Deborah and the War of the Tanks Read online

  The chateau may have lacked architectural merit, but at least it was dry. It was a different story for the tank crews, who were living in the woods nearby in what one officer likened to a ‘gipsy encampment’,2 initially under tarpaulins slung from the trees. Captain Edward Glanville Smith of D Battalion agreed that ‘the La Lovie camp had the advantage of safety; but it could not be described as comfortable. At the best of times Belgium was never dry and a wet summer turned the camp into a quagmire within a week of occupation.’3 The discomforts of camp life also flooded back into the memory of Second Lieutenant Douglas Browne of G Battalion: ‘The camp at Lovie, its leaky tents immersed in dripping shrubs and undergrowth, and surrounded by sodden parapets of sandbags as a protection against the persistent bombing raids, grew always more evil-smelling, steamy, and unhealthy, and those of us who had little to do became more melancholy every day. There was a time, some four days after the battle, when the reaction was at its worst, and when, personally, I felt I could cut my throat for twopence.’4

  Conditions were no better in the area allocated to the headquarters of the Tank Corps. Captain Evan Charteris, a well-bred aesthete now serving as a staff officer, recalled the camp was in

  a bit of very low ground where the water soon accumulated and the floors of our tents became small areas of mud … Our camp consisted of some thirty tents, a mess hut, and a wooden building for office – all connected by duck boards which ran like viaducts about the swamp in which the camp was pitched. Not two hundred yards away the ground sloped upwards and broke into woodland, scattered over which and hidden as much as possible by the foliage, were encamped under tents or improvisations of canvas, battalion after battalion right away to the north, where the line was carried on by the French.5

  In addition, he did not share General Gough’s confidence in the safety of La Lovie.

  An aerodrome lay on the other side of the road which ran near our camp, some three-quarters of a mile to the south, near Poperinghe. This was one of the targets for enemy aeroplanes, which on fine nights would visit the neighbourhood two or three times during the dark hours. Lovie Château was twice hit, but while I was there no bomb fell sufficiently near to cause trouble. It was disturbing enough, however, because though a tent is no worse for protection than other covering, yet it seemed to give one a sense of nudity and exposure when that mischievous droning was going on overhead, and at the same time the dangers were enormously increased by the anti-aircraft guns which caused a downpour of missiles.6

  Despite the hazards and uncertainty, when darkness fell the camp could take on a curious beauty, as Charteris recalled:

  At night all sounds died down very early, lights were few, stars were many, and a clear sky of delicate darkness spread in a vast expanse above us. On this would be reflected the gun-flashes, and against this the fingers of the searchlights would creep and spread like silver feathers in the rare hope of detecting aircraft. Now and then a shell would pitch and burst in Poperinghe. The nights otherwise were intensely still, and voices would carry to us from camps far removed. During one of the air attacks a flame broke out in the sky and a rumour ran that a German machine had been hit; in a moment the night was alive with cheers, which had an impressive effect as they spread and revealed that the whole earth was seething with men.7

  But there were other sights and sounds that were less reassuring to the tank crews as they prepared to test their courage a few miles away in the Salient. Another young tank officer at La Lovie, Second Lieutenant Wilfred Bion of E Battalion, recalled an incident during a night-time route march near the camp:

  It was wet, cheerless and dark. The vitality of the desolation broke out of black night, mud and abandoned gear like the bubbles in a cauldron. As we stood ‘fallen out’ in one of our regular halts, the horizon changed from uniform black to dazzling, shimmering white. We stood, stupefied. Then on the breeze came ‘drum fire’ in which no individual gun could be heard any more than the individual flashes could be seen. The white was now penetrated by the red of bursting shells, the enemy’s return fire. I heard a man mutter, ‘struth’ as we stared at this terrifying spectacle. It seemed the only comment possible as the sight struck chill in one’s heart. The order to ‘fall in’ came down the line and we continued our aimless march. The raid, for that was all it was, was not even mentioned in Comic Cuts, the army paper, and since we were not marching in that direction we could ignore it. There must have been few who did not, like me, wonder how anyone survived exposure to such hell.8

  * * *

  This is a good time for us to go in search of D51 Deborah and her crew, and the best chance of finding them together is to leave La Lovie – where the officers, NCOs and men inhabit separate areas of the camp, according to military practice – and head over to the tankodrome in Oosthoek Wood, where they are thrown together in the task of preparing their tanks for action. It should be possible to hitch a ride in one of the lorries that shuttle backwards and forwards between the two camps; and although this avoids a five-mile walk, we will be glad enough when the journey is over, since the lorry’s suspension is hard, the roads are bumpy and busy with transport and columns of troops, and the soldiers who are cheerfully crammed into the back of the lorry have been wearing their damp woollen uniforms for longer than anyone would wish, and are all to a man smoking heavily.

  Our fellow passengers mostly have light blue flashes on their shoulder-straps indicating they belong to D Battalion, so after jumping down from the lorry (with some relief) into the fresh air, the best way to find Deborah is to tag along as they make their way down a broad track into Oosthoek Wood, dodging the deep ruts and puddles with their filmy sheen of oil which are a sure sign that the tanks are close at hand. As we plunge deeper into the wood we pass through a gate in the barbed-wire fences that seal off the tankodrome, and soon come across piles of drums containing petrol, oil and grease, with heavy machinery and spare parts stacked nearby under camouflage nets to conceal them from enemy aircraft. The tanks themselves are surprisingly hard to spot among the trees, and are somehow smaller than expected, each dark bulk with its familiar lozenge profile lurking beneath a canopy of camouflage netting. Some stand empty and deserted, but in most cases the crews are already working on them, and in a few the engine has been started and is idling with a throaty, chugging roar while the tank itself is shrouded in a cloud of choking smoke.

  Despite the men’s relaxed demeanour, you cannot help noticing freshly-broken craters in the ground confirming we are within range of the German artillery, who hurl high-explosive shells into the wood from time to time without pattern or warning. It is strange to think that death might descend so randomly at any moment, but there is some security in the knowledge that the odds of being hit are small, and the men around us are so familiar with the danger that they seem completely oblivious to it. This is a relief since it will take some time to locate the object of our search, guided by the advice of Second Lieutenant James Macintosh, one of the battalion’s officers: ‘A tank possesses two numbers, a manufacturer’s number and a battalion number. The former is branded upon its hindquarters at birth, and remains until dissolution; the latter varies from time to time according to which crew are inhabiting the beast at the moment, and is intended to facilitate identification at a distance. As regards names, the choice, alas, is no longer left to the youthful and revue-full fancy of the young tank pilot; names are passed down from tank to tank, and indicate the battalion, and occasionally the company, to which the bus belongs.’9

  The slang seems quaint, with its talk of pilots and buses, but the message is clear: we need to keep our eyes open for a tank bearing the large battalion number D51, and the smaller manufacturer’s number 2740 on its steel flanks. The document that lists these details does not record a name, but we can also hope to find ‘DEBORAH’ painted on her, since that name was later associated with the number D51. Eventually, after stumbling around the rutted woodland for what seems an age, we strike lucky, and are doubly fortunate because the
re are signs of life, and we can hear a metallic clanging and hammering which shows at least some of the crew are present and working within. Apart from the painted numbers there is little to distinguish D51 from the other tanks we have seen on our search; painted a drab khaki, she looks squat and lethal, and much larger when seen close to, with a length of around eight metres and a height of nearly two-anda-half. As with the other tanks, the main armament protrudes from box-shaped housings on either side called sponsons, and we have already learned to distinguish between the two basic patterns of tank: the so-called males, with larger sponsons each containing a 6-pounder cannon as well as a light machine gun; and the females, such as D51, which have no cannon but two light machine guns on either side.10

  The male variety has the advantage of a small door in the back of the sponson which offers an obvious way into and out of the tank, but in the case of a female, the sponsons are too small for this, and instead there is an open oblong hatch in the side of the tank, beneath the sponson and a metre or so above the ground. Suddenly a figure appears inside this hatch and rolls out lengthways, lowering himself down as he does so, and is followed by one man after another. They are all clad in drab overalls apart from one, evidently the officer, who is marginally smarter in tunic and breeches, though these are also greasy and well-worn. If we get close enough to catch a snatch of conversation we can be sure we are in the right place, for his New Zealand accent confirms this is Second Lieutenant George Ranald Macdonald, the first commander of D51, who has travelled from his home in Christchurch to fight for the mother country.

  He seems young, although war and the weight of responsibility make him look older than his twenty-five years, and he comes across as intense, intellectual, and rather solemn – though to those who know him, he possesses ‘a quiet, incisive wit’.11 His slightly owlish appearance is not helped by the spectacles that nearly ended his military career before it even began. These are the reason why George Macdonald had to go half way round the world to join up, and then faced another battle to get into a fighting arm, which was always his ambition; for despite his mild-mannered appearance, he once wrote home to his family: ‘I rather enjoy shells and bullets and wish my sight wasn’t so bad; I should love to stick a German in the gizzard.’12

  With hindsight, it is hard to decide which is more surprising: that anyone should have been so keen to get into the front line, or that the army should have made it so hard for them to get there. But young men like George Macdonald have always sought to make their stamp on the world, and the outbreak of war in 1914 was too big an adventure to ignore. In Macdonald’s case, sibling rivalry may have been a factor in his eagerness for action. He was the youngest of five children, the family of a prosperous engineer and entrepreneur with a passion for traction engines, who ran businesses that supplied farm machinery and operated tramways in the expanding city of Christchurch. George had shown early academic prowess, and after attending one of the country’s top schools, he gained a place to study history at another Christchurch – the Oxford college which shared a name, but little else, with his hometown. He graduated from there in 1912, and then joined the Inner Temple, one of London’s old-established legal societies, where he qualified as a barrister at the start of 1914, before returning to New Zealand to find work in a law firm.13 But the prospect was far from enthralling, and the coming of war offered a heaven-sent opportunity for a few months’ excitement before he settled down to the responsibilities of career and family.

  His first instinct was to join the New Zealand Expeditionary Force, but as he feared, he was rejected on the grounds of short-sightedness. Fortunately he had a fall-back plan, as he explained to his uncle: ‘I felt that I was wasting time here in a lawyer’s office having no real intention of sticking to law. Dad and Mother were very good and made no difficulties about letting me go though Lord knows they have got enough to worry them. I shall go home [i.e. back to England] armed with a letter from Heaton Rhodes [a prominent New Zealand politician and army officer]. I am counting on my knowledge of French and of motor bicycles and first aid work (signalling is to be learnt on the way …) to counteract my goggles. I think I am sure to get into something.’14

  Adding to his frustration was the news that his brother Ian had been accepted at Sandhurst, the prestigious training college for army officers, while Guyon had also been commissioned into an infantry regiment. The pressure was on, and George based himself at a gentlemen’s club in London and secured a testimonial from the High Commissioner for New Zealand, who pointed out that ‘unfortunately young New Zealand men applying here for commissions are at a disadvantage in not being able to get into immediate touch with those familiar with their career, and I think this fact should be taken into consideration when they apply, especially if, so far as is known, they come of good stock and are well-conducted, capable men.’15

  But the real problem was not George’s lack of connections or capability, it was perched on the bridge of his nose. In May 1915 he was recommended for a commission in the infantry, the medical officer merely commenting: ‘sight somewhat defective without glasses but quite normal with glasses.’ However, his service record shows he also attended a War Office medical board which found him unfit, presumably because of poor eyesight.16

  George was left seething in his club while the authorities mulled over the conflicting medical reports. Eventually he wrote to Major Arthur Farquharson, who had been Dean of an Oxford college before joining the War Office to help recruit young officers. The frustration was evident in George’s letter: ‘I have already called on you and pestered you four times. It is now exactly three weeks since you received my application. The last time I called – a week ago – you promised me I should receive my orders within a week. Unfortunately I am not a person of unlimited means and cannot afford to idle in London indefinitely. I shall be extremely grateful if you can give me any definite information about my application. Perhaps it has again been lost.’17 Major Farquharson was not the sort of person to be swayed by snippy letters from myopic young colonials, and he responded with some information that was definite, though hardly what George wanted to hear: ‘As you were rejected by the Headquarters Medical Board … as physically unfit for military service, it is regretted that your application cannot be entertained.’18

  Shortly after this, however, an opening presented itself, though again it was hardly what George had hoped for. The Army Service Corps fulfilled a vital but inglorious role supplying the food, clothing and equipment for Britain’s expanding military forces. The initials ASC were commonly held to stand for ‘Ally Sloper’s Cavalry’, a reference to the red-nosed, work-shy and generally ludicrous anti-hero of a long-running series of comic books. As the nickname implied, the corps still relied heavily on horse-drawn transport, but motor vehicles were being used to carry out more and more of the (as it were) donkey-work. At the beginning of the war, the army had commandeered a recently-built workhouse in south London, and once the elderly occupants were moved out, this became the ASC’s main Mechanical Transport depot. It was here that Second Lieutenant Macdonald was ordered to report for training in June 1915, his family background in trams and traction engines clearly outweighing any concerns about his eyesight or attitude. Two months later, he was in France.

  For reasons that are unclear, he spent the first few weeks working at a base hospital, where he told his family he ‘helped to cut off arms and legs and did all the X ray work; it was very interesting’.19 After this he took on a more conventional ASC role in transporting the massive 6in naval guns and ammunition used by an artillery battery. George described his command as ‘quite a big affair for a humble individual like myself’,20 consisting of fifty-five men, eighteen lorries, nine motorcycles and two cars. Most important of all were five American-built Holt tractors that were used to tow the guns and were propelled by caterpillar tracks, giving them unparalleled power and mobility; looking at these sturdy little vehicles, originally developed for agricultural use, George could never have gues
sed that they had already helped to inspire a more aggressive machine that would one day play a pivotal role in the war, and in his own life.

  Meanwhile George was still thirsting for action, and in early 1916 he applied to join the artillery so that he could at least fire the guns instead of just towing them around. He was probably not surprised by the reply, which said, without giving a reason: ‘Your application for transfer to the Royal Garrison Artillery cannot be entertained.’ So he returned to France and resumed his duties, evidently with such ability that he became the ammunition officer for heavy artillery in a corps headquarters.21

  Although out of the front line, George was not out of danger, and in August 1916 he was injured near Albert by a shell which left him, in his own words, with ‘about fifteen wounds in both legs and one arm’.22 The wound was a ‘Blighty one’, and he was soon back on familiar territory in Oxford, but now as a hospital patient. Soon afterwards, news came through that his brother Guyon, who had been attached to the Royal Flying Corps, was also in hospital in England having cheated death by the narrowest of margins. The newspaper account could have come straight from the Boy’s Own Paper: ‘While flying behind the German lines he was attacked by a Fokker and shot through the right knee. Unfortunately the pressure petrol tank was perforated, as well as the small gravity tank, while another bullet pierced the induction pipe. The machine fell into a cloud, and as soon as Lieutenant Macdonald recovered himself he righted it and started home for his aerodrome, a distance of 25 miles. There was a dressing station quite close, and, although he is suffering from loss of blood and strain, it is hoped that he will save his leg.’23