Tank Boys

by Stephen Dando-Collins

  Kneeling there, Taz looked at Richard, who seemed to be having trouble keeping his rifle on his shoulder. Having spent his time in the German artillery and then the tank corps, Richard had rarely needed to handle a rifle. And he’d certainly not used one against fellow Germans. It was the last thing he wanted to be carrying.

  ‘Here, let me help you,’ said Taz, relieving him of the rifle. He slung it diagonally across Richard’s back with the strap across his chest. This way, it couldn’t fall from his shoulders.

  Richard smiled weakly at him. ‘Thank you, Taz.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Taz whispered.

  Richard nodded blankly in reply.

  Frankie was looking up at the sky. A rising quarter-moon was every now and then peeking from behind clouds. That moon would dimly light their way, but it would also make it easier for the Germans to see them coming. ‘Don’t take me tonight, please, God,’ said Frankie. ‘This war’s almost over.’ What a cruel irony it would be, he thought, to survive this long only to cop it while trying to steal a tank from under Jerry’s nose – all because of a whim of Rocks Robinson’s.

  Sergeant Hanson scuttled to join the trio’s group. ‘You three blokes from the 52nd stick close by me,’ he whispered. ‘You know the lay of the land where the tank’s located.’

  ‘It all looks the same out there, Sergeant,’ Frankie returned.

  ‘Just the same . . .’ Hanson drew a revolver from the holster on his hip and waited, his eyes on their intelligence lieutenant.

  After a time, men from the clearing parties came in from No Man’s Land with their implements, passing the recovery party with the occasional hushed ‘Good luck!’ as they returned to the trenches.

  Before long, friendly artillery shells could be heard passing overhead and exploding well to their front on German trenches. The barrage wouldn’t last long. This was a light bombardment designed to keep enemy heads down while the recovery party went forward. As the moon slid from behind a cloud, Lieutenant McFarlane checked his watch and then, looking around to Hanson, pointed east. It was eleven o’clock.

  Hanson nodded. ‘Let’s go!’ he whispered to the men around him, coming to his feet.

  Taking up their lengths of hawser, the two lines of men rose and followed Hanson out into No Man’s Land, one group behind the other, with Taz leading the foremost group. The intelligence officer didn’t move. Remaining where he was with the gun carriers, McFarlane watched the thirteen men disappear into the night.

  It was hard going for Taz, Richard, Frankie and the others. Admittedly, the clearing party had created a flat path ten metres wide all the way to the Villers-Bretonneux–Domart road, but beyond that they had to cover ground pockmarked by shells, littered with the debris of battle and not a few bodies. On top of that, they had to carry their awkward lengths of hawser.

  The light bombardment covering their advance ceased. Just as the party crossed the road, German shells began to land over towards Monument Wood on their right. But the barrage soon crept nearer to the advancing recovery party. As shells exploded relatively close by, it was possible to see yellow-brown clouds rising from the detonations.

  ‘Gas! Gas! Gas!’ bellowed Sergeant Hanson. He stopped in his tracks, pulling off his helmet and reaching for the canvas bag hanging from his neck.

  The two carrying parties immediately dropped their hawsers. One length hit the toes of the man behind Frankie. After letting out a howl of pain, the soldier proceeded to ignore the injury completely, too preoccupied with trying to remove his gasmask from its container. All the men around him were doing the same.

  Having seen what mustard gas could do, Frankie and Taz wasted no time in getting their masks on, and Richard followed suit. Within seconds, all thirteen men had pulled on their masks and returned their helmets to their heads.

  One man jammed his hands in his pockets.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Sergeant Hanson demanded through his mask.

  ‘Gas burns the skin, Sarge,’ the private replied in a muffled voice. ‘It can’t get me hands if they’re in me pockets.’

  ‘That’s no way to fight a war! Pick up the hawsers, all of you. We’ve got a job to do.’

  ‘Do you think the Germans are onto us, Sergeant?’ Taz asked as he and his team took up their load.

  Looking to the south and then to the north, Hanson could see German shells exploding on Monument Wood and Villers-Bretonneux. He shook his head. ‘Jerry’s just being his usual obnoxious self, Dutton.’ Hanson cast his eyes over the others. ‘Come on, let’s go!’ He resumed the march towards the Orchard, weaving a course around shell holes in their path.

  As yellow gas wafted around them, the two carrying parties set off after the sergeant. It was even harder going now. The men breathed heavily inside their masks while perspiration coated their foreheads, threatening to roll down their faces and fog up their eyepieces.

  They had only been walking for another few minutes when Hanson stopped. Dropping to one knee, he waited for the first party to catch up to him. ‘That look familiar to you, Dutton?’ he asked Taz when his group arrived.

  Although the gasmask limited his vision, Taz could make out what Hanson was talking about. Twenty metres ahead, the trunks of long-ravaged fruit trees were visible, jutting jaggedly from the earth. This was the Orchard.

  ‘That’s it, Sergeant,’ Taz replied.

  ‘Right.’ Without another word, Hanson rose up and led the men forward, bringing them to the lip of a massive shell crater. Immediately in front, surrounded by a thin cloud of gas that clung to the bottom of the crater, sat Mephisto.

  ‘There’s the bugger,’ said Frankie.

  Hanson slithered down the side of the crater to stand beside the German tank, then motioned for his men to send their hawsers down after him. Gratefully letting go of their loads, the two parties dumped the hawsers into the hole and slid down after them.

  ‘You three, with me,’ Hanson said to Taz, Frankie and Richard. ‘The rest of you, line that eastern side of the crater and make sure we aren’t interrupted by Jerry.’

  Nine men unshouldered their rifles and took up positions along the rim, facing German lines, at the very same spot that Taz and Frankie had fought on 24–25 April. Hanson got down on his knees and peered under the front of the tank, where its tracks hung over the old trench. Hampered by his gasmask, wafting gas and the darkness, he felt around Mephisto’s steel nose.

  Before long, the sergeant let out a triumphant cry. ‘Aha! The Kaiser’s tank designers very kindly gave these monsters towing hooks.’ He turned and looked up at Taz, Frankie and Richard, who stood watching him. ‘Bring me one of them hawsers,’ he instructed.

  The trio dragged the end of one of the hawsers to the front of the tank. Its large metal eyelet slipped snugly over the tank’s in-built towing hook.

  ‘Very handy,’ said Hanson. Regaining his feet, he instructed the trio to help him. They unravelled the hawser, carrying the free end up the edge of the crater, around two tree stumps and then back the way they had come. As they laid out the hawser, gas still hung in the air, shielding them from German eyes. Once they’d taken the length of cable as far as it would go towards the waiting gun carrier tanks, Hanson led the trio back to the crater at the trot.

  ‘Any of you three know anything about engines?’ Hanson asked, after they’d slid into the crater again. ‘The gun carrier officer told me we need to disengage Mephisto’s tracks from the engine so that they can run freely when he starts dragging this thing. He said there should be levers inside that do that, near the engine.’

  ‘I’ll do it, Sergeant,’ Richard volunteered. Little did Hanson know that Archie Rait had seen Papa Heiber operate those levers many times during Mephisto’s short operational life.

  ‘Good man,’ Hanson returned. ‘Go to it then.’

  Richard hurried to the rear hatch on the right side of the tank, but found that it was bent in at the top and stuck fast as a result of Lieutenant Biltz’s explosive charge. So
he decided to try the front hatch that he had always used. Rounding Mephisto’s rear, Richard suddenly came to a halt. In front of him lay the remains of Rait the Rat, undisturbed but partially rotted away since he, Taz and Frankie had departed the crater in April.

  A chill ran down Richard’s spine. The sight reminded him that the bodies of Sergeant Heiber and other members of Mephisto’s crew would still be lying in the smaller shell crater nearby. Stepping around Rait, and making a deliberate effort not to look at what was left of the dead Englishman’s face, Richard reached the front hatch. The door opened all the way, allowing him to clamber inside the tank.

  Moonlight penetrated the cabin via a gaping hole in the forward roof, making it easier for Richard to find his way to the engines in the centre of the tank. Richard fancied that he could hear Papa Heiber’s voice telling him where to find the levers he was looking for. There they were, up beside the metal bucket seat where Heiber had sat, above the engines. Reaching up, Richard was able to disengage both without difficulty.

  The youth didn’t linger inside Mephisto. Quickly exiting, he returned to the others and reported to Hanson. ‘It is done, Sergeant.’

  ‘That was quick work, my lad,’ Hanson responded with delight. ‘All right, you three, wait here until I get back.’

  The sergeant climbed up the side of the crater, then went loping back towards Australian lines. When he came running up to the two waiting gun carriers, he vigorously waved his arms to signal the drivers to advance. Closing their cabin doors, the drivers started their engines. They were so loud Hanson reckoned they could be heard all the way to Berlin. With a lurch, first one, then both gun carriers began to move. At five kilometres per hour, the two tracked vehicles rolled side by side towards the crater where Mephisto lay. Hanson walked behind them, knowing the engine noise would soon attract German fire. Sure enough, once the two tanks reached the spot where the end of the first cable lay, German shells began to fly overhead and explode not far to the rear.

  Ignoring the falling shells, Hanson darted forward and grabbed the end of the hawser, fitting it to the tip of a shorter cable attached to the gun carrier’s salvage winch. Once the winch began to wind, Hanson ran back to the crater. By the time he dropped down beside Taz, Frankie and Richard, the slack on the hawser had been taken up. Using the tree stumps as leverage, with cable quivering and engines straining loudly, the gun carrier began to winch in the metal monster. Mephisto’s nose slowly came around to the right.

  ‘Righto!’ called Hanson. ‘Now for the other cable.’

  There was a second towing hook fitted to the left front of Mephisto, and Hanson, Frankie, Taz and Richard quickly attached the other hawser to this. They then repeated their earlier action, unravelling the second cable and carrying the free end up out of the crater and over exposed ground to the other gun carrier, hooking it up to its winch. After the quartet scuttled back to the crater, Mephisto was slowly dragged out of it by the two machines. By the time the German tank had been hauled onto level ground, the strain had conveniently uprooted the two tree trunks that had been used for leverage.

  The sergeant now called in the men stationed on the crater’s far lip. The recovery party had done its job. As the two gun carriers dragged Mephisto in, like fishermen hauling in a big catch, Sergeant Hanson, Taz, Frankie, Richard and the rest of the men scurried back to the 26th Battalion’s trenches, reaching them unscathed. Shells continued to fall all around, and German machine guns loosed off hundreds of rounds in the direction of the withdrawing gun carriers. But they did no damage. Rocks Robinson got his wish – the 26th Battalion successfully salvaged Mephisto, keeping it out of German hands, with the help of a boy from Queensland, a boy from Tasmania and a boy from Bavaria.

  On the wooden deck of the troopship SS Port Lyttelton, as it steamed across a serene Mediterranean Sea in warm spring sunshine, Taz sat with his back to a ventilator, writing a letter. Beside him, Richard was stretched out with his eyes closed, naked to the waist and sunning himself. They’d survived the last months of the war and had celebrated the Armistice on 11 November, followed by boring months in camp before boarding the troopship. Now the 26th Battalion’s survivors were returning home to Australia – with most of them unaware that they were taking an ex-German soldier with them.

  ‘Got a bit of good news for you, Archibald.’ Ambling up to his two friends with a full canteen of water, Frankie sank down cross-legged on the deck.

  ‘Where’ve you been, Frankie?’ Taz asked. ‘I thought you were going for water.’

  ‘I did – via the engine room. I love watching the dirty-great pistons turning over.’ Frankie had developed a fascination with engines. ‘On the way back, at the water tanks, I was talking to a bloke from Rockie.’

  ‘What is Rockie?’ Richard asked, opening his eyes.

  ‘Rockhampton, a city in Queensland,’ Taz explained.

  ‘This bloke was an old school friend of Eager Beaver,’ Frankie continued. He took a sip of water then offered the canteen to the others.

  Taz shook his head to the offer. He had a worried look on his face. ‘How did Eager’s name come up?’

  ‘The bloke from Rockie had heard we’d been in the 52nd and was wondering if I knew Eager. Turns out that Eager went to the 28th Battalion and was killed at St Quentin about a month before the war ended. So there’s no danger of him twigging to who you really are, Archie boy.’ Frankie jabbed Richard good-naturedly in the ribs.

  ‘One man’s misfortune is another’s good fortune,’ Taz remarked with a sigh.

  ‘So who are you writing to, Taz?’ Frankie asked.

  ‘My mother, telling her I’m on my way home. I’ll post it when we land in Brisbane. Have you written to your family yet, Frankie, to tell them you’re alive and coming home to them?’

  ‘Don’t know yet if I will go home to my family,’ Frankie responded wistfully.

  ‘What?’ said Richard, surprised. ‘You have a mother, a father, sisters, and you don’t want to see them? I would if I were you.’

  Frankie shrugged. ‘I left home on a pretty bad note. Dad and I never got on, and when I left he said to never darken his door again.’

  ‘But at least let your mother and sisters know you’re alive,’ said Taz. ‘Here . . .’ He held out a blank piece of writing paper. ‘Jot them a note.’

  Frankie looked at the piece of paper and flushed red, embarrassed. ‘To tell you the truth, Taz, I’m not all that good at the reading and writing.’

  A look of realisation came over Taz’s face. ‘Of course!’ He slapped his knee. ‘In all the time I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you read or write – not once. You left school pretty early, didn’t you? But you’ve done a good job of hiding the fact that you can’t read and write all this time.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you learn a few tricks to camouflage it. I can sign my name and I know a few numbers, but that’s about it.’

  ‘I will teach you to read and write English, Frankie,’ Richard volunteered, sitting up. ‘On the ship, while we sail to Australia.’

  ‘You teaching me English?’ Frankie chuckled. ‘That’d be one for the books, mate.’

  ‘I mean it,’ Richard assured him. ‘I learned English at school in New York. I can read and write it very well. So let me help you, the way you are helping me. Better reading and writing skills will help you get a job back in Australia.’

  ‘A job?’ Frankie pursed his lips. ‘You know, I was so convinced that I was going to be killed there in Flanders or France, I never gave a thought to what I’d do after the war.’ He looked at Taz, who had resumed scribbling. ‘What about you, Taz? What are you going to do with yourself? Go into the God business, like your old man?’

  Taz stopped writing and slowly raised his eyes. ‘After what I’ve witnessed over the past year or so, in the war, I can’t believe that a truly compassionate god would have permitted those horrors to occur. From now on I don’t think I’ll be able to believe in God. I’ll only believe in good – if I can find it any more.


  ‘So what’ll you do? Work-wise, I mean?’

  ‘I’d like to write,’ Taz declared. ‘And I like history. Perhaps I’ll write about history.’ He turned to Richard. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Richard confessed. ‘A wise man once told me that I should become a scientist. Perhaps, if it is possible, I will study to become a scientist. But first –’ he looked at Frankie and burst into a smile – ‘I will become an English teacher, here, on this ship. What do you say, Frankie? Will you let me teach you?’

  Frankie shrugged. ‘Why not? We’ve got a couple of months to fill. Yeah, I’ll be in it. From now on I’m going to make every day count.’

  Taz, Frankie and Richard stood in line under the blisteringly hot Queensland sun. It was their final parade in khaki, almost a year since they’d helped salvage Mephisto. When the ship carrying the men of the 26th Battalion had arrived in Brisbane, the troops encountered a setback. Spanish Influenza was ravaging the globe, killing millions, and the returning troops were sent into quarantine on the off chance they had brought the virus with them from Europe.

  For three weeks, Taz, Frankie and Richard kicked their heels around the Lytton Quarantine Station. Sitting at the mouth of the Brisbane River, just to the south of Fort Lytton, the station was a maze of wooden huts with corrugated iron roofs, all sitting on low concrete stumps. At least the camp’s huts were an improvement on trenches on the Somme.

  The men of the entire disbanded 26th Battalion now stood waiting for permission to walk out the quarantine station’s closed gates and leave the AIF behind. Beyond those gates and the high wire fences on the three landward sides of the station, hundreds of men, women and children were gathered. The troops could hear their excited chatter.

  Battalion commander Rocks Robinson, now a lieutenant-colonel, remained true to his nickname of Old Uniformity, prescribing an orderly process by which the men would be demobbed today. Family members waiting outside had been required to register their names. Company sergeant-majors ranged along the lines of men, lists in hand, reading out batches of names in strict alphabetical order. The named men stepped forward and were then dismissed.