Tommies: The British Army in the Trenches

by Rosie Serdiville

  On 31 July, the great offensive in Flanders opened. Private Gladden, whilst on the march, ‘saw a detachment of the new Chinese Labour Corps, about the employment of which there had been a good deal of controversy at home. They were hard at work unloading trucks and one might well wonder what was going through their minds at finding themselves thus occupied in a land so far from home.’ Billeted in the pleasant village of Quelves, the Northumbrians initially endured no greater discomforts than sharing their barn accommodation with resident livestock and slopping through omnipresent mud.

  Few doubted that this was anything other than the calm before the storm: ‘Unsettling rumours began to stalk among us, most prominently upon the lips of a corporal who could not resist letting it be known that he was the recipient of “confidential information”. The aims of our recent exertions were made plain, if we had been so obtuse as not to have guessed!’ As wet August passed into dank September the Northumbrians made ready but no orders came. Billeted now in the hamlet of La Clytte where, ‘about the village there were still vestiges of the trench system of 1915 which had linked up with Locre and Kemmel while a small cemetery near the shell-marked church contained the graves of those who fell in the early fighting, honoured warriors of a very different type of warfare.’

  By degrees the battalion moved nearer the front, first to Brewery Camp by Dickebusch, dwelling in sandbagged bell tents: ‘most of [the camp’s] recent occupants had been shelled out of the place, a report that was supported by the existence in the vicinity of a number of large shell craters.’ Gladden was part of a Lewis gun team and improvised timber mounts for anti-aircraft fire had been rigged up:

  We had not long to wait. Across the skies, sailing obliquely towards the camp, a regular enemy armada of planes was approaching, large bombing machines flanked by numbers of lighter scout planes. As they passed unhurriedly above, I counted at least fifteen large aircraft. Men crammed the shallow drainage gutters which criss-crossed between the lines or bunched down behind the low sandbag barriers by the tents.

  The three of us remaining near the gun with spare ammunition ready, stood up like magnified targets before the approaching enemy. Goffee [Lewis gunner] fired up towards the advance line which was probably flying much too high for us to reach while the number one and I crouched nearby. Shrapnel and bullets splattered around. The marauders were directly overhead still sailing forward with majestic unconcern. I felt a catch in my breath and my heart seemed to stand still but no bombs fell and for us at least the danger had passed.

  Other camps nearby were not spared.

  As the vortex of battle inexorably sucked fresh blood into its maw the Northumbrians moved up to the support line. Bouts of offensive were interspersed with preparation, livened by raids: ‘I was filled with great admiration for these volunteers. Among them, I remember one man in particular, a private who acted as one of our company runners. Unmilitary in appearance and small of stature, always undemonstrative under stress; he neither gained any distinction nor accepted any rank.’

  The Fusiliers moved through the tortured skeleton of Ypres, past Shrapnel Corner, moving over the shell-scarred waste along an elevated timber causeway:

  Eventually we approached the ridge where the scene of desolation challenged description. All around us stretched a morass in shades of grey and black, looking like some petrified inferno from Dante. Waterlogged shell-holes almost touched one another, rendering the ground pretty near impassable except where the duckboards ran. Gaunt, leafless trees stood out aimlessly here and there to break the monotony. Perched along the ridge itself one of our field batteries was firing furiously over the barrier while heavy German shells were searching along the crest in reply. In the hollow lay the derelict corpses of a couple of tanks, hopelessly bogged and badly shattered.

  Zero hour on 20 September was set for 05.40 and the battalions were to be ready in their jumping-off trenches by 03.30. Once the barrage lifted, 11th RNF would attack and take the Red Line, allowing their comrades in 10th Battalion to pass through and assault the further, Blue Line:

  An officer, coming forward from the groups behind us, snapped his watch into his pocket and signalled us forward. We were moving; a few moments’ silence – intensified; eternal! Then the guns crashed out from behind us and we were running forward in the reflected light of the artillery. I could feel and see crowds of men moving on all sides, spreading waves of humanity, directing their puny flesh toward the enemy positions. The earth simply shook with the discharge. The air above us seemed to be roofed with rushing shells, whilst some way ahead a curtain of flame and smoke completely blotted out the landscape.

  Sandbags have been in use since the 18th century, with the earliest used recorded by British Loyalists under siege during the American War of Independence. Empty burlap bags were easy to transport and could be filled by shovel when needed. Extreme care was needed when stacking them as they could collapse inwards, especially if filled with local clay rather than sand.

  Now, I experienced a peculiar almost dreamlike emotion. Though my feet were moving with all the energy needed to carry me with my burden across the ground, I felt that they were in fact rooted to the earth and that it was all my surroundings that were moving of their own accord. Our barrage; a wave of inconceivable confusion, began to creep away from the edge of the wood, whose trees stood out ever more clearly as the fumes gradually cleared. Now, the whole situation changed as if by magic, evil magic for us! Zipping sniper’s bullets began their deadly work. Machine-guns opening out ahead began to traverse methodically across our front like flails of death, crossing and re-crossing as they sprayed the advancing lines. I felt the tearing stream of lead swishing across as the muzzles elevated and could scarcely believe I had not been hit.

  A man a few yards ahead slipped to the ground and lay in a heap. Sergeant Rhodes was still in front, urging the men forward. Machine-guns cut across again and single rifle shots syncopated their steadier rattle. The defenders were resisting with deadly effect. I heard screams around me. Agony and death seemed to be cutting into the advancing lines. From the edge of the wood, now much closer, flashes from rifles and machine-guns filled the air like venomous darts.

  I could distinguish our front wave clearly for daylight was fully upon us and if I had further capacity for fear such fear gripped me now. Men in front were dropping to earth, whether from wounds or for cover I could not know.

  By now ‘B’ Company coming up behind were bunching with the survivors of ‘A’. Norman Gladden took advantage of a scrape in the ravaged earth to seek sanctuary from a merciless fire. Attempts to dig in were futile. One comrade who whipped out his entrenching tool immediately had the handle shattered by a random shot; ‘a sniper clearly had the spot marked’. Dead and wounded crumpled in and around, ‘in my imagination, the pincers of death were closing in upon this spot for my insignificant benefit’. This hiatus was short-lived:

  There had been a halt in the forward flow which now resumed with increasing momentum. My inaction now became intolerable. I gathered myself to rise and dash forward, hoping that the sniper had been dislodged or had better marks for his rifle. Our barrage was well forward, no longer followed by masses of troops. The attackers were moving all over the place in scattered groups, taking advantage of any cover they could find. Wicked 5.9 bursts were churning up the ground behind me … straight ahead there was a gradual slope to the low horizon, practically free of moving men.

  Like a parting of the waves, the impetus of attack slewed away from the open rise, either towards the woods to the left or towards an enemy parapet on the right. For Norman Gladden, as the trench seemed nearer, it offered the less risky alternative. ‘I reached the trench and, as I breasted the parapet of the German defensive position, my eyes fell upon a site of horrible carnage. A splutter of bullets forced me down amidst the horror. The trench, which was little more than a wide gash in the ground, was strewn with dead and dying, British and Germans in grim equality.’

  Objective repor
ts might consider the situation fluid. In fact it was a shambles of confusion. The plan was that 10th RNF and 13th DLI would pass through to assault both the Blue and Green lines. Norman Gladden, crouched in the temporary, blood-washed haven of the German trench could not see any of his comrades from 11th NF. To regain the survivors of the unit he would have to attempt the perilous dash over open ground to the fringe of the woods. ‘Running across from shell-hole to shell-hole, I eventually struck the woods diagonally some way in advance and was pleased to join a party of troops who had collected near an enemy strongpoint.’

  All of the company officers were down, dead or wounded. Redoubtable Sergeant Rhodes now commanded the remnants:

  Within the shifting carapace of trees, groups filtered blindly. All order and cohesion had gone. For a while Gladden was put in charge of a small group of British wounded, a task he hardly relished. Despite his own terrors, he was aware he still packed the spare drums for the Lewis gun. These would be needed. He had to press on, beyond the wood where Tower Hamlets Ridge swelled just ahead. In this flat, sodden polder even the suggestion of higher ground counted: ‘In the foreground, a little to my left, there was a hollow which contained two greenish, muddy patches. These had been, as I was later to discover, ornamental ponds in a park which were marked on the map as Dumbarton Lakes. One was still crossed by the damaged timbers of a rustic bridge and, on the far side; men were digging.’

  He had found the survivors of his own platoon, still led by Sergeant Rhodes and was re-united with his comrades from the Lewis gun team. Casualties had been heavy but the tide of battle had moved forwards over Tower Hamlets Ridge. Nonetheless, German snipers were still a regular menace:

  Wristwatches had been around for a while but were regarded as a bit effete (although some officers had used them during the Second Boer War), and an officer with his pocket watch was a typical sight in the early part of the war. The creeping barrage artillery tactic, developed during the war, required precise synchronisation between the artillery gunners and advancing infantry requiring shared timepieces. Service watches produced during the war were specially designed for the rigours of trench warfare, with luminous dials and unbreakable glass. Wristwatches were also found to be needed in the air as much as on the ground. The British War Department began issuing them from 1917.

  The Souvenir King, Private John Hines of the Australian 45th Battalion surrounded by German equipment he looted during the battle of Polygon Wood in September 1917. (Frank Hurley, Australian War Memorial, via Wikimedia Commons)

  We both admired and hated these brave men. Admired them for their persistence and bravery, hated them, illogically to some extent for what we considered was unsportsmanlike action. Possibly they were more desperate than brave, having been taught that they would get no quarter in any case. Of course, their persistence meant that it often worked out this way, for the moppers up would have been foolish to take any chances.

  It wasn’t until midnight on 21 September that survivors of ‘A’ Company, having seen off several enemy counter-attacks, were withdrawn.

  In Staff College terms, the attacks on 20 September were successful. Attacking formations, moving behind the barrage, attained their objectives. Swift consolidation meant ruin for the three German divisions sent into counter-attack. ‘Daddy’ Plumer’s careful and considered preparations had again paid dividends. On 26 September, Plumer once more attacked and the Australians took Polygon Wood. His third bound on 3 October came up against modified German response tactics and the Anzacs had to use their bayonets in taking Windmill Hill.

  Tyne Cot Cemetery marks the final line of attack up the deceptively shallow ridge. The cemetery acquired its name from the Northumberland Fusiliers, who thought the German concrete blockhouses on the site resembled Tyneside miners’ cottages. With nearly 12,000 burials it is the largest Commonwealth War Graves Commission burial ground in the world. Designed by Sir Herbert Baker, the panels on the rear wall of the cemetery commemorate some 35,000 men who fell in the salient after 15 August 1917 and who have no known grave.

  On 26 October the Canadians began their assault on the pulverised ruins of Passchendaele. On 6 November, they took the place. Fighting stuttered on for another couple of weeks till late autumn finally closed in on the battlefield. British casualties were stated as 244,897 dead, wounded and missing, German losses were estimated as considerably higher. Not everyone accepted this and the political consensus appears to have been that losses were about equal at nearly 400,000 each. There had been no breakthrough.

  CHAPTER 5

  BREAKTHROUGH

  1918

  Who was the wag, who during a weary march in file from the ramparts to the trenches, passed back the message; ‘Last man shut the Menin Gate?’

  The Kaiser’s battle

  GEORGE HARBOTTLE WAS, AT THE WAR’s outset, apprenticed to Tyneside shipbrokers Cairns Noble, based on the bustling quayside. George and his best pal Laurie Benson joined the flood, enlisting in 6th Battalion, Northumberland Fusiliers:

  Having reported to ‘A’ Company at Tilley’s I was somewhat saddened to find we were all ensconced on the beautiful dance hall floor on whose surface I had spent many a delightful evening in very different company from the heavy, army booted denizens with their dixies of tea or stew slopping about on that sacred floor.

  George spent two years in the infantry, seeing much action. In 1916 he retrained with the newly formed Machine Gun Corps, commissioned into the 15th Battalion. An MGC battalion comprised ‘four companies commanded by a major with a captain as 2I/C. each company had 16 guns arranged in four sections of four guns’. In the divisional structure, each MG company worked with a brigade. This was not a popular arrangement as the MG officers ruled their own fiefs and were not directly answerable to the infantry. In March 1917 George found himself at Arras, ‘the front was a strong one, because we had gained the best strategic positions in our successful offensive in Easter 1917’.

  For George Harbottle, his comrades in 15th Battalion, MGC, and for the whole of the BEF, an immense trial now lay ahead. By early 1918, fully fledged German storm battalions, their firepower beefed up with more machine guns, flamethrowers and an infantry gun battery, were being groomed to break the deadlock. Their role was to punch a hole through the defenders’ lines, attacking at the weakest spot, then pushing on, leaving the business of mopping up to infantry moving in behind.

  General Ludendorff, despite sweeping victories and Russia’s near collapse in the east, knew that time was a luxury he did not possess. Russia might be prostrate but America was now entering the war. Though her troops were initially few, the trickle would soon swell into flood. To break the front meant breaking the British, now senior partners in the original alliance. If Germany could successfully break through in the north and turn the Allied flank – as had been attempted in autumn 1914 – the long-delayed victor’s laurels might still rest with Kaiser Wilhelm.

  For Haig, his opponent’s timing could not have been worse. The BEF was ground down by cruel losses in the preceding year. Conscripts dragged unwillingly into the terrible attrition were not the men their bright-eyed predecessors of 1914 or 1916 had been. As the French stumbled, the BEF had to accept responsibility for yet more ground. New responses were needed to shifting German tactics. Lloyd George and his ‘Easterners’ had little time for their commander-in-chief. His pleas for more men went largely unanswered. Besides, there were no more to be had. Britain and Germany were like two punch-drunk fighters clinging to the canvas, both very nearly played out but unwilling to quit the ring.

  British military intelligence was aware the blow must fall. The question was where. To cope with these new threats and reflecting the transitions in positional warfare through 1917, the British line was now a layer cake of three connected levels. A lightly held forward zone relied upon wired-in redoubts, supported by machine guns and a thin artillery line. Perhaps a mile or more behind was the fighting line with most of the infantry and more guns. Behind all this was
the rear or support zone. Like most innovations, this revised system had its critics and some local commanders retained a tendency to stuff too many soldiers into the forward zone. Gough had 14 under-strength divisions to hold over 40 miles of the line. His defences were patchy, often incomplete. An invitation to disaster, not one Ludendorff could afford to refuse. George Harbottle was one who witnessed the breaking storm:

  On the morning of Thursday, 21st March, I came out of my dugout with my runner to stand to at dawn with my guns. We were walking along the top of the trench when suddenly there came the biggest bang I have ever heard or ever wish to. The German 1918 offensive had started and at Zero-hour everything had opened up simultaneously. The green, yellow and white SOS lights were shooting up into the air and all our artillery was busy immediately plastering the enemy lines, as were our own machine guns.

  George’s machine gunners were in the second line, around the village of Monchy le Preux, mostly occupying old German positions, captured in the previous year’s savage fighting: ‘the place stank like nothing on earth … a great many horses had been killed there’.

  In George’s sector the front line, despite a massive bombardment, appeared to be holding. ‘What we did not know was that south of us our lines had been completely broken and the enemy was pouring through the gaps he had made on a wide front.’ Indeed he was. Fog blanketed the initial German attacks, conferring some respite from British machine-gun fire, and parties of storm-troopers infiltrated behind the forward redoubts. Despite heroic stands such as that of the 16th Manchester Battalion, ground was swiftly lost and in some cases the defence was at best half-hearted. By the end of that first day, Britain had lost 38,000 men, over half of whom were prisoners.