The Death of Hope

by Andrew Wareham

  That seemed to be the end of the briefing.

  “Will there be machine gun support, Major?”

  “No, Colonel Baker. The extra guns will be massed towards the main assault. Yours is somewhat of a sideshow to tidy up and prevent German reserve troops from interfering from positions to the west.”

  “An additional supply of Mills Bombs, perhaps?”

  “No. The General does not approve of grenades. Cold steel is all that British troops require. Ensure that all bayonets are well sharpened.”

  Braithwaite shook his head as Richard prepared his answer. He was right – there was no point to arguing.

  “What reserves are there, Major?”

  “None in this sector, Colonel Baker. They will not be needed. The cavalry will roll up anything the Germans have waiting. You are fortunate to have two regiments of heavy dragoons assigned, sir.”

  “Very good, Major. How are they to cross the trench, sir?”

  “Deal with that when the time comes, Colonel. It will be obvious. They are used to hunting, don’t you know.”

  Presumably they were to jump. Richard wished them luck.

  Braithwaite took over.

  “There will be additional rations, to allow for the first two or three days of open warfare that will follow on the breach of the German lines. It is vital, of course, to push on as hard as can be and mop up behind the cavalry before the broken remnants can reform. Arrangements are being made for prisoner of war cages in the rear areas. Other than that, maintain close order and keep the men together.”

  The written orders stipulated a march pace of three miles an hour, the men to hold in their lines, shoulder to shoulder, lieutenants to mark the pace and hold the line, exactly as at Neuve Chapelle.

  Dorrington left to carry his glad news to another brigade and Richard turned to Braithwaite in dismay.

  “Nothing has changed, sir. We will lose a quarter of the men if everything goes well. Fifteen hours of bombardment is insufficient to flatten all of the wire and destroy the machine guns and field artillery. Only small guns available to us, as well.”

  “The big howitzers are being kept back for the main thrust in the centre, Baker. They are short of rounds for them so they will join in the last two hours of the barrage there.”

  “Even an hour with a pair of nine point twos would do us some good, sir. Landing on the wire apron, the big shells would cut us a passage. Sixty pound shells won’t do the job.”

  “That’s your naval background, Baker. You know about such things. Still, come and talk to the artillery.”

  Richard was introduced to the major who had attended the meeting.

  “Ten batteries, Major, for fifteen hours?”

  “Not quite, Colonel. The eighteen pounders will maintain fire. We are short of shells for the sixties. They will fire for the first two hours, targeted specifically at the wire. After that, their fire will be more sporadic. They will join in for the last half an hour of rapid fire. We have aeroplanes promised to spot for us, provided the Fokkers don’t get them.”

  “Observation balloons?”

  “Not in this sector, Colonel. We only have a few as yet. There are more coming, we are told. More likely for next year. They hope they will not be necessary, of course.”

  The cavalry stayed for lunch; they had nothing sensible to say.

  “Should be jolly good sport, old chap. Done nothing since we came out in January. Make a change from parading in the rear, don’t you think?”

  Richard shook his head. He feared not.

  “If the machine guns are silenced, then you may do well, gentlemen. Even then, rifle fire can cut horse up severely. Saw it in August and September last year when the cavalry was butchered, British and German equally. Did some of the butchering myself.”

  “Different conditions, I expect, old chap.”

  That was as meaningless an answer as was possible; it was profound for a cavalryman.

  The infantry remained a few minutes after the cavalry and gunner had ridden off.

  Braithwaite saw them off to their battalions.

  “There are Mills Bombs held in the rear, gentlemen. General French does not approve of them. I gather they are ‘unsporting’. I shall do my best to have an issue made.”

  There was no more to be said.

  Richard called his captains together. There was just sufficient room in his dugout for them all to fit in.

  “There will be a bombardment commencing at 1600 hours on the day after tomorrow. It will go on, sporadically, until 0700 hours on the following morning. We will then go over the top. Marching in line with full pack and eighty rounds. Keep the weight in the packs down, gentlemen. No rations, no spare boots. Leave the blankets behind. If we succeed in breaking the lines, I shall send fatigue parties back for the necessaries for a marching campaign. Packs may be made up with extra rounds and Mills Bombs, if they are delivered. Men are to drop their packs before entering the enemy trenches. Again, they can be recovered afterwards. Lewis Gunners to the fore. I am aware that General French does not like to see them, for being untidy. They will nonetheless be used.”

  “What if the wire is not cut, sir?”

  “If there are machine guns active, drop flat and retire. In the absence of machine guns, you will cut the wire. The gunners assured me they would concentrate their fire on the wire. They are to have aerial spotters to assist them. You will not be able to observe their progress during the night, unfortunately.”

  They said nothing.

  “We are fortunate in having so small a no man’s land to our front. That also means we are close to the detonation point of our own artillery. It seems wise to me that the bulk of each company will spend the period of the bombardment in our second line, leaving only a small party by the field telephone. We can reasonably assume there will be no enemy attack through the bombardment.”

  None of them trusted the accuracy of the artillery sufficiently to argue.

  “We shall man the front line fully at 0650 and go over the top to the second of 0700 hours. I shall accompany Captain Caton. Major Vokes will hold two companies to the rear and will bring them forward to any point where we have made a breakthrough, hopefully to pass them through the lines and into the enemy rear. The cavalry and RHA will pass through at that point.”

  “In the absence of a breakthrough, sir?”

  “Then you may cover us as we fall back, Vokes.”

  “You mentioned Royal Horse Artillery batteries in company with the cavalry, sir. Will they take part in the bombardment?”

  “Doubtful. Too small to be a great deal of value, in any case.”

  Richard tried to sum up on a more cheerful note.

  “I do much hope that we may be able to take the opposing front line and at least even out this damned salient. The German trench is slightly higher than ours and will be more comfortable in many ways. If they have anything of interest to us, try to bring it back – new guns, mortars, that sort of thing.”

  The bombardment commenced and the bulk of the battalion fell back from the first line of trenches, wisely, it transpired. A number of shells fell in their own wire, more during the night as barrels wore and sighting became less accurate.

  “Are they cutting the wire?”

  Richard was interested to know what they might face in the morning. Major Vokes had spent some time to the front, trying to get a picture from the little he could see in the shell flashes.

  “HE are effective, sir. Even the small shells cut wire and throw it back a distance. Shrapnel is valueless for wire, sir. A break at the point of the explosion and that is all. Generally speaking, shrapnel leaves a small crater under mostly unbroken wire.”

  “Note that for our reports after the offensive, Vokes. That, of course, assumes we are here to write such reports.”

  “I shall leave my clerks in their dugout, sir. They can maintain a diary.”

  “Famous last words and all that… I do hope I am being unnecessarily gloomy, Vokes.”
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  “It is still a learning process, sir. The generals have to find out exactly how to break through modern trenches.”

  “Simplicity itself, Vokes! Land an army on the Friesian coast, north of Holland. The Navy would lose a few of its tin castles to submarines and mines; the German army would be forced to withdraw troops from France and Russia to set up new defences. Thin them out here and we could probably make a breakthrough. The Russians might be able to do the same. A chance that Denmark might join in to grab back Schleswig and Holstein. The Dutch might jump in on the winning side. A good possibility that Austria-Hungary might seek a separate ceasefire.”

  Vokes admitted that to be possible.

  “It all falls down because of the dreadnoughts, sir. They cost too much. The government won’t risk seeing them sunk – they are too valuable to send them out to war. Too many millions invested in the battleships to wish to risk them in combat, sir.”

  “Better far they should grow rust at Scapa Flow than venture out into the North Sea, Vokes? You are likely right. Too much myth and insufficient reality, today’s Navy! Glad I got out.”

  “So are we, sir. Their loss has been very much our gain.”

  Another hero-worshipper! Richard had thought better of Vokes.

  He glanced at his watch. Another fifteen minutes. The bombardment was supposed to lift for the last quarter of an hour, to move forward from the pulverised wire and zero onto the German front trench. He gave the artillery five minutes of leeway - gunners not being the brightest of mortals and not necessarily able to read their watches - and ordered the battalion back into the front line. He accompanied Captain Caton, trying to get a feel for his company, wondering how much damage Draper had done to it.

  “Had a word with young Michaels last night, sir. Told him that he would not be held back, not tarnished by Draper, you might say.”

  “What’s your opinion of the boy?”

  “He’ll do, sir. Mind you, he’ll quite likely die today, trying to prove that he’s not chicken.”

  “Almost inevitable. A pity I could not take the risk of keeping Draper, you know. I might have enjoyed forcing him to march in front of me today.”

  “At the point of your revolver, that would have been, sir, after you had dragged him out of the aid post where he had gone suffering from a heart attack.”

  “I seem to have been last man in the battalion to have heard of Draper’s little problem, Caton.”

  “Who is to come to you snitching on a fellow officer, sir? The most one could do would be to suggest you might accompany him one night, as you did, in fact.”

  The informer was not a well-loved soul in any company, Richard admitted.

  “Wire parties forward.”

  The gaps in their own wire were pulled open. Stray shells had cut several others, would speed the process of getting forward.

  “All done, sir.”

  “Thank you, Hawkeswill.”

  The adjutant had asked for the duty, saying that he wanted to take some part in the battle, he was not that old. Richard still did not like the man, while admitting that he had shown useful finally.

  “Ladders forward.”

  The short ladders were fixed in place so that the men could climb the six feet out of the trench, burdened by their packs.

  “Now, Major Vokes.”

  Vokes blew on the big brass whistle, an ‘Acme Thunderer’, beloved of games teachers and sports coaches and now put to less innocent use.

  The first line of men formed up shoulder to shoulder and plodded forward into a desultory crackle of rifle fire. A few fell.

  “No machine guns, sir.”

  Richard led the second line, ten yards behind the first, listening to the yells of the lieutenants as they kept the men straight.

  “Wire is cut in places, sir. Some gaps all the way to the trenchline.”

  “Drop packs and run! Lewises forward!”

  Two minutes and they had the front line, were pushing down the communications trenches towards the rear. Ten minutes and they had taken the first two lines of trenches and were meeting organised resistance for the first time. Machine guns began to fire and light artillery, pompoms and mortars, opened up on them.

  The advance stalled as men took cover and began to return fire with rifles and Lewises.

  “Fire coming in from the flank, sir. To the left.”

  “Take care of it, Vokes. If needs be, set up a line back to our trenches. Cavalry should be due within minutes.”

  “They won’t be able to cross our trenches, sir.”

  “The word I used was ‘due’, Vokes. That doesn’t mean I expect to see them.”

  Vokes laughed and moved off to the left.

  “Caton, set your company to reversing the fire step here. We will hold here until we receive artillery support.”

  Caton scurried into action, setting the company into position on a cobbled together step.

  “Hawkeswill, go back and try to get hold of the RHA. Even their little guns will do some good, firing from just behind our second line; they will be able to get their trails down there.”

  Half an hour and there was no sign of the cavalry. A runner came from Brigade.

  “Beg pardon, sir. Why have you stopped?”

  “A concentration of machine guns and light artillery. Inform the Brigadier that I am trying to bring the RHA up in support, expect to advance under cover of their fire.”

  Nothing happened for an hour other than the fire to their front increasing as extra machine guns were fed in from the German rear.

  Hawkeswill appeared with a party carrying the battalion’s two Vickers.

  “RHA are held back with the cavalry, sir. Their people will not permit them to move forward. Thought our machine guns would be useful.”

  “Very much so, Hawkeswill. Well done! ‘Major O’Grady!”

  A reply came from close behind his shoulder.

  “I will be setting them up, sir. Mr Michaels has just gone forward, sir, with four men carrying Mills Bombs. The young gentleman said he could see a communications trench running at the diagonal which might bring them within reach of the light artillery, sir. Needed to be doing something, so he did, sir, for not liking what was being said about Captain Draper and the whole company tarnished by him.”

  “Pity! Still, only a second lieutenant and there are plenty more of them to hand.”

  “Four good riflemen, sir. He picked the best.”

  The men could less easily be afforded – it took years to train up a rifleman and the battalion had too few of the old, experienced soldiers.

  “Get the men busy on digging in, ‘Major. We are here until we get support. No going forward into the fire ahead of us.”

  O’Grady left about his business. The Vickers began to fire inside twenty minutes.

  Richard wriggled his way up the rear side of the German second line trench, which was as deep and well constructed as their own front line had been, and tried to see what was happening, to establish a clear picture.

  It looked likely that the Germans had built a number, six or seven the men thought, of concrete bunkers to the rear of their lines, for the safer storage of artillery rounds perhaps or as a defence in depth. They were being held strongly and were proof against rifle fire. A battery of sixty pounders with their spotters up front might be able to destroy the bunkers, one by one. The big howitzers could certainly do so, provided they had the ammunition supplies. There were machine guns in nests in and around the bunkers and small guns, something like a two pounder pompom, set up nearby. A rifle battalion had nothing to say to that defence.

  “Hold here, Caton. Where’s my runner?”

  One of the younger soldiers stepped forward.

  “Here, sir.”

  “To Major Vokes. He is to bring his two companies forward, left and right, to establish a line. We will not be advancing beyond this position.”

  “Yes, sir. Make a line, sir, back from here to our old trench, holding both sides, sir.”


  “That’s right. Off you go.”

  The boy ran.

  “Caton, pass the word to pick up the packs. Men to dig in. Get me a list of the figures for the morning.”

  An hour and Richard had a mug of tea in his hand and was reading the reports from the eight companies that had made the first advance.

  “Lost forty-five men dead and thirty more severely wounded. Fifty-three walking wounded, most of whom remain in the line. One man in every seven for the battalion as a whole. Far better than Neuve Chapelle and we have actually advanced two hundred yards. What’s the position to the left and right?”

  Hawkeswill answered. He had chosen not to return to the rear, it seemed.

  “No advance to our left, the north, that is, sir. Battalion to our right has paralleled us. The salient has in effect become a dogleg in the line, sir. Likely to take fire from two sides, sir.”

  “Get a written message to Brigade to that effect, Hawkeswill. Draw a little map to go with it, so they can understand what we mean. Suggest strongly that the battalion to our left must push forward. If they don’t, we will be shot to pieces in short time. Has anybody information on Mr Michaels?”

  Word came that Michaels had made his attack, the little party going out an hour previously. Nothing had been seen of him since.

  Captain Caton slid down from the lip of the trench where he had been laid flat with a pair of binoculars.

  “Two of the seven bunkers have been silenced, sir. Explosions in both. Possible that Mills Bombs detonated ready use ammunition, sir. No sign of Michaels returning.”

  That left five still active and certainly alert to attack by small parties of bombers. There was little probable gain to sending out more men in daylight.