard exclaimed, kneeling by the lieutenant’s side. Skopnik’s cap had come off. The lieutenant lay on his side with his eyes closed, and in the moonlight Richard could see that he was bleeding from a deep shrapnel wound to the forehead. But Skopnik’s chest was rising and falling. He was alive.

  Jumping up, Richard ran back to the command dugout. Ignoring ceremony, he burst in through the blanketed entry. ‘Herr Oberst, Oberleutnant Skopnik – he’s been wounded,’ Richard blurted.

  Kessel immediately dispatched the two signallers to help Richard, and soon the three of them were carrying the unconscious lieutenant into the dugout. Kessel briefly looked at Skopnik’s head wound, then picked up the field telephone and gave a brisk order for stretcher-bearers to be sent to carry the lieutenant back to the nearest aid station. All the while, the adjutant, Lieutenant Theunissen, had been a silent witness to events.

  ‘Theunissen,’ the colonel now said as he returned the telephone handset to its cradle, ‘you will take over the command of Skopnik’s panzer for tomorrow’s assault.’

  A look of horror came over Theunissen’s face. ‘Me, Herr Oberst? But I am the adjutant. Without me here with you, the paperwork will be in chaos. Assign Hauptmann Greiff to Mephisto. His own panzer is out of action and he had battle experience with these machines at St Quentin.’

  ‘At this moment Hauptmann Greiff is at Marcelcave and you are here, Theunissen!’ the colonel retorted. ‘Besides, with luck, Greiff’s machine will be repaired by the morning and Greiff will join the assault in his own panzer. So be good enough to return to Skopnik’s machine with this youngster and take c
harge.’

  The blood drained from Theunissen’s face. ‘Yes, Herr Oberst. As you instruct.’

  ‘Relocate Mephisto to the southern group at once for the assault towards Cachy,’ Kessel instructed. Then, lifting his walking stick, he prodded Theunissen’s chest with it. ‘Go!’

  ‘Yes, Herr Oberst.’ Theunissen turned to glower at Richard. ‘Lead the way, boy.’

  Richard did as he was bidden and led Lieutenant Theunissen out of the dugout and along the communication trench, passing infantrymen who were already repairing the damage done to the trench by the British shelling. Richard and the lieutenant clambered up a wooden ladder and emerged into the open. Twenty metres away, Mephisto sat under its camouflage netting.

  ‘There she is, Herr Oberleutnant,’ said Richard. ‘There’s Mephisto.’

  Theunissen didn’t reply.

  As they came up to Mephisto, they could hear the tank’s engines ticking over. Hartmann was sitting on the ground with his back to the tank. His right boot and sock were off, and Papa Heiber was kneeling and applying a bandage to Hartmann’s toes, strapping the big toe to the one beside it.

  ‘What is going on?’ Theunissen demanded.

  ‘He kicked the machine, Herr Oberleutnant,’ Heiber replied with a faint smile, ‘in his frustration with the engines.’

  Hartmann grimaced. ‘And I think I broke my big toe doing it.’

  ‘And as soon as he did,’ Hess called from the open front left hatch, ‘I was able to start the Daimlers!’

  ‘Permission to withdraw to the aid station, Herr Oberleutnant?’ asked Hartmann.

  ‘Permission denied,’ Theunissen abruptly replied. ‘Everybody back aboard the machine! Mephisto is to relocate and join Gruppe 2.’

  Heiber looked around at Richard. ‘Where’s Oberleutnant Skopnik?’

  ‘Wounded in the bombardment,’ Richard replied. ‘Oberleutnant Theunissen is now in charge of us.’

  Heiber raised his eyebrows. ‘God help us!’ he remarked softly.

  Richard smiled weakly. He, too, was not looking forward to going to war under Lieutenant Theunissen’s command.

  ‘Get the netting off, then everyone to their posts,’ Theunissen commanded impatiently. ‘Quickly! Quickly! All of you.’

  With others pulling away the tree branches and bundling up the netting, Papa Heiber helped Hartmann to his feet and through the rear hatch. The remainder of the crew came at the run. Richard clambered in via the front hatch and closed the door. Above, Heiber and Lieutenant Theunissen climbed up to the cupola then slid down into their seats.

  Near Richard stood Krank, at his post beside Wagner. Leaning close, Krank yelled, ‘Where is Oberleutnant Skopnik?’

  ‘Wounded in the last Tommy bombardment,’ Richard yelled back.

  A look of disgust came over Krank’s face. He shook his head. ‘The commander wounded and Hartmann with a broken toe? This machine is doomed. I can feel it in my bones. Mephisto is nothing but a coffin on tracks. You wait and see – Krank is always right.’

  A chill ran down Richard’s spine. He grabbed the rope handle above his head and waited for Mephisto to jerk into motion.

  Up in the cupola, Lieutenant Theunissen turned and yelled to Heiber. ‘Proceed! To Gruppe 2!’

  With a nod, the driver engaged the left track. Abruptly, and with a roar of the left engine, the tank slewed around to the left. Then Heiber engaged both tracks and sent Mephisto crawling along behind the trenches in the darkness, bent on finding its three fellow Gruppe 2 A7Vs on the southern outskirts of the village of Marcelcave.

  Dawn came a little after four o’clock, and the men of the 52nd rose with it and breakfasted on bully beef and a lick of jam on bread. Naked to the waist, with their braces hanging down around their knees, Frankie and Taz were in the middle of shaving in the early morning light when Lieutenant Blair approached. He was accompanied by the battalion’s intelligence officer, Lieutenant Tom Byford.

  ‘Boys,’ said Jockey Blair, ‘I want you two to go up to the front right now with Lieutenant Byford.’

  Frankie blinked. ‘Why, sir?’ he asked. The blade of his razor hovered against his cheek in preparation for the next downward stroke. ‘What’s the rush?’

  Lieutenant Byford stepped forward. ‘The colonel has assigned me to be the brigade’s liaison officer with the Tank Corps.’ Fair-haired Byford was tall and lanky; Frankie and Taz had heard that he’d been a promising tennis player before the war.

  ‘You two will be his runners,’ Blair explained.

  ‘Why us, sir?’ Taz asked, surprised.

  ‘The colonel was impressed with your pluck up in Flanders,’ said Blair. ‘He nominated the pair of you for the job.’

  A smile broke over Frankie’s face. ‘Well, if the colonel asked for us personally . . .’

  ‘What will we be required to do with the Tank Corps, sir?’ Taz asked as he splashed water on his face to wash away the last remnants of soap.

  ‘We’re to observe and report,’ Lieutenant Byford replied. ‘But get a wriggle on, lads. Pack your kit. A motor truck’s waiting to give us a lift to Villers-Bretonneux.’

  The two sixteen-year-olds quickly dressed and then filled their packs. With helmets on their heads and rifles on their shoulders, they headed towards a Leyland truck parked by the barn with its engine noisily turning over.

  Seeing them, Rait the Rat called, ‘Where the devil do you two think you’re going?’

  ‘Can’t stop to chat, Corp,’ Frankie called back cheekily. ‘We’ve been detached. Ask Lieutenant Blair – he knows all about it.’

  Lieutenant Byford was waiting by the truck, and as Frankie and Taz climbed up into the canvas-covered rear, he took a seat beside the man at the wheel. ‘Let’s go,’ he commanded the Army Service Corps driver.

  With his hands on hips, Rait glared powerlessly after them.

  Hanging out the back of the truck as it bumped through the camp site and made for the nearby road, Frankie and Taz waved to fellow members of their battalion forming up for the march to the front.

  With a grin, Frankie called out to men they passed, ‘And you poor buggers have to walk all the way!’

  In response, he received hoots of derision and fingers in the air.

  ‘The Somme here we come,’ Taz remarked less exuberantly.

  ‘In style,’ said Frankie with a laugh.

  As the tank’s Daimler engines idled with a clatter, Richard gripped the rope above his head and silently prayed that he would survive the day. Already, perspiration soaked his brow. Looking around the hot, gloomy interior of Mephisto, Richard could see his fellow crewmembers standing or sitting tensely at their posts, waiting for the attack to begin.

  Richard guessed that, like himself, most of his companions just wanted to get on with the job they had been trained to do. It was clear that one or two, such as the grinning Wagner, were looking forward to the battle, like dogs straining at the leash before the hunt. And several, like Krank, simply didn’t want to be there.

  As for Hess, he seemed to be in a world of his own. Putting his face close to the cage of messenger pigeons, he cooed, ‘Everything is going to be all right, my pretties.’

  Up in the cupola, Lieutenant Theunissen tried to forget about the diarrhoea that had been plaguing him ever since he’d been put in charge of Mephisto. He focused nervously on his watch face as he waited for the minute hand to land on twelve, signifying that it was six o’clock in the morning – zero hour for the assault on British lines.

  Theunissen and the rest of the crew had been awake since 4.45 am, when a German bombardment of British positions in and around Villers-Bretonneux had begun. By 5.15 am, they’d eaten a hot breakfast of broth and German sausage from a mobile army field kitchen drawn by a team of draughthorses. Then they’d climbed into their tank and moved it forward to their starting position for the assault, like a horse being manoeuvred for the start of a race. And then, suddenly, silence. The ninety-five-minute bombardment of British lines had ended.

&n
bsp; Lieutenant Theunissen’s watch showed six o’clock. ‘Advance!’ he bellowed, at the same time slapping Papa Heiber hard on the knee. ‘Straight ahead, driver!’

  ‘Herr Oberleutnant,’ Heiber acknowledged with a nod, engaging both tracks.

  The tank lurched forward. Heiber’s eyes were now glued to the partially open flap in the cupola armour in front of him. This gave the driver a view of what lay ahead, although the first ten metres immediately in front of the tank were obscured by the tank’s hulking nose. A partially open flap on the cupola’s left side allowed Heiber to see to Mephisto’s left, while the open flap on Lieutenant Theunissen’s side was designed to let them both see to the right. On this morning, the fog hanging across the Somme Valley had reduced visibility to a hundred metres. The A7V advancing slowly on Mephisto’s right looked like some ghostly apparition, while the panzer to its left was altogether invisible. Heiber could only drive west towards the fog, seeing little of what lay in their path.

  Down in the forward compartment, Richard put on the standard German tank crew helmet, a thick leather cap with a chain-mail mask that shielded the lower half of the face. He was conscious of the warning that Lieutenant Biltz had given him weeks before. Looking around, Richard saw that he was the only member of the crew to wear the cumbersome mask.

  Last of all, Richard pulled on the thick leather gloves that would protect his hands from metal splinters and the heat of spent 57 mm shell casings. He’d also thought about stripping off and working naked to the waist, suspecting it would soon become unbearably hot inside the metal monster, despite there being a ventilation grille in the roof above him. But at breakfast that morning, the officious Lieutenant Theunissen had made a point of warning all Mephisto crewmembers that he expected them to ‘look like soldiers’ when they went into action, declaring that he would not tolerate any man removing items of clothing once the assault began.