the contemporary tank.

It slides on the ground; the silly little wheels that so detract from
the genial bestiality of its appearance dandle and bump behind it. It
swings about its axis. It comes to an obstacle, a low wall let us say,
or a heap of bricks, and sets to work to climb it with its snout. It
rears over the obstacle, it raises its straining belly, it overhangs
more and more, and at last topples forward; it sways upon the heap and
then goes plunging downwards, sticking out the weak counterpoise of its
wheeled tail. 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