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'A Different Kind of Tank'

A short tale by

Hania

September 13th, 1916

Somme River, France

"C'mon, what was it exactly that Sergeant Crowell said?" Asked a young brown hare, his ears perked and his leg nervously tapping the dirty, wooden floor of the trench barracks.

"I'll tell you once the rest of the section is here, Pvt. Stiles. Now heavens, sit still for a moment will you." There was a hint of exasperation in the Saint Bernard's voice; it cut through even his thick Kentish accent. The hare had been pestering him ceaselessly the moment he noticed the message in the canid's hand.

The private frowned and took a bite of his ration - jam spread on biscuits. "I can't help it, Braussaw. It's instinctual."

Cocking an eyebrow, the Saint Bernard let out a soft, knowing chuckle. "Bull. And that's Cpl. Braussaw to you, Private." He lay a hand on the Brodie helmet which rested on the cot nearest him. "Don't think I can't recognize nerves when I see 'em. If it will help calm you down, I suppose I can spare a hint."

Smirking, Braussaw beckoned the hare close.

Stiles nodded and stood up, the wood floor creaking as he ambled over to the canine.

"It is something that should give us an advantage over Wilhelm's men, they're shipping a few of them out here as we speak. So you needn't feel so nervous about the charge, lad. I intend to get the section through this battle, which includes the four of us after all." The Corporal whispered into the lapine's ear.

"I was told you wanted to see us, Corporal?"

The hare and hound both let out soft but surprised gasps. Their gaze turned to the doorway, where the thoroughbred stallion to which the cockney-accented voice belonged to had entered, pulling the helmet from his head. A few scars could be seen on the chestnut-coloured horse's arm while he made his way over to his cot in a graceful gait.

"What took you, Pollard? I had sent for you an hour ago." Braussaw said with a soft growl.

The Lance-Corporal shrugged and leaned his toned form against the wall of the barracks. "I was at the other end of the trench. D'you expect me to fight on an empty stomach?"

The last inside was a Scottish wildcat who was silent amongst the chatter, his shell-shocked eyes locked with the Saint Bernard's own in a wordless understanding as he stored his rations.

Standing up, Cpl. Braussaw cleared his throat. The eyes of hare, horse and wildcat focused on him.

"Now that everyone is here, I suppose it's time to mention the good news. The Sergeant has received a wire from the brass hats. The company here in Somme, our section included, will be supplied with these tanks that they've been developing back home. He believes that they will-"

"Tanks? Water storage chambers are what's going to keep us PBI from being little more than sitting ducks on No Man's Land? What basket case sent that message?" The hare abruptly cut the Corporal off with a disbelieving break up.

"Was it the Field Marshal, sir?" The wildcat's voice was gruff, matching his ragged fur coat and crooked whiskers.

"It was the Field Marshal, thank you Miller." Braussaw's tone held no amusement, his eyes narrowing a bit as he focused on the hare.

"And no, Stiles. They aren't bloody water tanks. They-"

"Gas tanks then. I'll say it makes things considerably easier for the Germans." Pollard interjected, pulling a few letters from his trouser pockets.

"Quiet, Lance-Corporal!" The Saint Bernard shouted with a growl and all was silent.

"Now...as I was saying, they are not water tanks..." the Saint Bernard glared at the hare. "...or gas tanks." Then he glared at the stallion. "It's a different kind of tank...the Sergeant didn't inform me of many details since it was all hush-hush until now. But it's probably some sort of...thingumyjig, like a landship."

There was a pregnant pause for a moment. Until Pvt. Miller broke the silence.

"I guess it could work."

"Assuming it doesn't fall into a trench or get blown to smithereens by artillery." Said Pollard with a mix between a whinny and a cackle.

Stiles was curious, his ears perked again, a single thought nestled itself inside of the hare's mind: They, along with the other soldiers were going to attempt to cross No Man's Land on the sixteenth, with this tank that allegedly didn't hold water or gas being the one thing that was supposed to give them an advantage. They were all most likely, well and truly going to cop it.

"I suppose I'll take your word for it, Corporal."

The Saint Bernard let himself calm down and gave the hare a knowing smile.

"As I was saying, the Sergeant believes the addition of these machines will give us the upper hand in the big push. It is recommended that you pay the crews of these tanks a visit, they may end up saving your lives...or the other way around."

"Is that it?" Asked Pollard.

"That is all gentlemen, you may return to your business, just be back in the barracks by nightfall. Apologies for the temper; I hope to see the three of you on the front tomorrow." The others nodded in understanding.

"I'll be at your back, Corporal." Said the stallion, he was the first to leave the barracks, followed by the wildcat.

With nary a word, Pvt. Stiles got to his feet and began to saunter out the door.

"Private, can I speak to you for a tad?"

The hare turned to face Braussaw, ears down.

"O-of course, sir."

The hound approached the lapine and placed a paw on the hare's shoulder.

"I understand you are still fresh blood, Stiles. So, let this be a lesson; it's never wise to jump to conclusions, be it in the barracks or on the battlefield. The former will only cause one to lose face while the latter could potentially get you killed...and I'd much prefer it if it doesn't come to that."

The hare nodded then snapped into a salute. "Yes, corporal! I'll keep that in memory."

The Saint Bernard smiled warmly and returned the salute. "I trust you will, my lad. Dismissed."

The battle that followed three days later was bloody and harsh, one of the most brutal of the Great War. Cpl. Braussaw was found to be missing in action by the following morning; although the Saint Bernard's body was never found, he was presumed to be among the three hundred thousand dead by the time the Battle of Somme had reached its end in November of that year.

Stiles, Pollard and Miller managed to pull through, alive and suffering non-fatal wounds. The wildcat, Miller, had met his end at Vimy Ridge the next year.

Lance-Corporal Pollard was killed in a mustard gas attack during the battle of Hamel in 1918. After the Treaty of Versailles was signed and the war ended, only Stiles remained.