I'M A TANKER

Auckland Star, Volume LXXIII, Issue 173, 24 July 1942, Page 4

I'M A TANKER

UNDER MY BERET

TOOK ME FOR A RIDE

(By E. K. GREEN)

Figuratively speaking, I wear a little black beret.

You can't see it, but it means that, deep down in my mechanised soul, I'm a tanker.

That is why, when the sharp-faced lady beside me in the railway refreshment room nudged her husband, and remarked: "Look at that funny hat that soldier is wearing. Makes him look like a girl!" ... all my gears clashed, and mentally I traversed right, took my sight, and let her have it, ocularly. Funny thing is, I used to think they looked kind of peculiar myself. But now I know. You can't mess around in the bowels of a Valentine with a fancy four and aft rig on, or a traditional New Zealand felt, or a Field Service cap. They'd get in the way. And you couldn't get radio ear-phones on over them, either; not with any comfort. So you wear a beret, leather-edged. And when you know the tradition of the tanker, you are proud to wear it. Dependence on Radio It all started with a visit to the headquarters of the New Zealand Army Tank Brigade, and the discovery there that radio control is almost everything. You can't control a battalion of tanks, scattered far and wide over miles of country amid all the crump, boom, oomph, rah-ah-ah, and pfffst of battle with an unaided voice—not if you are the most leathery-throated sergeantmajor in the British Army! And you can t sit up in the turret of a tank as commander, and give orders to your driver and gunner above the noise, exterior and interior, with unaided voice either So you have radio communication, broadcast, ultra high frequency, and internal communication. That is a story on its own, and I'll tell you about it later. The point is, that I went out to where a troop of three tanks was practising formation, and listened in on a fourth tank to the troop commander in action by radio telephone. While they practised "One up," "Two-up" (which has no relation to the old army game), "line" and "line ahead" off there in the distance, sometimes out of sight, the tank commander, whose guest I was, gave me a running commentary of explanation on the "I.C."—intercommunication. It was an education . . . but it was only in the primer class. Trials of a Gunner The commander gave me mv move into the secondary division when he suggested "Get down into the gunner s seat, and we'll go for a run J' Have you ever seen a tank going over rough country? I had—and this was rough country with a capital R. I got aown into that compartment, but it didn't seem like a nice idea. Fitting m 3' shoulder into the shoulder-piece of the gun, I planted my eye against the telescopic sight; with my left hand I gripped the handle that revolves ("traverses" is the word, I think) the turret and the gun, and with my right grasped the revolver-like trigger grip of the twopounder.

My sole view was through the telescopic sight, with its crossed hairlines. Like the commander of a submarine I looked into the glass darkly, and thought nice thoughts of Adolf and Musso., and Jojo, all arranged in an old-time family group dead on the crosslines. Mv meat! Now we were moving, slowly at first, but then getting into full stride. The countryside in front of that sight was bouncing up and down. One minute I was viewing the heavens . . . Heck. What am 1? An anti-aircraft gunner? The next I was ready to pour my lead into the good green earth (it was worthless and practically barren ground, as a matter of fact, but why worry about little things like that): But now my commander was speaking, his voice coming clearly through the earphones. "Gunner 1 (that's me) Traverse left! Transport. 600 yards!"

First Victim—Perhaps! Vigorously my left hand spun, and the sight travelled over to the left Crumbs, this is hot work. How many times have I spun that darned wheel to the left and I can't see any transport yet. Darned transport will be gone if. I don't get a move on. Ha! I spy with my little eye! A solitary truck moving along a road. "Steady," says the commander. That's for the driver. Hold everything! And it's my cue. Got it on the target. No, I haven't. Hold still, darn you. Stop jigging up and down. "On," I say, in correct phraseology—or did I? Maybe I forgot. Anyhow, the word comes— "Fire!"

For the moment I have that truck on the dead centre—Click!

Anti-climax, that "click," but still, if there had been, a shell in the breech, and that had been an enemy transport, well, it is just possible, giving myself full marks, that I might have been somewhere within half a mile of the target—or maybe "on."

For the best part of half an hour I was put through drill. My left wrist spun almost continuously as I "traversed right" and "traversed left"—it hasn't ached so much since I patted His Nibs to sleep, when he was teething, and I was on paternal guard duty.

There is an electrical contrivance that does the turning for the gunner in action, but that is kept for actual combat. Chews up the batteries too quickly. I tried it out, and, after the hand spinning business, it was a gunner's paradise.

They're sweet, those guns, and they tell me that recoil and blast are almost non-existent. The other equipment, too, is "super." But, believe me, it needs to be.

You try knocking over a toy truck with an air rifle from the kid's backyard swing, and you'll have a fair idea of a tank gunner's job when fighting in rough country!

Funny thing, though, apart from the difficulties of keeping cn the target, I didn't notice any rough motion in that tank. As a matter of fact, they are so sprung that there is practically none. Now I'm Boss Next step was university grade. "Take over as commander/' 1 was told, "but be careful you don't put her over a bank." Nice thought, that. My stomach said, "Heck!" but my voice said, "Thanks, I'll give it a gc." We swopped over and "En avant," I said to my gallant Rosinante. The tank moved forward, and for a moment I tasted the sweets of command . . . and the doubts of responsibility. What's over that hill? Wonder if it's a steep bank? Hope it's not a stream. Oh, well, let it go. The driver was understanding. He called me "Commander." and took it slowly. A-ah! That was good. Now for some fire practice . . . and a bit of ache for the commander-gunner's arm. Compensation. "Gunner, traverse left. Tanks!" Darn it; forgot to give him the distance. What's this? I'm turning with the gun. Forget I was part of the turret. Got to keep my eye on the country ahead. Must keep in the hollows without spoiling the gunner's sight. Hull down is the word, sir. . . . Got to keep my eye on the target, too. Gun seemed to be on. "Steady," I said. "Fire." Ccme to think of it, did he, or did he not, sav "On." Anyhow, he clicked. This, I Know I took the tank to the left, and I took it to the right, and I traversed left and I traversed right, and we added tanks, transports and red notice boards to our "kill." In fact we did famously. Thank heavens.' I tried the command pesition with only the periscope as viewing agent. You need a rubber neck and no shoulders for that—or so I thought —and a lot more confidence. But what would I do without wireless? i I cculd kick the driver in the shoulder—and maybe 1 could yell but it wouldn't be pleasant. Without wireless a tank would be at best, only half effective. This I know. I learned about Tankers in that hour of trial. To them I doff my civilian felt—and my embryo beret.

On top of everything else the tank commander has to be a navigator And there are times when he dcesn't know whether he is going forward or back. I didn't.

And, must I confess it? There was one stage when I just didn't know where I was. I hadn't been noticing the landmarks. Still and all, it was worth it. I have had my moments.