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We passed by Villers Bretonneux, through the Australian Corps and on. I remember little except feeling ill and tired. There was a beautiful lake near Villers Bretonneux; sometime later, the next day, there was woodland and I felt eased by the green grass and firm ground on which we travelled smoothly. There was much engine and tank track trouble; the tanks were nearing the end of their mechanical life so we all knew we must have mechanical failure.
I was vomiting badly; I did not know till the day before the attack that I had contracted the influenza which had appeared as an unknown pandemic inflicting all armies. I was at divisional HQ trying to absorb my orders when a medical officer saw me looking ill and diagnosed the infection. He advised me to take a couple of bottles of champagne into action – “Your runner can carry it.” “And if it makes me drunk?” “Then he can carry you.”
Luckily the orders were simple – drive from our starting point towards the enemy and go on from there; then stop. At least, that was what I thought they were as I contemplated my trembling hands; not fear this time – fever.
It was a hot day. The rolling devastated region of Méaulte shimmered in the heat. I sweated and trembled and staggered about till I found myself back with the camouflaged tanks.
This time the action was to start at ‘dawn’. It always did, unless it was obtained by the divisional commander of the 42nd Division. ‘Never, never say “dawn”. Be exact’, said the manuals. Orders had to be '04.20' or '06.30' so that all watches were precisely synchronized. We all – tanks, gunners, infantry, the whole division – attacked at the same moment. Or I assume we did because I have never heard anything to the contrary. The Germans were not co-operating, and as
I myself seemed to be present only very fitfully my account is even more incoherent than is usual with sophisticated versions of chaos.
The first thing of which I have any recollection is sitting in an infantry trench, pausing before m