Deborah and the War of the Tanks

by John Taylor

  However, both Brough and Bradley soon fell foul of GHQ: the former was felt to be ‘difficult’,28 while the latter was reduced to ‘a state of great perturbation’29 when he was swamped with requests for information following the first tank attack. As a result Colonel Hugh Elles, who enjoyed the favour of GHQ as well as being ‘a first-class officer’,30 was appointed to command the Heavy Section at the end of September, a post he held for the rest of the war.

  The unpleasantness involving Bradley must have reflected poorly on his staff officer, who should presumably have fielded many of the requests that caused so much distress. At some point after Elles took over, Kyngdon was transferred from headquarters to C Company,31 and was there when Lieutenant-Colonel Baker-Carr became company commander in November 1916. Kyngdon clearly made a positive impression, and Baker-Carr noted that ‘The officers, including one regular officer of the R.A. [i.e. Kyngdon], were a wonderful body of enthusiasts.’32

  This endorsement may have been the key to Kyngdon’s final, and greatest promotion, to Lieutenant-Colonel and commanding officer of D Battalion. Baker-Carr was an influential figure in the embryo Tank Corps – indeed, he claimed that Elles had twice recommended him to Sir Douglas Haig as the commander of the new force, but he was rejected on technical grounds because Baker-Carr was not a graduate of the Staff College, with the result that Elles took the post instead.33 Baker-Carr’s energy and enthusiasm were clearly valuable assets, though his memoir leaves the impression that if there was one thing he enjoyed more than being proved right, it was telling everyone he had been proved right. This was all the more satisfying when he first had to overcome ill-judged opposition, but the unfortunate result was that when he encountered someone equally strong-willed who persisted in taking a different approach, this could easily degenerate into a feud – the most notable of which, with Major-General George Harper who commanded 51st (Highland) Division, was to have important consequences for our understanding of D Battalion’s war.

  Be that as it may, in February 1917 a new layer of command was added to the HBMGC with the creation of tank brigades, one of which was headed by Baker-Carr. His 1st Tank Brigade initially consisted of C and D Battalions, but in May 1917 there was a further restructuring which meant that C Battalion was taken away and replaced with E and G Battalions. Having lost his old friends in C Battalion (a separation he admitted he ‘much … disliked’),34 it was natural to choose someone he knew and trusted to lead D Battalion. All the better if that person had a solid track record as a professional soldier, and did not have the kind of big ideas that might challenge those of Baker-Carr, or it might uncharitably be said, many big ideas at all. Whether such an appointment would be in the best interests of the battalion remained to be seen.

  There is another, even unkinder possibility: C Battalion may have supported Kyngdon’s promotion in order to get rid of him, a practice that was far from uncommon. Second Lieutenant Wilfred Bion, who left a deliciously unguarded account of the politics within E Battalion, described the progress of one section commander (who was ‘as wildly incompetent as any man I ever met’): ‘He was so bad that, in order to get rid of him, our company were determined to promote him to second in command to a company – such promotion meant he would have to go to another company. In the end C Company got him. By August 1918 they had had enough of him, and he was promoted to O.C. Company [i.e. company commander] in order to get rid of him again. He was thus transferred to the 1st Battalion!’35

  Although it is easy to dismiss Kyngdon as lacklustre, it is clear he had certain qualities which impressed his commanding officers and sustained his steady rise through the ranks. His years in Africa must have made him tough and resourceful, he had shown he could lead men from an entirely different race and culture, he had been involved in the Tank Corps almost from the start, and his travels with Hermann Detzner had given him an insight into the German military mind. Yet against all this, there is no evidence that he was likely to excel in the innovative field of mechanized warfare, or to provide an inspirational figurehead for his battalion. Although he had many years of experience, the officers he now commanded were mostly a very different breed from the regular army men with whom he was familiar. Drawn from a wide range of backgrounds, and in many cases from the ranks, the one thing most of them had in common was that they had not chosen a military career.

  Prominent among these men was his company commander R.O.C. Ward, and one senses they must have had an uneasy relationship. By any token R.O.C. was a high achiever: he had a wealthier background and a better education than Kyngdon, was building a successful career and a loving family, and enjoyed the adulation of the sporting world. He had fought fearlessly, though fruitlessly, as both an infantry and tank officer. Against this Kyngdon, almost exactly the same age but unmarried, could point to some intrepid tropical adventures and a long army career, though his experience of actual warfare was limited to minor skirmishes in two countries hardly anyone had heard of. It must have taken Kyngdon’s full powers of authority to keep Ward in his place, presumably buoyed by the support of Colonel Baker-Carr, and by the professional soldier’s sense of superiority over a military outsider. But he clearly respected R.O.C.’s energy and aggression, and when there was a tough job to be done, No. 12 Company was always the one he would call on first.

  CHAPTER 19

  Out of the Salient

  A week after Frank Heap’s arrival at La Lovie, D Battalion was back in action again, but if he imagined he would be in the thick of it so soon, he was in for a disappointment. His company, No. 12, had more or less fought itself to a standstill on 22 August and 20 September, while No. 11 Company had also been badly mauled on 27 August. This time it was the turn of No. 10 Company, which had not yet seen action in the bogs of Passchendaele.

  Major Watson’s view was that ‘“No. 10” was a lucky company, and deserved its luck, until the end of the war’.1 One manifestation of this was that it had not fired a shot in anger since the end of April 1917, when it took part in the ill-starred Battle of Arras. The reason for this inactivity may have been that the man appointed as company commander, Captain the Honourable John Dennis Yelverton Bingham, had been called away to play a key role in one of the most extraordinary operations of the war.2

  This was the secret plan to land an amphibious invasion force behind enemy lines near the town of Ostend on the north Belgian coast. The so-called ‘Operation Hush’ formed an integral part of the British offensive in the Ypres Salient, and would begin as soon as the Germans had been driven back far enough back to allow their flank to be threatened by a coastal landing. With this in mind, three huge pontoons had been constructed, each 170 metres long, and at the appropriate time they were to be pushed across the Channel by warships and driven onto the beach.3

  The flotilla would carry a formidable force including nearly 14,000 men, with nine tanks to lead the charge ashore. These had a crucial role, since the invasion beaches were lined by a sloping concrete sea-wall which could only be surmounted by tanks that were specially adapted for the purpose. Their tracks were spiked to climb the steep gradient, and they would push wooden frames which fitted the lip of the sea-wall and would – all being well – allow the invasion force to swarm over the obstacle and move inland. The beachhead would then be held until the main British armies attacking in the Salient were close enough to link up with them.

  The plan was clearly beset with hazards, and total secrecy was essential if it was to have any chance of success. The enormous pontoons were moored up in the Thames Estuary, and the men who would take part were sealed off in a secure camp, awaiting the right combination of weather and tides as the British offensive ground forwards. Secret preparations were also under way for the tank crews involved, who were formed into a ‘special detachment’ headed by Captain Bingham. A replica of the sea-wall was built at the Tank Corps Central Workshops in Erin, and there they rehearsed with their modified machines in readiness for the moment when the plan would receive its ultimate test in act
ion. Until his return, No. 10 Company was temporarily commanded by Captain Edgar Nisbet Marris, the son of a Lincolnshire solicitor whose thirst for adventure had taken him to the USA, where he enlisted in the army and served with the celebrated 7th Cavalry in the Philippines, before returning to join the British army after the outbreak of war.4

  The attack on 4 October 1917, in which his men were to participate, had all the makings of a typical Salient tank disaster. Once again they had to advance along the shell-blasted road out of St Julien, but the approach route was now much longer since the front line had been pushed a mile further back towards the pulverized village of Poelcappelle, where the tanks were to support the infantry in attacking yet another series of concrete strongpoints.

  Perhaps it was the luck of No. 10 Company, but for once everything went perfectly. The drivers had been honing their skills at the Wailly training area, and not one tank slipped off the road and ditched, while the German artillery fire was less intense than usual and none of the machines were knocked out, at least until the very end of the attack. Instead the tanks penetrated the village doing execution with anti-personnel ‘case-shot’ ammunition packed with shrapnel balls, which was used for the first time and was said to have had ‘many opportunities of proving its value’.5

  All the objectives were taken and the tanks withdrew with the loss of a single man. It was regarded as ‘one of the most successful tank actions of the whole of the Flanders campaign in 1917’,6 but the luck ran out five days later when No. 11 Company followed up with another attack intended to push into and beyond Poelcappelle. After thirty hours of rainfall, any tank that left the road faced instant disaster, and the German gunners were back on devastating form – which could not be said of all the tank drivers.

  The leading tank, D29 Damon II commanded by Lieutenant Jack Coghlan, reached the edge of the village where it was destroyed by a direct hit, and the same fate befell the next tank under Second Lieutenant Horace Birks. The rest of the column were unable to pass, and as they swung round on the slippery road, the machine bringing up the rear scraped against the hulk of D44 Dracula, abandoned after its heroic role on 20 September, and slithered across the road. The convoy was now caught in a trap, unable to go forward or back or to leave the road, and eventually all eight were destroyed or ditched.7

  One of the section commanders disappeared after the tank he was travelling in was destroyed. This was Captain Frederick Talbot, who had fought as a cavalryman in the Boer War and begun the present war as a sergeant-major in 4th Dragoon Guards.8 Major Watson, who called him ‘the old dragoon’, commented: ‘I never had a better section-commander.’ It had been a day of desperate tragedy: ‘We had failed, and to me the sense of failure was inconceivably bitter. We began to feel that we were dogged by ill-fortune: the contrast between the magnificent achievement of Marris’s company and the sudden overwhelming disaster that had swept down on my section was too glaring. And we mourned Talbot …’9

  * * *

  Whatever happened next, it was inevitable that No. 12 Company would be involved, and Frank Heap could not be far from his first trial by combat with the crew of Deborah. At the same time, the Third Battle of Ypres was clearly dragging to an end, and only a few more weeks of fighting were possible before the weather closed in and the war shut down for the winter. Some tank brigades had already been withdrawn from the Salient, and although D Battalion stayed behind, the heavy rain and poor ground conditions made it unlikely that they would be called on to support the offensive.

  Amid the boredom and inactivity, the camp at La Lovie became a hotbed of speculation, with much talk of a ‘grandiose scheme’ for an all-out attack against the Passchendaele ridge. According to Major Watson: ‘The whole Brigade, it was planned, would advance along the Poelcapelle and Langemarck Roads and deploy in the comparatively unshelled and theoretically passable country beyond. To us, perhaps prejudiced by disaster, the scheme appeared fantastic enough: the two roads could so easily be blocked by an accident or the enemy gunners …’10

  Second Lieutenant Birks also recalled the wild stories that were circulating: ‘The end of operations was obviously in sight, and as so often happens on these occasions rumour followed rumour: tanks were to be abandoned as an instrument of war and the recently formed Corps disbanded, all available machines were to be assembled in a last despairing attempt to reach Roulers, the whole Corps was to be withdrawn and transferred to Palestine. And then the final one, like a ray of sunshine through the early morning mist, we were to move south for a secret venture.’11

  The last rumour, though vague, seemed to have some basis in fact, for on 27 October came a ‘move order’ from the adjutant, Captain Fred Cozens: ‘“D” Battalion, Tank Corps will move into the Wailly area commencing about 30th inst. Detailed times, dates and train arrangements will be notified later.’12 This meant they were pulling back to the training area near Arras that served as a driving school and advanced base for the Tank Corps. It was a promising sign, and whatever lay behind it, one thing was certain: they were finally leaving the dreaded Salient. There would be no more sodden sojourns in the camp at La Lovie and the bleak tankodrome in Oosthoek Wood, no more time-wasting trips to the estaminets and concert-halls of Poperinghe, and no more doomed forays across the Canal into the dead zone beyond.

  Birks recalled the impact of the announcement: ‘Although the Corps had experienced more than a fair share of frustrations, setbacks and possibly casualties, morale had always been surprisingly high, and confirmation of orders to move out of the Ypres salient sent it rocketing sky-high; with almost indecent haste we withdrew across the canal, scarcely bothering to take a last look at Essex crossing, Ypres, Vlamertinghe, Oosthoek Wood, or any of the other spots which linger in the memory as accursed beyond belief.’13

  There was known to be a shortage of accommodation at Wailly, and when D Battalion left they had to take along the huts and tents that had been used by G Battalion at La Lovie. After a few days of frantic preparation the trains drew into the sidings in Oosthoek Wood to be loaded up with tanks and stores. There was no need for secrecy now, and Captain Edward Glanville Smith recalled the unmilitary spectacle of their departure: ‘A tank battalion on the move was always reminiscent of a tortoise in that it had to carry its home about with it. No rows of comfortable hutments were allotted it in the new area and tank trains carried not only the machines themselves, but tents, tarpaulins, duckboards, pit-props, floor-boarding, wire-beds, etc., etc., and anything that made for increased comfort. And so it was that on the evening of October 30th, when we bade our farewell to the Salient, our train resembled a timber-dump infinitely more than a mobile fighting unit. And at midnight we rumbled out of Belgium back to France.’14

  * * *

  Amid the excitement and uncertainty, there was little time to dwell on what they were leaving behind. D Battalion had arrived in the Ypres Salient nearly four months ago, and since then it had been in action for just six days. Out of fifty-four fighting tanks that had gone into action, only twenty had returned; of the remainder many had subsequently been salvaged and one or two captured, but the rest were abandoned or blown up where they lay. From its total strength of just over 900 men, D Battalion had lost twenty-one men killed, fifty-three wounded and eight captured,15 which was a heavy enough price to pay, though negligible compared to the dreadful losses suffered by many other units.

  To set against this, D Battalion could point to precious few positives – they had captured a few concrete strongpoints, led the successful action of 4 October, and given the infantry whatever support they could in terms of firepower and morale. While noone doubted the courage and determination of the crews, it was clear the tanks had not justified their presence, or their existence. Even the commander of 1st Tank Brigade, Colonel Baker-Carr, conceded the Third Battle of Ypres had been a ‘ghastly failure’ for them, but underlined what had been obvious all along: ‘The tanks failed through being employed in hopelessly unsuitable conditions. If the first submarine had be
en tested on Salisbury Plain, the results would not have been encouraging.’16 Looking back over the past few months, Major Watson summarized the frustration they all felt: ‘Why had tanks ever been sent to destruction at Ypres? There must be whole cemeteries of tanks in that damnable mud. And we had lost Talbot there.’17

  For Frank Heap, there was no doubt a feeling of frustration that he had not yet taken part in an attack, but after all he had seen and heard of the Salient, probably also a guilty sense of relief. Wherever the next battle took place, it promised to be something entirely different, though whether that would be for better or worse remained to be seen. For the moment he faced the practical challenges of preparing D51 Deborah and his crew for the move, and coaxing her onto the railway truck that would transport them all south to meet whatever the future might hold.

  CHAPTER 20

  High Days and Highlanders

  The training area at Wailly was already familiar to D Battalion, but when they arrived it was clear something big was afoot. After unloading his tank, Second Lieutenant James ‘Tosh’ Macintosh of No. 12 Company described the scene that greeted them:

  As they breasted a hill, they came in view of a little ruined village in the lap of the valley, where trees which had somehow escaped destruction lined the banks of a muddy stream. On the further slope of the valley was displayed an astonishing spectacle. By sections and by companies, by battalions and by brigades, in quarter column and in mass, lay serried rows of tanks, more tanks than Tosh had seen in his life before, while along the route ahead more tanks were moving to the assembly, and on the near horizon yet more tanks disported themselves on the old trench-system … Tosh’s heart swelled as he looked at them, and filled with speechless emotion. ‘Hell!’ he ejaculated, and again ‘Hell!’1