Scene – A public house in the
year 1956. Kindly stranger enters
into conversation with a broken
down individual who has lost an
arm & most of his wits —
No wonder, – he is a “Tanker”
====================
A story of the tanks, kind sir,
A story of the tanks,
Well, yes my mouth is rather dry,
Here’s Cheer-O and thanks~,
No doubt you’ve learnt in school, sir,
How they were built to beat,
Them blooming Germans hollow,
And they did it too – a treat.
But them that I would talk of,
Them first ones as came out,
Them as our gallant Major said,
Would put the foe to rout.
They were all simply rotten,
Excuse my language, please,
But the mention of the beggars,
Makes me tremble at the knees.
They created quite a sensation,
And everybody thought them fine,
Thats excepting as what was in them,
We didn’t rate them sublime.
Indeed had you heard our language,
And the horrid oaths we swore,
You’d have said that we deserved to rot,
In hell for evermore.
Of course you’ll ask the reason,
Why did we hate them so,
Well, the chief of many reasons,
They were too blooming slow.
They may have looked well on the picture,
A’ scrambling in an’ out,
Of shell holes and German trenches,
But with the big black beggars about.
They were enough to give you the pip, sir,
They seemed to crawl along,
And, sure as you were in a fix, sir,
The beggars would go wrong.
T’would be either a broken track, sir,
Or the bally gear would seize,
And then, if you wanted excitement,
You were pretty hard to please.
Of course we delighted in action,
We were ‘eager’ to enter the fray,
But how we missed a D.C.M.,
I will tell another day.
And then there was the greasing,
And a’ filling up with oil,
Take it from me the livelong day,
Was simply toil, toil, toil.
Our pay! Yes we were paid, sir,
But not, six bob a day,
You see they bagged us cheap, sir,
At 1/ 2½d per day
I could tell you many a story,
Of how we beat the Hun,
But excuse me pointing out, sir,
My glass of bitter’s done,
And as it is growing late, sir,
I will now conclude with thanks,
For your most attentive listening,
To my story of the “Tanks”.
The Truth about the Tanks
A Tragedy
Neville Tattersfield
Scene – A public house in the
year 1956. Kindly stranger enters
into conversation with a broken
down individual who has lost an
arm & most of his wits —
No wonder, – he is a “Tanker”
====================
A story of the tanks, kind sir,
A story of the tanks,
Well, yes my mouth is rather dry,
Here’s Cheer-O and thanks~,
No doubt you’ve learnt in school, sir,
How they were built to beat,
Them blooming Germans hollow,
And they did it too – a treat.
But them that I would talk of,
Them first ones as came out,
Them as our gallant Major said,
Would put the foe to rout.
They were all simply rotten,
Excuse my language, please,
But the mention of the beggars,
Makes me tremble at the knees.
They created quite a sensation,
And everybody thought them fine,
Thats excepting as what was in them,
We didn’t rate them sublime.
Indeed had you heard our language,
And the horrid oaths we swore,
You’d have said that we deserved to rot,
In hell for evermore.
Of course you’ll ask the reason,
Why did we hate them so,
Well, the chief of many reasons,
They were too blooming slow.
They may have looked well on the picture,
A’ scrambling in an’ out,
Of shell holes and German trenches,
But with the big black beggars about.
They were enough to give you the pip, sir,
They seemed to crawl along,
And, sure as you were in a fix, sir,
The beggars would go wrong.
T’would be either a broken track, sir,
Or the bally gear would seize,
And then, if you wanted excitement,
You were pretty hard to please.
Of course we delighted in action,
We were ‘eager’ to enter the fray,
But how we missed a D.C.M.,
I will tell another day.
And then there was the greasing,
And a’ filling up with oil,
Take it from me the livelong day,
Was simply toil, toil, toil.
Our pay! Yes we were paid, sir,
But not, six bob a day,
You see they bagged us cheap, sir,
At 1/ 2½d per day
I could tell you many a story,
Of how we beat the Hun,
But excuse me pointing out, sir,
My glass of bitter’s done,
And as it is growing late, sir,
I will now conclude with thanks,
For your most attentive listening,
To my story of the “Tanks”.