If it comes to a house or a tree or a wall or such-like
obstruction it rams against it so as to bring all its weight to bear
upon it--it weighs _some_ tons--and then climbs over the debris. I saw
it, and incredulous soldiers of experience watched it at the same time,
cross trenches and wallow amazingly through muddy exaggerations of small
holes. Then I repeated the tour inside.
Again the Tank is like a slug. The slug, as every biological student
knows, is unexpectedly complicated inside. The Tank is as crowded
with inward parts as a battleship. It is filled with engines, guns and
ammunition, and in the interstices men.
"You will smash your hat," said Colonel Stern. "No; keep it on, or else
you will smash your head."
Only Mr. C. R. W. Nevinson could do justice to the interior of a Tank.
You see a hand gripping something; you see the eyes and forehead of
an engineer's face; you perceive that an overall bluishness beyond the
engine is the back of another man. "Don't hold that," says someone; "it
is too hot. Hold on to that." The engines roar, so loudly that I doubt
whether one could hear guns without; the floor begins to slope and
slopes until one seems to be at forty-five degrees or thereabouts; then
the whole concern swings up and sways and slants the other way. You have
crossed a bank. You heel sideways.
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