Third Ypres – the first attacks
Haig was partly hamstrung by political doubts. The war cabinet was insisting on adequate French support for his main offensive. In the circumstances, this appeared highly improbable. It was not until 25 July that he was given the green light. The intervening weeks had given Rupprecht the breathing space he needed and Flanders weather was clearly with him: generations of patient farmers had corralled the waters in the area by ingenious irrigation and drainage but three years of neglect and endless churning of shells had destroyed their clever systems. The summer of 1917 was exceptionally wet. Mud was the prevailing characteristic of Flanders that year.
Arthur William David Roberts was a mixed-race soldier born in Bristol in 1897. His father, David, was a ship’s steward who married a Bristol woman. At some point in the early 20th century the family moved to Glasgow where the young Arthur remained in full-time education till he was 18. It is clear from the quality of his prose he was a highly intelligent and articulate young man, something of a ‘dandy’ in his style. For most of his adult, working life Arthur was employed as a marine engineer but he volunteered for military service in 1917, firstly with the 2nd Battalion, KOSB, and latterly 2nd Battalion, Royal Scottish Fusiliers:
For so short an army career, I think I may safely say, my life during that period was as varied, and eventful, as most private soldiers of a similar length of service. A soldier during war time if capable is pushed into many breaches whether fit for the front line or base. I have been fit for both; consequently I have filled many breaches. The last sentence will perhaps lead the reader to think I am possessed of great capabilities, and this belief may be strengthened when I say that I have been company-runner, batman, guide, dining-hall attendant, bugler, dispatch clerk, aircraft-gunner, hut-builder, stretcher-bearer, and one or two other things. Now it has been unintentional, if I have seemingly blown my own horn about my military accomplishments, but I think this book, written as frankly as I could write it will exonerate me from any imputation of self-aggrandizement.
His first experience of the trenches was in the spring of 1917, as the BEF was gearing up for the third battle of Ypres: ‘I first actually entered the trenches on the dawn of 9th June, 1917. I can tell you, after our gruelling march, I was a physical wreck. That night as I plumped down in a dugout, I was so tired that without taking off my equipment, I almost immediately fell into a trance. All the Kaiser’s horses and all the Kaiser’s men could not have put the wind up me that night.’ Even sentry duty was, in the first undreamed of instance, a novelty:
Of course it was novel to me so the time did not seem so long as it did later on. When the novelty wears off it is a dreary, monotonous watch and at this time of the year in France, the early mornings are very cold and usually wet. At times like these, a chap often imagines he sees things such as men crawling about in front and when the wind blows stray whispers of barbed wire against the metal poles it confirms the idea. Often a chap with this belief will open fire and consequently the parapet is manned at once and everybody has a go at something imaginary. Naturally, Gerry gets the wind up and he starts rifles, machine-guns, and bombs, grenades and the racket might last about an hour then fizzle out. Next day’s news; a strong attack on our trenches was successfully beaten off, many casualties to enemy.
Prior to the opening attacks, which would be directed at recovering ground at Pilckem Ridge, Gheluvelt and Langemarck, gunners of Plumer’s Second Army and Gough’s Fifth pumped over 4,500,000 shells into von Lossberg’s improved defences. The toll of German defenders was terrible and damage, not just to defences, but to the quaking ground, considerable. On 31 July, British infantry went over the top in Flanders.
For Arthur Roberts, like so many tens of thousands of other Tommies, the opening of Haig’s great summer offensive and the battles which followed proved their baptism and Calvary combined: ‘It was the 29th July 1917 and we were lying on the outskirts of Dickebusch waiting to move up to go over the top … The ground, being low lying, soon became a mass of mud and slime, the small bivouac tents were poor shelters from the drenching downpour. Under such conditions no fires could possibly be lit. All that day we squatted under our low tents, wet and miserable, so that when orders came to prepare to move we were glad to have something to do.’ Their march was purgatory:
At the appointed time we ‘fell in’ and muddy and weary as we were, we started forward, with the slow, ponderous movement so common to the BEF. The roads were calf deep with mud, while the rest of the country was half-lake, half quagmire. Frequently, enemy shells would land in the near vicinity with sudden slaps and mud showers, so that we had a mud bath every now and then. Dead animals and disabled wagons lay scattered in profusion. In many cases, these objects were almost buried in the boggy terrain. At last we came to a corduroy road that is a roadway of tree trunks which was also plentifully dotted with deceased mules and timber wagons. This road was the stopping point for the transport evidently and some of them had stopped for good. We turned along this road and slipping and stumbling over the wet logs, we made our way cursing and grousing until we came upon our own transport wagons, waiting to be unloaded.
Finally, they plodged into the shallow communication trench: ‘The sides of the trench were of such shifting nature that frames of wire netting were required to hold them up. The least touch caused slime to ooze through. The bottom was on average covered by a foot of water; plainly speaking what was being misnamed as a trench, was only a common ditch. In the dry season I should say it would be about six feet deep, at this time it was anything from seven feet.’ Arthur selected the driest funk hole he could find but, barely had he laid aside his rifle than he and several others found themselves selected for fatigues. In this case it was the laborious business of unloading transport wagons. An old hand by now; ‘ah well, I thought now I’m here I’ll make the best of it and I selected a sack of jam. These needed less careful handling and all true soldiers always keep an eye for the main chance. Before I regained the ditch, one of the pots of jam was mine!’
That night, they stood or huddled in their sludge-garnished ditch, damp creeping through muscle and bone, no bright explosion of summer dawn, just a dank, cloying mist. All day they remained in uncomfortable waiting, ‘like kittens in a box we became restless as the day advanced’. Their trumpet to glory did not sound that day, however and, ‘darkness again closed down upon us, bringing fresh supplies of rain and we longed for the attack if only to relieve our monotony. The water in our ditch had risen considerably, but we thought it better to stand in it than out on top getting the icy wind that was blowing.’ At 21.00 the rum ration arrived with orders for movement at midnight. Arthur was not a drinking man ‘but this night I would have supped with the devil himself if I could have bettered my case by doing so. Rum rations at the best were never of generous proportions … but as we were all fairly well knocked up, the ration on this occasion was passable. Mine, I know, did wonders for me.’
They marched under the wet blanket of darkness ‘moving along the intricate trenches like a giant reptile wriggling through an enormous crooked tube’. Each by now had acquired an outer casing of Flanders mud, ‘but I have to admit even if it is dirty it certainly keeps the heat in and the cold out’. Their laborious, slime-drenched marches were drawing them closer to the front:
German artillery kept up a desultory action but he was registering too close for our comfort. As we proceeded the effects of the gunfire were becoming more apparent to us. The trenches were taking on a more battered look and the dead men lying in them were getting more numerous as we went forward. The trenches had been so badly shelled that in some places we were walking in the open, where big shell holes had taken the place of that bit of trench. In the surviving lengths, dead men were so numerous it was impossible proceed without walking on them. This section of trenches was awful. One moment we were wading up to our middles in water, the next we were wobbling and balancing over the bodies of our unfortunate comrades.
> … that journey was like a nightmare, even yet as I write this I can fancy I can see the gruesome forms lying in the flooded craters by the green relief of Verey lights which reflected on the ink-black water, casting an opalescent glow on the ghastly faces. There was no time, nor was this the place to be sentimental and we were hurried forward to be in our positions by 2 a.m., the appointed time for the kick-off.
Soon it would be their turn: ‘As we knelt there, waiting the command of our officer who constantly gazed at his wrist watch with the sheet of blackness before us, and the German curtain-fire behind us, roaring in its seeming impatience; my thoughts were strangely far distant from the battlefield.’ Arthur was swept with a wave of pure pride, ‘here I was among men sharing the risks and uncertainties of being in the very front ranks of the Empire against its enemies; patriotism was strong in my breast then.’ Reality, ‘the tiny grim imp’ swiftly re-asserted itself; ‘waiting is worse than a hundred deaths – Heavens, will the order never come. Whizz! Shhh! Crash! Bang! Boom! ‘Forward men’, calmly said our officer.’ His fears of fear forgot in the rush of action, Arthur with his comrades struggled ahead into no man’s land:
The barrage of our guns fell about fifty yards ahead, exactly at 2 a.m., for a few minutes it shattered and battered the German front line, and then it roared forward. It was as if the earth had opened in half and vomited forth flames and sparks of gorgeous rich colours.
The ground was in an awful miry state, but we had not squelched forward very far before three or four prisoners came up to us unarmed and with hands held high. Our officer obtained what information he could but the corporal treated them guardedly as if they had been bristling with guns. We had no time to lose, so we hurried on as best we could but with the boggy ground and detours we had to make round small lakes, our barrage soon thundered away into the distance, leaving us hopelessly behind. The section about thirty yards on our right, received a heavy German shell right in their midst. Shortly afterwards, I saw one of the tanks in front of us catch fire. I think by the blaze it must have been a supply tank.
Enemy fire began to take effect: ‘the enemy pestered us with a slow but annoying fire of 5.9 shells and an assortment of smaller rounds. As we plunged on, one of our section who was walking at my left shoulder, suddenly collapsed with a sigh, a splinter had pierced his abdomen. Some stretcher bearers were following our party but, before they came up, the poor chap had expired. Afterwards, it was remarked that, during the previous day, the unfortunate man had been very reticent in his speech and actions.’ Dawn had overtaken night and the black, mud-slicked plain was deepening in yet more rain, waterlogged shell-holes coalescing into wider lakes of sulphurous filth, ‘through which rising pieces of mud appeared like tiny islands’.
Their attack had been carefully rehearsed but the neat topography of a model battlefield and the surgical view of aerial observers did not coincide with the shot-torn morass through which Arthur and his comrades struggled:
The HQ staff seemed to think the plan would work so, as a consequence, we started off in one direction, then we suddenly swung sharply to the right, then some yards further on, we turned half-left and I’m sure we covered a mile before we even saw a trench. At last we dropped into one and the first thing I saw was an officer lying dead with a handkerchief over his face, and his servant collecting his books and papers.
Now we were in the enemy trenches, our work commenced. We had carried our sacks of bombs a long way, and they were heavy, so we thought the sooner we delivered them, the sooner we would lighten our load. The dead officer made us more merciless than we would otherwise have been, so we went along that trench and every dugout we came to, we flung in a bomb or two then called on the occupants to come out. The Mills Bomb goes off five seconds after the pin strikes the cap, we held it for three seconds while by the time we had shouted, four seconds had elapsed so that the Jerry down below usually stayed there.
Once again the Tommies were entering a ‘race for the parapet’. Their painful and exhausting trek through water and mud meant the creeping barrage sailed off with majestic élan and, ‘we were now exposed to the German machine-gunners. Under their withering fire our section was soon dispersed. We would be ploughing forward when suddenly the stutter of a machine-gun and the vicious swish of bullets would send us rolling into the nearest shell-hole, invariably full of water. In a short time officers were without men and men without officers. Bombers and grenadiers and Lewis Gunners and riflemen were all mixed up. Some parties consisted of nearly all NCO’s whilst other groups didn’t have one. Nevertheless, forwards was the order of the day and mixed up as we were, in parties of threes and fours and in some cases a dozen, we moved on, always being broken up by the gunners. Sometimes, I was alone when a sudden dive for safety would land me among a party.’
Despite the weight of enemy fire and dreadful ground, the attackers slogged forwards: ‘Due credit must come in and will be given by me to the German rearguard that held us up that day. It was certain death for them because our waves of infantry had got between them and their main body in most cases. To expose themselves was to draw fire. Like the heroes they were, they fought like tigers, withdrawing from crater to crater and we steadily but very slowly pushed on.’ Though the assault progressed, all cohesion had been lost. ‘At length I found myself going forward with a lance-corporal and two privates of my own battalion, and a couple of chaps from a Manchester Battalion. We could see none of our own troops near us now and, as we happened on a German trench that was wicker-lined and had at least a semblance of dryness, we dropped in and prepared to hold on till such time as we could reconnect ourselves with another body of our comrades.’
Gunmetal skies continued to spill torrents of rain while tendrils of mist still clung to the fire-gouged field, ‘but the stutter of Lewis and machine-guns came to our ears. Occasional bursts of rifle fire now plain, now faint reached us also. The artillery of both sides seemed to have given up the contest. As I peeped over the enemy’s parados (the rear of the trench), all I could see were big sheets of water reflecting sullen skies, all lashed by heavy rain while here and there lay a body soaked and sodden and muddy.’ During the long day, Arthur and his new comrades held on in their improvised defences. The battlefield now seemed deserted, as though dragged down by the weight of mud and rain. As dusk began to gather, they were relieved, stumbling back to the rally point and a shivering night in dripping woods.
Another wet dawn brought fresh tribulation: ‘Parties were told off to act as stretcher-bearers. The party I was with was to carry wounded from a subterranean post to some ruins called Dormie House. The post was a fair distance from the house and it was no joke wading knee deep in mud with one corner of a stretcher on your shoulder. Some German guns were playing on our quarter, and the job was made perfectly nerve-breaking.’ For the Scots, already exhausted, begrimed and hungry, the German bombardment proved a particular trial: ‘One of our guns had been put out of action near the house and I think Gerry was firing at it, not knowing of its plight. There was mud on nearly every square inch of me. The last issue of rations I had received had been three days before at Zillebeke Lake, since then my iron rations and that purloined pot of jam had been my only subsistence.’
Separated from his fellow stretcher-bearers, Arthur became lost in a fug of exhaustion till, mainly by good luck, he stumbled back into the RAP at Dormie House: ‘The RAMC men manning this post and who had been smelling the rum jar oftener than was wise for them, informed me that all the working parties had departed for the night.’ Wearily, he departed towards a distant rest: ‘Along the masses of communication trenches I plodded, a lonely soul in a lonely landscape. It was still raining. At length I left the trenches, but arriving at our own camp found it deserted. Judge the depths of misery into which I was again cast, I was tired, footsore, weary, hungry and mucky. It was darkening and nobody was in sight.’ Despite his numbing tiredness, Arthur spent a fruitless night stumbling through the ravaged land, seeking his battalion. M
orning, another rain-swept dawn, brought solace:
I remember walking towards a cluster of tents and limber wagons. The next thing I recall, I was half-lying against a wagon with rain beating on my face and my own section-officer giving me a good drink of rum. Everybody was pleased to see me but I took most to the post-corporal for he had a parcel and letter for me. I demolished the parcel, the letter had to wait for, like a pig that has been fed, I rolled over and my thick coating of mud helped to keep me warm while I slept.
In the early fighting gains were made, though these were modest when measured against losses. Over such dreadful ground, tanks were of little value, constantly getting bogged down and offering target practice for German gunners. Attacks continued through August though the ghastly weather continued. Von Lossberg’s defences proved a very tough nut indeed and, by the end of August, the Fifth Army had lost some 60,000 men.
Third Ypres – the dogfight; Menin Road, Polygon Wood and Broodseinde
When the burden was shifted from the Fifth to the Second Army, Plumer was to focus on the Gheluvelt Plateau. As at Messines, ‘Daddy’ Plumer had thought long and hard about the tactical problem. His artillery would be both sledgehammer and scalpel whilst still providing a shield to the infantry. Their main assault would be preceded by trained skirmishers, the basis of infiltration tactics. Attacks would proceed on a local ‘bite and hold’ basis, a pause between each bound for consolidation and allowing fresh units to pass through. Reserves would always be on hand to reinforce success.
Norman Gladden had left school in 1913 intending to join the civil service. He had no notions of going to war – ‘fit enough but not robust’. When his call-up papers arrived in May 1916, he was three months short of his 19th birthday. That wash of patriotic fervour that had guided Kitchener’s volunteers had receded in the face of a mounting, seemingly never-ending recital of casualties. By now there was no glory, only stalemate. Norman Gladden was initially assigned to the 2nd (Home Service) Battalion of the Hertfordshire Regiment, before he was transferred to 11th Battalion of the Northumberland Fusiliers.
Tommies: The British Army in the Trenches Page 9