Passchendaele

by Nick Lloyd

  The answer to the ‘Red Baron’ and his ilk was, as with the artillery, partly technological, partly tactical. The RFC had to get on with the job of supporting the ground forces as best it could while waiting, impatiently, for a new generation of aircraft to roll out of the factories. By early summer, however, things were beginning to turn in their favour. New aircraft, including the SE5 and Sopwith Camel, were arriving in France in significant numbers and helped the British re-establish their edge in the air. The SE5 was first introduced to the elite 56 Squadron in April 1917 and, although initially experiencing some teething problems, it went on to become one of the most famous aircraft of the war: fast, able to climb quickly and safely, and a match for all German fighters. Captain James McCudden, a pilot with 56 Squadron, called the SE5 ‘a most efficient fighting machine, far and away superior to the enemy machines of the period’, which was also ‘almost warm, comfortable [and] an easy machine to fly’.36 Together with the Sopwith Camel, which would become the most successful Allied fighter of the war, the British had the aircraft to secure control of the air above the Western Front by the summer of 1917.37

  Artillery and aircraft were not the only weapons transforming the nature of war. Eight months earlier, in the charnel house of the Somme, Britain had pioneered the use of armoured vehicles, known as tanks. By the time of Messines, the original Mark I had undergone considerable modification, and the latest variant, the Mark IV, was now arriving in France. It was a considerable improvement on its predecessor, with thicker armour (to protect against German armour-piercing bullets) and better internal mechanics (an armoured petrol tank and a more reliable fuel delivery system) that resulted in improved performance on the battlefield and prompted, in the German Army, a growing scramble for adequate counter-measures. Although the tank clearly remained a weapon of the future, and mechanical reliability was always an enduring challenge, it was another indication of just how hard the British were working to break the trench deadlock.38

  In all this, the infantry–the lone man among the chaos–was not forgotten. Platoons were now being equipped with a variety of weapons that would enable them to fight their own way forward if necessary. As well as the rifle and bayonet, British soldiers now had access to the Mills bomb (a reliable time-fused grenade); rifle grenades (which attached to a special cup fitted to the muzzle of a rifle); the Lewis gun (a semi-portable light machine-gun); and, from March 1917, the 3-inch Stokes mortar (which provided a short-range deluge of fire, either high-explosive or smoke). With these weapons it was now much easier for British infantry to take on German strongpoints or deal with counter-attacks. When combined with new tactics that emphasized ‘fire and movement’, with flank attacks and infiltration being employed to help them get across that ‘fire swept’ zone, British infantry now had a much better chance of surviving on the battlefield than they had the previous year.39

  Despite the tactical and technological sophistication with which the BEF now approached battle, considerable hurdles still remained to be cleared. Breaking into an enemy position could be achieved with a degree of certainty (particularly when compared with a year earlier), but serious questions were being asked about how far troops should go, and whether any large-scale breakthrough could ever be achieved. With the failure of Nivelle’s offensive, Pétain realigned the French Army towards the worship of heavy shellfire and slow, sure advances (so-called ‘Pétain tactics’), but the British never came to such a clear epiphany. Haig, for one, was never entirely happy with the French Commander-in-Chief and was always convinced that a breakthrough could be achieved, even if growing numbers of his subordinates, including numerous senior corps and army commanders, were much less sanguine about the prospects for such a climactic attack. This friction between limited and unlimited attacks would run through the entire history of the BEF on the Western Front.40

  Sir Henry Rawlinson, Fourth Army commander (and the man whom Haig had put in charge of a possible amphibious landing), was the leading advocate of so-called ‘bite-and-hold’ attacks. Echoing Pétain’s conclusions about renouncing large-scale offensives aiming to drive deep into the German line, Rawlinson felt the Army should fight in an avowedly attritional manner. Utilizing as much firepower as possible, they should conduct limited, ‘step-by-step’ operations to seize local points of tactical importance, ideally on high ground. Once these had been ‘bitten off’, the enemy would be compelled to counter-attack at a disadvantage, allowing the British to bring their artillery to bear and cause the enemy heavy losses. As early as 8 February 1915, Rawlinson had written that ‘If the Germans are to be defeated they must be beaten by a process of slow attrition, by a slow and gradual advance on our part, each step being prepared by a predominant artillery fire and great expenditure of ammunition.’41 Although at that time the amount of firepower required was simply not available, as an operational concept it was a revelation. The only problem was that Haig remained unconvinced. For him, ‘bite and hold’ could be no more than a temporary, limited response to conditions in the field. The breakthrough and the decisive offensive would always remain an article of faith and the essence of campaigning.

  Notwithstanding Haig’s natural aversion to ‘bite and hold’, the opening of the Arras offensive began with a series of well-planned, limited attacks. Because of the nature of the ground, and the absolute necessity of securing the Messines Ridge, Plumer would be allowed to do the same: to concentrate his combat power on a clear, definitive objective without going for an ‘all-out’ success.42 At Messines, the infantry and artillery would be coordinated into a set-piece attack that was timed to perfection. Firstly, Plumer’s mines would be blown, hopefully fatally weakening the German defence and allowing the infantry to seize their objectives. In the weeks preceding the attack, they were specially trained for the assault. Plumer wanted every man to know as much about his objectives as possible, so large-scale models and training grounds were constructed that allowed the troops of each battalion to familiarize themselves with their objectives and conduct exercises over them. Even if their officers became casualties, through the smoke and fire, the British soldier should still know what to do.43

  The attacking infantry would be supported by one of the most elaborate displays of firepower in the history of war. An eleven-day bombardment would soften up the defences along 17,000 yards of front, with Plumer’s guns eventually hurling a total of 3.5 million shells into the German positions. Following the explosion of the mines, all of Second Army’s artillery–over 2,000 barrels–would open fire simultaneously at Zero Hour, forming three lines of barrage fire that would obliterate what was left of the German front line. At the same time, heavier batteries would deluge all known enemy gun positions with concentrated shellfire, aiming to prevent any possible retaliation. As if that were not enough, Plumer also managed to get his hands on seventy-two Mark IV tanks, which would be parcelled out across the front and used against specially selected strongpoints, where their thick armour and 6-pounder guns would prove very useful should the advance be held up. As far as preparations went, it was remarkably impressive. Plumer–more than any other British commander on the Western Front–vowed to leave nothing to chance.44

  Time was now of the utmost importance. Nivelle’s operation had backfired spectacularly, but there were still enough months in the remainder of the campaigning season for one more major effort. Morale in Second Army headquarters at Cassel was excellent. Haig visited Plumer on 22 May and found him ‘in very good spirits now that his Second Army occupies the first place in our thoughts!’45 According to Plumer’s Chief of Staff, Tim Harington, when they received the go-ahead from GHQ, they became ‘full of hope’. ‘The Second Army had its chance at last. We were going to be tried out. It was a wonderful month. Everything we wanted we were given.’46 As they were speaking, the final elements of Plumer’s plan were clicking into place: the artillery bombardment had already begun softening up the enemy defences, while the assault troops were going over their final deployment orders. In the half-lig
ht of dawn on 7 June, the attack on Messines Ridge began. It would be the first part of Haig’s long-awaited Flanders campaign.

  3.

  ‘A Great Sea of Flames’

  A simple calculation of blood, iron and square kilometres.

  Werner Beumelburg1

  1–20 June 1917

  Shortly before three o’clock on the morning of 7 June, General Sir Herbert Plumer knelt by his bedside to pray. His staff had marched up to Cassel Hill, a short walk from their headquarters, to watch the mines being blown, but Plumer–a portly gentleman who had spent a lifetime soldiering–could not bring himself to join them. At that moment his thoughts were with his men in their trenches as they waited silently and anxiously for the moment to go. He was confident that the attack had been prepared as well as possible, but still needed some time for silent reflection. As Tim Harington later noted, Plumer was ‘a wonderful study in human nature. He treated the whole Army as a family’, putting all his success down to three fundamentals: trust, training and thoroughness. By the time it got light it was evident that the battle had gone well. News arrived that the first and second objectives had been captured.2

  Zero Hour was timed for 3.10 a.m. Captain Robert Cuthbert Grieve, commanding ‘A’ Company of 37/Battalion (3rd Australian Division), would never forget the exhilarating, yet deeply frightening moment when the mines were blown, as if some unholy, primeval force had been unleashed from deep within the planet:

  Then the whole earth was shaken by the effect of the mines. The trenches rocked and trembled and I fully expected that they would cave in–the whole surroundings right along the battle front were weirdly lit up by the flash from them. The largest mine on the front was close to us–containing 20 tons of gun cotton–so I will endeavour to describe the effect of this one. All were on the tip-toe of expectation for this one to be sprung. Our first warning that she was fired was by sounds like distant rumblings of thunder–then gradually getting closer–then directly to our front the earth was seen to be rising like a huge mushroom–suddenly to be flung into space with an awe-inspiring roar and the earth trembled–to me it appeared as if with mingled fear and relief–fear of the dread power she had stored in her bowels–relief because it had vented its fury and although she was sadly torn, its menace gone.3

  The mine blew a crater 300 feet wide and almost 100 feet deep, and as debris rained down, Grieve’s company went forward ‘like ants as they swarmed up the face of the hill’.

  In total, 80,000 men from three corps would make the assault: X Corps striking southeast against the northern shoulder of the ridge; IX Corps due east towards the village of Wytschaete; and II ANZAC Corps towards Messines on the southern edge. In the opening phases enemy resistance was light. A few scattered machine-guns rang out, but most of the enemy garrison had been either killed or stunned into submission by the violence of the onslaught. Although in places smoke, mist and clouds of gas reduced visibility and caused some dislocation, the attackers were able to seize the German front and support trenches without heavy loss. As the war diary of II ANZAC Corps noted: ‘The attack up to this point has proceeded with machine like precision. The creeping barrage of the artillery was preceded by a similar machine-gun barrage from 144 machine-guns… The combination of the two swept away the majority of the enemy opposition and enabled the infantry to capture their successive objectives at the time laid down.’ Enemy artillery fire was, on the contrary, ‘ragged and ill-directed’.4

  The battle may have seemed to run like clockwork to signallers and commanders in the rear, but at the front the experience of taking the ridge could be wildly disorientating. ‘Our trench rocked like a ship in a strong sea and it seemed as if the very earth had been rent asunder’, remembered Albert Johnson of 11/Royal West Kents (41st Division). ‘What passed in that journey across “no mans land” was only a passing vision of moving figures intent on gaining their objective, pausing only for a breather in a shell hole for the vicinity was as if an earthquake had passed over it so great had been the havoc wrought by our splendid artillery.’5 When Walter Guinness, Brigade Major of 74 Brigade (25th Division), went forward to try and find out where the attacking battalions were, he was forced to rely on a compass bearing because ‘the whole ground was changed’. ‘Trees and hedges, reduced to poles and sticks before, had now nearly disappeared, and the ground was like giant pumice stone, huge pits and craters up to ten feet deep. Streams of wounded walking back and a certain number of bewildered men wandering about not knowing where they were.’6

  Despite the ruin of the German defences on the ridge, the day was not without its disappointments. Because British and Dominion casualties had been much lighter than expected in the initial assault, by mid-morning large numbers of troops began to mass on the ridgeline, offering tempting targets for enemy observers watching from their rear positions. Soon hostile artillery fire, as well as long-range machine-guns, began to play on the newly won positions, forcing the British and Anzac troops to take cover wherever they could.7 While this was unfortunate, the German Army showed little appetite to retake the ridge. German defensive doctrine, which emphasized a series of swift and decisive counter-attacks, should have been applied vigorously before the British could consolidate their gains. However, because of tactical confusion and unrealistic assumptions about how long the German defences could be expected to hold in any attack, the Eingreif divisions were deployed too far back to make a decisive impact. When a few battalions did begin to approach the ridge later that day, heavy machine-guns and shellfire swiftly repulsed them.8

  By the evening of 7 June, Plumer’s corps had a firm hold on the Messines Ridge. Although fighting would continue for another week, and crowding on the crest meant that casualties had risen more than they otherwise would have done, the capture of Messines Ridge was a remarkable achievement–perhaps the finest example of a ‘bite-and-hold’ operation ever conducted–proving that, under the right conditions, the BEF could secure even the most heavily defended locations. A Second Army Intelligence Summary proclaimed that the ridge gave the German defenders ‘complete observation’ over the Ypres Salient from where they could overlook all the preparations for the attack. ‘The battle, therefore, was a gauge of the ability of German troops to stop our advance under conditions as favourable to them as an army can ever hope for, with every advantage of ground and preparation.’ Yet the ridge had fallen, and with it over 7,000 prisoners and 200 machine-guns.9 The anchor of the German defence in Flanders was now in their hands.

  The full horror of what happened to the German Army on 7 June 1917 has often not been fully realized. The few surviving accounts convey only a hazy impression of the murderous events that followed the explosion of Plumer’s mines. At Zero Hour, Lieutenant Eugen Reitinger of 17 Bavarian Infantry Regiment was in a concrete blockhouse just north of Messines when he heard ‘an almighty roar’ go up from the front line. Swiftly evacuating his position, he struggled outside to see a vision of Hell. The ridge was ‘enveloped in a great sea of flames’ with ‘fiery volcanoes and masses of earth’ erupting vertically into the sky ‘colouring it a blood red’. As tons of earth and rubble began to rain down, Reitinger came under heavy artillery bombardment, which scattered his unit. Shortly afterwards a runner, ragged and out of breath, came in from the front lines. He reported that III Battalion had been ‘blown sky high’. The defenders on this part of the front had largely ceased to exist.10

  The explosion of nineteen enormous mines–some containing up to 95,000 pounds of ammonal–under the Messines Ridge shocked even hardened observers.11 ‘The moral effect of the explosions was simply staggering’, wrote Ludendorff, ‘at several points our troops fell back before the onslaught of the enemy infantry. Powerful artillery fire penetrating the Wytschaete Salient hindered effective intervention by our reserves and the recovery of the position.’12 Years later veterans would still recall the shock of the mines going off in a flaming arc of destruction that crowned the ridge in plumes of choking smoke and dust. When the Ger
man Army Group commander Crown Prince Rupprecht saw the battlefield he was appalled by what faced him: ‘All around Messines’, he noted sadly, ‘the ground was said to have been covered by the bodies of Bavarian soldiers.’13 German casualties were over 23,000, most being sustained in the initial explosive earthquake that blew their positions sky high.14

  For German commanders in Flanders, there was a palpable sense of shock. Although their men–those who had not been vaporized in the explosions–fought with determination, they could not prevent the ridge from falling within five hours and giving General Plumer a signal victory. Albrecht von Thaer, Chief of Staff to XIX Saxon Corps, heard the mines go off while at Douai and thought it must have been an accident, perhaps a munitions depot catching fire. When he was told the news, he was appalled:

  Nineteen craters are said to have appeared within a second, right next to one another that were so big and deep that a five-storey block of flats would have fitted inside each one. Whatever living things had been alive there were dead in the moment of this terrible explosion. The English rushed straight ahead after this to the offensive and made a good deal of ground because the defenders had, of course, been wiped out.

  When Thaer was summoned to Fourth Army headquarters at Courtrai four days later, he found an atmosphere bordering on panic. Major Stapff, Chief of Staff at Sixth Army, usually ‘a reliable and intelligent man’, was now ‘quite agitated and nervous, and also uncertain about what he should do towards OHL concerning requirements for new troops and new material which, as is well known, one never gets by oneself but always needs to fight for’.15