Deborah and the War of the Tanks

by John Taylor

  We all feel his loss very deeply, for his cheery spirits and unfailing good nature had endeared him to all.

  Of his courage, it would be impertinent on my part to speak, but his D.C.M. attested that. As a young officer in charge of a tank for the first time, I was helped to do my job by his tactful experience, and had he been spared, he would have made a splendid officer.

  We have had sad losses in the Company, but none will be missed like George. The whole company regrets him bitterly. It strengthens one’s religious beliefs to suffer a loss like this. It is impossible that a soul like George’s should not go on living. I feel convinced I shall meet him again.

  I am having a bitter evening now, as four more of my crew have also gone, all finer fellows than I shall ever be.

  Please excuse these halting words, which utterly fail to express my sorrow and sympathy.

  I envy you the honour of having given such a son to your country.

  May God help and comfort you in this hour of need.

  Yours in deepest sorrow.

  Frank G Heap

  2nd Lieut.20

  The letter makes it clear that one other member of his crew had died that day, in addition to the four who were killed when Deborah was knocked out, and who were buried together opposite their tank. This remains a mystery, though it could sometimes happen that crewmen lost their lives even if their tank survived – for instance from stray bullets entering through gaps in the armour. The normal procedure in this case was simply to roll the body out of the tank with a view to later burial. The fifth man could therefore have died earlier in the battle, or perhaps during their journey back to the British lines, though the accounts do not mention any casualties at that time.

  The other letters that Frank Heap wrote on that day have been lost, though bereaved families would sometimes share messages of condolence with their local newspaper, and this happened with two of Deborah’s crew.

  In the case of Joseph Cheverton, an obituary appeared in the Cambridge Chronicle in early December, along with a photograph – the same jaunty one on which he had written: ‘What do you think of it – bit of a knave’. The article said:

  Letters to deceased’s father and to Miss Coote …, from his superior officer, pay a great tribute to Gunner Cheverton’s work with the Tanks, and tell of the high esteem in which he was held by officers and comrades alike, especially by the writer. One letter describes him as a splendid fellow, a willing worker and a cheerful comrade. Gunner Cheverton was killed instantaneously by a shell during the big battle on November 20th and buried two days later with other of his comrades who were killed. The writer adds that a cross to his memory will be erected shortly.21

  The letter to Florrie Coote has not survived, though her descendants kept the Tank Corps badge that was sent with it as a keepsake. However, Joseph Cheverton’s family have preserved a battered ‘In Memoriam’ card: ‘In loving memory of our only dear son Gnr. J. W. Cheverton Tank Corps. Killed in action Nov. 20th, 1917 on his 20th birthday. Sadly missed by his sorrowing father, mother and sisters.’ The verse inside was no doubt much-used in those dark days, but nonetheless heartfelt:

  Far away in a distant land,

  Suddenly struck by death’s strong hand,

  A son so dear a brother brave,

  Lies buried in a soldiers [sic] grave,

  His King and Country called him,

  That call was not in vain,

  On England’s roll of Honour,

  You will find our dear boy’s name.22

  The Belfast Evening Telegraph carried an excerpt from Frank Heap’s letter paying tribute to Gunner William Galway: ‘In the course of a sympathetic communication to Mrs Galway, an officer says: “Your son was the life and soul of my crew, doing two men’s work and cheering us all up. He kept us in shrieks of laughter right up to the moment of his death, and died with a laugh on his lips, like the true Irish gentlemen he was”.’23

  Other local papers devoted even less space to the lengthening casualty lists. Three days before Christmas, the Nottinghamshire Guardian carried the briefest of items: ‘Killed in action, November 20th, Gunner Fred Tipping (late of Thomas Adams), beloved husband of Florrie Tipping.’24

  He was one of thirty-two names in the newspaper’s Roll of Honour that week.

  CHAPTER 33

  The Chance Was Gone

  For the families of those who died, 20 November would remain forever frozen in time. For the British army, however, and for the survivors of D Battalion, it merely marked the opening of a battle that had to be fought to the finish. The advance continued for several days, but the character of the operation had changed: the surprise was gone, along with the euphoria of the first day, when the British army felt invincible and nothing could stand in its way. Although the sense of glorious adventure had faded, the General Staff could not bring themselves to halt the offensive, especially since the Bourlon ridge was so tantalisingly close, and unless that was taken all their gains would count for nothing.

  The Tank Corps had done everything asked of it on the first day by smashing a way through the forward German defences, but the Cavalry Corps, for a range of reasons, had failed to flood through the gaps as planned. There had been two significant hold-ups on the first day, and both proved fatal to the dreams of a full-scale charge towards Cambrai. At Flesquières, as we have seen, the delay in taking the ridge led to a crucial hesitation on the part of the cavalry, while on the right, the strategically-important crossings over the St Quentin Canal at Masnières were blocked or destroyed, limiting the opportunity for an encircling thrust to the east. Even if the cavalry had gone forward, it is debatable how far they would have got, however, bearing in mind the Germans’ strategy of defence in depth and the appalling vulnerability of horses to machine guns.

  Despite the grievous blow they had suffered on the first day, the Germans were able to mount a desperate rearguard action while reinforcements were rushed towards the front. The British had thrown every fighting tank into the battle on the first day, so only the survivors were available to support the subsequent advance. Having suffered so much at the outset, D and E Battalions went into action just once more, leading an attack on the wood and village of Bourlon on 23 November.

  D Battalion could muster a total of thirteen tanks which were assembled into two composite companies, and in marked contrast to the first day, there was little time for preparation, no time for reconnaissance, and no advance contact with the infantry units involved. The tanks were thrown straight into action in mid-morning, but despite this they helped the infantry to seize Bourlon Wood, though only seven of them reached the final objective.1 It was a fierce battle in which D Battalion’s tanks expended virtually all their ammunition, and in return were subjected to a relentless storm of machine-gun fire which put two of them out of action, including D34 Diallance whose commander Lieutenant Gerald Edwards described the action tersely as ‘hell with the lid on’.2

  The men whose tanks had previously been destroyed – including James Macintosh, and presumably Frank Heap – were able to watch the attack from a safe distance. The spectacle helped them appreciate what they had been through, as ‘Tosh’ described:

  To men who three days before had been in the thick of a similar affair, the panorama-view of that day’s attack was an unforgettable experience. The first thing to strike them was the noise. To the men actually engaged, the noise of modern war is an incidental hardly worthy of note; but in the position they were now in the crews were astonished at the din even of so ragged a barrage as was put up that day. Yet through all the thunder of the guns, the wicked chattering of innumerable machine-guns beat upon the ear in a vast wave of sound. ‘My God,’ said Tosh’s first driver, ‘what a hell of a hot shop it must be!’3

  One of the companies was commanded by Major William Watson, with his former deputy Major Richard Cooper leading the other. The fighting was so fierce that both Cooper and his own deputy, Captain Walter Smith – who had taken charge of No. 12 Company after
R.O.C. Ward’s death – were wounded by stray bullets.4 To their left, the last eleven tanks from E Battalion attacked with troops from 36th (Ulster) Division and were exposed to devastating artillery fire, no less than six of them suffering direct hits and 55 per cent of the crewmen becoming casualties.5 Major Watson had a grandstand view of their advance:

  We watched one tank hesitate before it crossed the skyline and our hearts went out to the driver in sympathy. He made his decision, and the tank, brown against the sky, was instantly encircled by little puffs of white smoke, shells from the guns on the reverse slope. The man was brave, for he followed the course of a trench along the crest of the hill. My companion uttered a low exclamation of horror. Flames were coming from the rear of the tank, but its guns continued to fire and the tank continued to move. Suddenly the driver must have realised what was happening. The tank swung towards home. It was too late. Flames burst from the roof and the tank stopped, but the sponson doors never opened and the crew never came out … When I left my post half an hour later the tank was still burning …6

  Following these additional losses there was no question of either battalion taking any further part in the offensive, and the surviving tanks and crews returned to Havrincourt Wood to carry out what repairs they could, and to prepare for withdrawal.

  * * *

  As the British advance pressed ahead, Sir Douglas Haig arrived in Trescault on 22 November to review the progress of operations being conducted by his Third Army. The commander-in-chief rode to a point overlooking the Flesquières ridge with Major-General Richard Mullens, commander of 1st Cavalry Division, known as ‘Gobby Chops’ on account of his pendulous cheeks. He now put those cheeks to good use by talking up the part played by the cavalry, as recorded in Haig’s diary: ‘Mullens explained all that his cavalry division had done, and said that this experience had been worth very much to them, and they were all as pleased as possible.’7

  The visit confirmed Haig’s view that events here had been pivotal to the entire battle: ‘The holding up of the 51st Division at Flesquières on the 20th had far reaching consequences, because the cavalry were also held up and failed in consequence to get through!’8

  The evidence of what had occurred was clearly visible in the form of ‘a dozen or more’ destroyed tanks on the ridgeline ahead. Here Haig first heard a story which caught and held his imagination: ‘An eyewitness stated that on the appearance of the first tank all the personnel of a German battery (which was in a kind of chalk pit) fled. One officer, however, was able to collect a few men and with them worked a gun and from his concealed position knocked out tank after tank to the number of 8 or 9. The officer was then killed.’9

  As the story was passed around, it gained an extraordinary twist: whereas Haig was told the officer had been accompanied by a skeleton crew, others maintained that he had manned his gun and fought to the death entirely alone. This was the version which appeared in the memoirs of Haig’s intelligence chief, Brigadier-General John Charteris: ‘One very gallant German gunner officer served his gun single-handed until killed, and knocked out several of the tanks.’ Unfortunately this is less authoritative than it sounds, since his memoirs came out fourteen years later and unlike Haig, Charteris did not keep a diary.10 However, the same story is repeated by almost everyone who fought at Flesquières, and by many who did not, and soon took on a life of its own, so it is worth examining in detail.

  Among the multifarious versions of the story based on hearsay, only one person recorded actually seeing the dead officer beside his gun. This was Captain Geoffrey Dugdale, who viewed the captured trenches after lunch on 20 November: ‘The first thing we came to was a German field battery, every gun out of action with the exception of one. By this was lying a single German officer, quite dead. In front of him were five tanks, which he had evidently succeeded in knocking out himself, single-handed, with his gun. A brave man.’11

  It is not clear how Dugdale could tell the officer had been handling the gun alone, rather than with a crew whose other members had fled, as Haig was told. However, it is important to note that Dugdale was in 6th Bn King’s (Shropshire Light Infantry), which formed part of 20th Division, and was based in the village of Villers-Plouich nearly two miles (or more than three kilometres) south-east of Trescault. So whatever Dugdale saw, it was some way from Flesquières.

  Nevertheless, the story of the lone hero was everywhere, and since the destruction of tanks was most catastrophic round Flesquières, this is where it became rooted. Four days after the attack, 1st Bn Welsh Guards moved up to the west of the village and saw the wrecked machines from D Battalion: ‘On the crest of the rise lay seven battered tanks, the work, it was said, of a German artillery major, who alone had remained with his guns … The brigadier gave orders that his body should be found and buried with honour, but although search was made all round the gun emplacements no trace of such a person could be discovered.’12

  That search continued, in metaphorical terms, for two decades, and was taken up by the Germans with results that we will consider in due course. Suffice to say for now that everyone in both D and E Battalions seems to have believed their tanks had been destroyed by the same German officer, despite the fact that they attacked on different sides of the village, and the same gun could not have hit both groups, unless it was firing from impossibly long range. In a strange way the crews seem to have derived some pride from this, and some comfort from having an almost recognizable adversary. No doubt Frank Heap and the survivors from Deborah believed they were among the victims, and no doubt they were as surprised as anyone else by the eventual outcome.

  Meanwhile, the story was set in stone when Sir Douglas Haig issued his dispatch about the battle, which appeared in the newspapers in March 1918. The check at Flesquières was described as ‘the obstacle which more than anything else had limited the results of the 20th November’, and the dispatch told how a number of tanks were knocked out by German gun batteries beyond the crest of the hill. But one paragraph stood out in everyone’s minds: ‘Many of the hits upon our Tanks at Flesquières were obtained by a German artillery officer who, remaining alone at his battery, served a field gun single-handed until killed at his gun. The great bravery of this officer aroused the admiration of all ranks.’13

  It was unprecedented to single out an enemy combatant for praise of this kind, and Haig presumably included it as a mitigating factor to explain the setback at Flesquières: any plan, after all, might founder in the face of such exceptional and suicidal courage. If so, he and his staff had not thought it through properly.

  Firstly, some of the tank crews resented the fact that their own courage had not been singled out in the same way – though the dispatch did praise their ‘utmost gallantry, enterprise and resolution’. Typically, it was left to Second Lieutenant Wilfred Bion to express a contrary view, though in a typically back-handed way: ‘For my part I am glad that, even if one cannot oneself be capable of such courage, our C.-in-C. had the courage to acknowledge courage in our enemies.’14

  Even worse, the dispatch seemed certain to raise German morale, and to foster doubts about the viability of tanks. Frederick Hotblack, the Tank Corps intelligence officer, summarized the key concern raised by the story: ‘It leads …, among those whose faith in tanks is small, to the inevitable question, “Since one man and one gun knocked out 16 tanks, what can a brigade of artillery do?”’15 That question would only be answered after many years, and many further inquiries.

  The figure of sixteen tanks destroyed by the lone officer came from the pen of none other than Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, in his history of the battle published shortly after the war.16 It would be uncharitable to note that 1917 was also the year when the first patently bogus photographs of the ‘Cottingley fairies’ were taken, in which the great man also believed implicitly.

  The story had not appeared in the newspapers before Haig’s dispatch, but the normally trustworthy Philip Gibbs made up for this later, when he unexpectedly came up with an eyewitness
account: ‘The chief losses of the tanks were due to a German major of artillery, who served his own guns and knocked out a baker’s dozen of these monsters as they crawled over the Flesquières Ridge. I saw them lying there with the blood and bones of their pilots and crews within their steel walls. It was a Highland soldier who checked the German major. “You’re a brave man,” he said, “but you’ve got to dee,” and ran him through the stomach with his bayonet.’17

  * * *

  As soon as they had time to draw breath, the various units involved in the attack on 20 November prepared reports summarizing their part in the operation and the lessons to be learned. Whatever Haig’s view of events at Flesquières, there was a sense that things had generally gone well, and above all that the tanks and infantry had worked excellently together.

  For D Battalion, Lieutenant-Colonel William Kyngdon concluded that ‘the attack was itself highly successful, and the co-operation between tanks and infantry left nothing to be desired. The only place at which the attack was held up was in Flesquieres village …’ Since their aim had been to capture the village, this was less than convincing, but he sidestepped the issue by describing the attempts to take the objective during the afternoon and evening, and left an overwhelming impression of a job well done. The training meant each tank and infantry platoon knew what was expected of them: ‘In fact the battle was reduced to a state of drill before it commenced and on the day that drill was successfully carried out.’18

  His counterpart in E Battalion, Lieutenant-Colonel John Burnett, presented a similar view: ‘The infantry supported the tanks all through to the second enemy system in the most admirable manner … I consider that the greatest factor of success in the operations under review was the preliminary work done at Wailly between the infantry and tanks.’19