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No one had mentioned fog. There could not be a fog; the river, the banks, the low ground, all were as dry as a bone. I myself had seen it. Why, oh why, had I not reported back from the reconnaissance that there was danger of fog? I had cursed the fools who acted as if forty tons of steel could float on Ypres mud. Yet here was I …
I could see the report: “An experienced Tank Corps officer had been sent forward to examine and report on the suitability of the terrain for tanks. Unfortunately he thought of absolutely everything and even noticed that there was no water in the river bed, but still failed to see the obvious point that since the water had abandoned the river it must have taken to the air.” There it was – thick, solid, impenetrable.
“Now what?” said Carter. I heard my own voice talking. “Let's go and have a look.” We walked down and came to the wall. The next step and we were trying to see our hands. At arm's length they were out of sight.
The first tank had stopped with engine throbbing. There was the whine of a shell and the burst – a five-nine. Then more. I knew it was all up; they must have known all the time. Scared out of my wits I pulled out my lucky charm, the cabalistic figures, supposedly compass bearings, actually a record of my early afternoon fear. A torch made them just readable. I would pretend they were compass bearings, seriously taken for the express purpose of leading tanks.
Carter had some white tape. Why had I not put it down in the afternoon? Of course, I had forgotten, we could not show tapes the enemy might discover and use to make his own conjecture.
Back with the first tank I told him to stay halted and lend me three men. Carter had gone to Brigade to report the bad news at once. Another tank arrived; the ‘pile-up’ had started. I could have
murdered the commander when he said in a fatuous, carefree voice, “What's up?”
With the aid of the three men I translated the figures into a taped pattern on the ground. It led across the rubble tha