But still the “Razzle Dazzle” was having her own way. Her motorist was signaling me that he had no control of her. This was cheerful intelligence because right ahead was a huge shell crater. She might slide into it and climb up the other side and out. I hoped so. But she didn’t. She hit the bottom of the pit, tried to push her way up and out, fell back, panted, pushed up again, fell back and then just stuck at the bottom of the well, throbbing and moaning and maybe penitent for her recklessness. Penitence wasn’t to do her any good. It wasn’t five minutes later when the Germans had the range of her and began smashing us with big shells. I ordered my men to abandon her and led them in a rush out of the crater and into small shell holes until the storm of fire was past. When it was, “Razzle Dazzle” was a wreck. She was cracked, distorted and shapeless. But the runaway engine was still plainly to be heard throbbing. Finally a last big shell sailed into the doughty tank and there was a loud bang and a flare. Her oil reservoir shot up in an enormous blaze. “Razzle Dazzle” was no more. But she had accounted for the “refinery.” And our infantry had done the rest. The German position was ours. I was all enthusiasm for fighting “tanks.” But my superiors squelched it. For when I asked for command of a sister of “Razzle Dazzle” next day, a cold-eyed aide said to me: “One tank, worth ten thousand pounds, is as much as any bally young officer may expect to be given to destroy during his lifetime. Good afternoon.” He never gave me a chance to explain that it was “Razzle Dazzle’s” own fault, how she had taken things into her own willful control. But he did try to give me credit for what “Razzle Dazzle” had herself accomplished. He said the destruction of the “sugar mill” had been “fine work.” I wonder what “Joffre” thought of it all. I don’t remember seeing her when we fled from the “tank,” except as something incredibly swift and black flashed past my eyes as we thrust up the lid. I sincerely hope she is alive and well “somewhere in France.” CHAPTER XIII MOQUET FARM The name of Moquet Farm flashes vividly to my memory a night of the bitterest, bloodiest fighting I ever went through. It certainly was the hell of war in its most intensive degree. There were twenty-two hours of continuous fighting with never a minute’s let-up in the gales of deadly missiles. We were holding Orvilles in preparation for the great battle of the Somme and our immediate objective was Thiepval. This Moquet Farm, with its powerful batteries, presented a particular obstacle, for it was directly in our path on the road to Thiepval. It had to be obliterated. But before we might move on Moquet we must dispose of a sky-line trench just ahead. The Farm lay three miles to the right of this sky-line trench as we faced it.