Blunted Lance

by Max Hennessy

He was backing Lloyd George to the full now, had even changed his politics to Liberal because he claimed Lloyd George was the only Minister who knew what war was all about. Certainly, he was waging it at home as well as abroad and for the first time it had ceased to be a mere extra in life, because the Welshman had made it the whole of life. With the War Office still ordering munitions on a peacetime scale, he had regarded with contempt Haig’s claim that two machine guns per battalion were enough and Kitchener’s that four were enough, and told his assistants to square the number, multiply it by two, then double it again for luck. The Field Marshal had had the figures from Lloyd George’s own lips. The man was a bounder, there was no doubt about that, but he didn’t hesitate, and he had a broad vision of things.

  Despite the changes in the government, the war didn’t really improve much. Italy had come in on the side of the Allies, but she seemed to be more of a burden than a help because she had no guns and no equipment and the back door to Germany through Austria remained locked by the Alps, while Russia, defeated to the extent of having to withdraw three hundred miles eastward, had lost nearly a million men as prisoners alone and ten million of her inhabitants were refugees.

  The New Year – yet another new year and the war still not ended – came with a mixture of hope and despair. Every family in the land seemed to have been involved in the butchery in France. Mourning was everywhere, with battalions of grieving women. Yet there was hope, too, because soon Kitchener’s New Armies were going to break the German stranglehold before long on the Somme. Everybody knew about it.

  ‘If we know about it,’ the Field Marshal growled to his wife, ‘I dare bet the Germans do, too. For God’s sake, Gussie, the whole art of battle is to surprise your man and hit him where he isn’t expecting it, but there’s no surprise anywhere in this war. They’re obsessed with barrages, and all they do is alert the enemy to the fact that we’re coming and smash up the ground we’re going to attack over. We need cavalry to move fast. But not horsed cavalry. Something else. Aeroplanes, God knows what, but a device to smash the machine gun. It shouldn’t be beyond the power of the inventors to think of something.’

  He tried the idea on Robert when he next saw him and Robert was surprisingly coy.

  ‘Don’t worry, Father,’ he said. ‘We’ve thought of it already. It’s highly secret.’

  ‘If it’s that secret what the devil are you doing telling me?’

  Robert ignored the comment. ‘A chap called Swinton in the Engineers thought it up,’ he said. ‘He got Winston interested.’

  ‘What is it? Battleships?’

  Robert smiled. ‘You might call them land-ships.’

  ‘What in the name of God are land-ships?’

  Robert pulled a face. ‘Look here, Father, I’m going to tell you. It is a hell of a secret, as you say. I’m surprised you haven’t heard, in fact.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me,’ the Field Marshal said. ‘But, good God, after over fifty years in the army, I know all about keeping bloody secrets, boy!’

  Robert fidgeted. ‘Well, the army wasn’t interested so they took the idea to Winston.’

  ‘Winston’s out of office. What can he do?’

  ‘Nothing, now. But he got it moving with Admiralty funds. They call them tanks. It’s only a code name, of course. When somebody asked what they were, they were told they were to carry water to the troops. They’re armoured tractors with machine guns on them. They can go through trenches and barbed wire entanglements. When Winston left the Admiralty, Arthur Balfour took the thing under his wing. They come in two models, one with a six-pounder, one with a machine gun. They’re a bit slow, unfortunately, but we shall get over that.’

  The Field Marshal eyed his son narrowly. ‘And you’re manufacturing them?’

  ‘Just the armour plate. In Sheffield.’

  ‘No wonder you’re enthusiastic.’

  Robert laughed. ‘We shall certainly do well, Father. Very well. Lloyd George’s delighted. He’s going to put my name forward for something.’

  The Field Marshal snorted but Robert placidly looked at his watch. ‘In a hurry,’ he said. ‘Have to sit on a tribunal. Compulsory military service.’

  ‘I know all about your damn tribunals,’ the old man growled. ‘The one at Market Bosworth exempted all the Hunt servants on the grounds that they had indispensable occupations. It had better not happen here.’

  Robert remained unperturbed. ‘I shall do my duty, Father,’ he said. ‘Which leads me to another subject: This house.’

  ‘What about this house?’

  ‘Well, look, Father – I have no wish to sound morbid or even to appear to be fishing, but I’m wondering if you’ve done anything about it. I hope you’ve made a will.’

  The Field Marshal glowered. ‘Of course I’ve made a will,’ he said.

  Robert smiled. ‘Then that’s all right. I only felt it was time we got things straight.’

  ‘In case I dropped dead tomorrow?’

  ‘No, of course not, Father. But as the elder son—’

  ‘—you felt you’d like to be assured that everything would be coming to you. Well, I’m not promising that.’

  Robert’s smile faded and his jaw dropped. ‘In this country, Father, we believe in primogeniture.’

  ‘In this country, we certainly believe in primogeniture,’ the Field Marshal growled. ‘And the baronetcy will be handed on to you. But any wealth I have will be shared between my family.’

  ‘I’m not worried about wealth, Father. I’m concerned about this house.’

  ‘So that when Lloyd George gets you what he’s promised, it can be your seat.’

  ‘A titled man has to have a seat somewhere.’

  The Field Marshal’s eyebrows worked. ‘And what would Dabney do?’ he demanded. ‘It’s his home as much as yours. We can rule out Helen because she’s in Germany and old Von Hartmann’s far from poor. Jane couldn’t give a damn. She’s a farmer’s wife, which is all she ever wants to be and John Sutton has his own land. Which leaves Dabney and you.’

  ‘Exactly, Father. Split between two, the house would be valueless.’

  ‘Who said I intended to split it?’

  Robert’s smile returned. ‘That’s all right then, Father. I’ll arrange to see your solicitors in York, shall I?’

  ‘Not just yet, because it isn’t my intention of leaving it to you.’

  Robert’s face went pink, then white, and there was a pinched look at the corner of his nostrils. ‘I’m the elder son, Father.’

  ‘And you already have more than you need,’ the old man snapped. ‘When Walter Cosgro dies, you’ll even have Cosgro Hall. He’s got no children.’

  ‘That’s not the point, Father.’

  ‘I think it’s very much the point. Considering that you already have more than you need and the promise of Cosgro Hall, what’s your objection to Dabney – who has only his pay as a soldier and will inherit precious little because I’m far from being a rich man – having this place? The fact that you’re the eldest son don’t mean a thing. You’ve thrown in your lot with the Cosgros, taken their background, even their name. By what right do you come here making demands that your family gives up to you what you’ve already rejected? This place has been Goff territory for generations and, if I have anything to do with it, it will remain Goff territory.’ The Field Marshal looked hard at his son. ‘So you can put that in your pipe and smoke it.’

  Nine

  The rumours of the push on the River Somme grew so persistent and so public, when the Field Marshal received a message that Kitchener wished to see him, he set off for London determined to voice his fears.

  He caught the train at York, accompanied by his wife and daughter-in-law, who were going to the capital to shop.

  ‘Not that there’s much to choose these days,’ Elfrida sai
d. ‘But Robert went off to Sheffield to inspect the plant there, so it’s better than being at home alone.’

  As the Field Marshal put them into a taxi at King’s Cross before seeking one himself to take him to the War Office, Elfrida pushed her head through the window to kiss him. For some reason, she seemed to have a high regard for him and he returned the salute warmly. His earliest fear that Elfrida was a fool hadn’t materialised. She was plump and far from clever but she seemed to be able to turn a blind eye to Robert’s peccadilloes and, if nothing else, provided a good example to his children.

  The War Office was full of officers seeking appointments or transfers from one command to another. There were also, the Field Marshal noticed, a great many young men in immaculately-cut uniforms who seemed sleek and well-fed, moving about with arms full of papers and an air of self-importance.

  Kitchener greeted him with his usual gruff welcome and promptly derided his concern that the coming push was on everybody’s tongue.

  ‘Nobody’s going to find out,’ he said. ‘The Germans don’t have spies in every office.’

  The Field Marshal had a feeling that they might well have them outside, but Kitchener was adamant.

  ‘The Germans have plenty to do without worrying about that,’ he insisted. ‘They’ve got themselves in a mess at Verdun, and it’ll keep ’em occupied while we build up our own offensive on the Somme.’

  He seemed ill-tempered and liverish, his obduracy more marked. He was still a towering figure with his pale brooding eyes and red beefy face, but the famous moustache had lost some of its neatness and he had an irritated air about him, as if the fact that he’d lost a lot of his power was worrying him.

  ‘We have plenty of other things to concern us apart from German spies,’ he went on. ‘Those Russian swabs have been getting themselves in trouble and the government’s talking of sending me to sort things out a little.’

  The Field Marshal said nothing, aware that it was nothing more than a ruse to get the great man out of the way so that the government could get on with the war.

  ‘They need stiffening,’ Kitchener went on. ‘Come to that, so do the troops in France. We’re sending out people to see them.’

  ‘What sort of people?’

  Kitchener’s grim face relaxed in a malicious smile. ‘Your sort. We want you to go out there and talk to them.’

  The Field Marshal was indignant. ‘They’ve got enough to do out there without having to spit and polish because an old fool like me’s going to inspect ’em.’

  ‘It’s Lloyd George’s idea. You’d better see him.’

  Ellesmere, who had been wounded at Neuve Chapelle, was at the War Office, holding down an insignificant job until he had recovered. He looked pale and ill but he welcomed the Field Marshal warmly.

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard of the visit,’ he admitted. ‘Lloyd George has a feeling that the men in France are being neglected by the people at home. He wants you to go to France and let yourself be seen.’

  ‘I’m too bloody old for that, Ned, and you know it.’

  Ellesmere smiled. ‘You’re a remarkably fit man for your age, sir. And France can be pleasant in the spring.’

  Lloyd George, handsome, energetic, romantic with his long hair, his mouth full of rhetoric, received the Field Marshal warmly.

  ‘I don’t want inspections,’ he explained at once. ‘That’s the last thing I want.’

  ‘It’s the last thing I want,’ the Field Marshal growled. ‘I want to visit the front line.’

  Lloyd George looked startled. ‘If you drop dead,’ he said, ‘it’ll be your own fault. What I want you to do is visit Headquarters.’

  The old man’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not going to cut anybody’s throat for Parliament.’

  The Welshman held up his hand. ‘I don’t trust soldiers. I never have. War’s too important to be left solely to soldiers.’

  ‘It’s certainly too important to leave it to politicians.’

  Lloyd George acknowledged the rebuke. ‘The obvious answer’s to work in each other’s pockets. Unfortunately, we suspect we’re being kept in the dark. Haig has the ear of the King, as you probably know. That makes him pretty well above our reach. We have to devise other means. I want to know what’s happening. That’s all.’

  The agreement was made and Lloyd George smiled. ‘In compensation, I have something I’d like you to see. I’m going to Hatfield Park in Hertfordshire tomorrow. I’d like you to come along with me.’

  The following day was cold and Hatfield Park looked bleak with the fag-end of winter. The sky was a sullen grey, the packed clouds in a thick layer over the earth so that the light was poor and thin.

  Standing, cheerless and cold, near a group of officers, the Field Marshal was not surprised to see Robert among the civilian experts and politicians who had gathered. Lloyd George moved between the groups, excited, enthusiastic and full of mordant wit.

  ‘There’s nothing very surprising about what you’re going to see, when you come to think of it,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing but the logical adaptation of the automobile to trench warfare. We used cars with armour on them in 1914 at Antwerp and the idea was suggested more than once before the war, in England, Austria, and Germany. Needless to say, H G Wells thought of it, too, and just as naturally, the military rejected it and it was pushed into a pigeon hole. Fortunately the German military had the same sort of mind and they marked it “No importance for military purposes!”’

  There were a few sidelong glances among the officers. Lloyd George never hesitated to make known his view of soldiers.

  ‘Let’s have the demonstration, David,’ one of the politicians suggested. ‘We all know what you think of the army.’

  The politician gave a sly grin. ‘For myself,’ he went on, ‘I can’t imagine why, if a civilian could foresee the type of warfare we would be facing, the War Office couldn’t. However—’ he smiled and gestured ‘—it’s become very clear that we need some sort of mobile fort to overcome barbed wire and machine gun fire, something armed and armoured which is capable of crossing very rough country.’

  He gestured and a tall slender officer wearing what appeared to be a leather skull cap took over.

  ‘We’re obviously not entirely happy with what we’ve produced,’ he said. ‘Because haste has been the order of the day, there’s been little time for research and the perfection of design. Only by adapting existing components to meet the rough specifications we’ve been given have we been able to get enough machines ready for the campaign this spring.’

  ‘If this feller knows about the coming campaign,’ someone asked, ‘how many others do?’

  ‘Wait, wait!’ Lloyd George gestured. ‘Let him finish.’

  ‘We tried various lines,’ the man in the leather cap went on. ‘Eventually we began to look at the idea of caterpillar tracks and in the end produced a pressed-steel affair which, gentlemen, was the birth of what you’re going to see today.’

  ‘And a long time it took, too,’ Lloyd George murmured.

  There was a little angry muttering among the group of officers and the man in the leather cap flushed. But he went on doggedly.

  ‘We’ve been asked for a trench-crossing capability of eight feet,’ he said, ‘and the ability to climb a five-foot parapet—’

  ‘We came to see the bloody thing in action,’ one of the politicians behind him interrupted. ‘Not hear people spout about it.’

  They hadn’t long to wait. Cars were brought up and they drove to where a mock-up of a trench system had been prepared. A deep ditch had been dug and lined with sandbags. In front of it, coils of barbed wire caught the grey gleam from the sky. Behind it a five-foot stone barrier had been constructed. Along one side of the trench was a raised mound where they could stand and watch.

  ‘Hey, presto,’ Lloyd George said. ‘Here it c
omes!’

  Emerging from the valley came a grey shape over thirty feet long, shaped like a lozenge. From sponsons on either side poked the snouts of guns, and endless caterpillar tracks moved over the top of the eight-foot-high hull. The thing looked like a grey slug as it approached the barbed wire, waddling forward through deep mud, followed by a pair of wheels with which it appeared to be steered.

  It climbed the green slope slowly, cutting the turf with two dark tracks like the trail of a snail until it came to the barbed wire. Twanging and clattering, the wire gave beneath the enormous weight then the monster raised its snout over the parapet of the trench, paused, and dropped with a nerve-shattering crunch with its nose down on the other side.

  ‘Reason for its shape,’ the man in the leather hat pointed out. ‘The trailing stern holds it down until the raised bow is across the trench and it can safely fall into place to bridge it.’

  Scattering clods of earth, the monster was churning across the trench now, heaving its ugly snout up against the wall. The caterpillar tracks clattered and scraped and the bow lifted, then hung, poised on top, before dropping with a crash over the other side.

  ‘Good God!’ the Field Marshal said.

  The tank had swung round in a wide circle and was stopped now for inspection. A door in the side opened and the crew climbed out and stood alongside. Despite the chill of the day, their clothing was thin. On their heads they wore leather helmets like the man who had explained the monster’s functions, and a mask of chain mail.

  The Field Marshal moved warily forward. ‘What’s it like in there, my boy?’ he asked the commander.

  The officer was a pink-faced youth, his cheeks damp with perspiration and streaked with oil.

  ‘Hot, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Difficult?’

  ‘There are difficulties, sir. We have to have four men driving and the idea’s to have four others to fire the guns. It’ll not be easy, but I think we’ve got something here and I expect we shall manage.’