INSIDE A TANK.

Hokitika Guardian, 28 August 1918, Page 4

INSIDE A TANK.

(By Tanko.) To watch them moving slowly like monstrous beetles across undulating country is one thing; to crawl through the sponson is another. Here you discover a small space compact of machinery, like nothing in the world save, perhaps, a submarine. There is the powerful engine with its transmission, gearing, and cooling system ; there are tlie guns and their ammunition. You will look in vain for woodwork, tlie whole “bus” is of metal. When you listen to the second “loot who is "your cicerone, ns lie discourses on his beloved, you will hear with wonder of the many metals that go to the making of the modern internal combustion engine. Tliat much-disputed person the designer of the tank certainly had no thought for the comfort of the crew when he drew up the plans of this modern land ship. Everything is lor utility, for war, and the result is a most formidable weapon of attack. Squat and inert of appearance, what tremendous power there is! Before it brick walls crack and crumble, trees, bent and cracking like dry stick, fall; the steepest gradients are climbed, the widest shell craters crossed. Perhaps the most extraordinary part of the ride, after one lias become used

to the infernal din of the engines is the strange illusion of speed. The vibration gives one the impression of rapid motion; one is reminded of that eccentric vibration felt in the corridor of an express train.

The illusion ends with a peep through the ports; the ground is passing slowly, no faster than a man may walk. Thirty tons or thereabouts on the move —and thirtv tons is no small weight! Turn off tlie engine and tlie tank goes forward on its own impetus —one inch.

As the engine warms up the atmosphere becomes hot; through the poits in front a steady stream of thick di,\ dust pours in, together with blue obnoxious fumes of carbon monoxide. In the seat next to the second “loot” goggles are imperative. Black visaged and covered in grease-stained overalls, lie steers his “bus” round craters, up and down over “knife edges” that look so impossible, down chasms that make the heart stand still. - . As the “bus” tilts upwards, her blunt nose pointing skywards, a fresh noise is added to the din of the etiuines. Everything movable, ’oil-cans, Lins, tools slide with a crash to the rear end. The summit reached, a slow seesaw movement brings her nose down, down- until one sees, instead of blue sky the coming plunge far below. The loose tackle clatters forward with a series of reports and the “bus” wallows downwards, readies level ground again safely, and crawls, snorting iorward like a sentient thing proud of its exploits. One thinks of pro-historic suurians, of fabulous beetles: not even the fertile imaginings of Mr. 11. G. Wells ever fancied anything more grotesque than this! The “bus” swings on her point of

balance to tlie right and makes off towards home. On top speed she makes honor time. The roar of the engines makes talk impossible; one is conscious ;>f smarting, half-blinded eyes; perspiration pours down the blackened faces of the crew in dingy rivulets; the heat is overpowering. Not without it certain feeling of relief one crawls through the low side door into the bright sunshine. The crew follow, blinking and wiping greasy bands on cotton waste. Last comes the second “loot.” black hut smiling and serene. “What d’you think of the old “bus:’” lie queries. * What can one. reply? As an experience, not to he missed; bht as a daily task, hardly to be sought after. One thought of that same “bus” in action and figuratively, speaking, took off one’s hat to its good humoured crew.