by Nick Lloyd
Fortunately for the German Army, the BEF was not in any position to follow up the Messines operation with another major attack. By 14 June Plumer’s forces had consolidated their positions and chased off the evacuating German divisions, but had gone little further. Haig’s decision to opt for a new commander to lead the second stage of the operation meant that there would be no rapid breakout. For the dazed German commanders, the failure of the British to properly exploit the shock of Messines was curious. At his headquarters in Courtrai, Crown Prince Rupprecht fully expected the operations on 7 June to mark the start of a major British push around Ypres, particularly against the Tower Hamlets Ridge, one mile to the west of the village of Gheluvelt. Had this high ground been attacked, the British would have had excellent observation over the entire sector north of the Menin Road, which would have made German movements increasingly difficult.16 On 12 June, he confided to his diary that a further British offensive was ‘certain’: it would be aimed at freeing the Belgian coast, probably with a landing from the sea. But, much to Rupprecht’s relief, nothing happened, which gave the Germans a priceless opportunity to bring reinforcements into the line.17
Despite the carnage at Messines, the Ypres Salient had not yet acquired a particularly dark reputation among German soldiers (unlike their wearied enemy). On the contrary, many of those who travelled to Flanders did so with a sense of relief, at least when compared to the other destinations they could have been deployed to: Verdun, the Somme or Artois. Johann Schärdel travelled with his unit (6th Bavarian Reserve Division) to Becelaere, southeast of Zonnebeke, and was favourably impressed with their new surroundings:
We came from the fighting of the Battle of Arras, which was already drawing to a close when we were deployed but whose final attacks we yet had to await and survive. Now we were lying a long way behind the front line as an army reserve in the beautiful, green Flanders, in this beautiful country with its clean towns and friendly people, its countless shady copses, its pleasant landscape of alternating fields and meadows, its scattered farms, its wide and cobbled roads that ran straight with endless avenues of cottonwood poplars through the countryside, all the way to the horizon. Such a peaceful picture, the tranquillity of which was heightened further by the still waters of the canals and the peaceful turning of the sails of the wind mills, so that one could have nearly forgotten the enormity of war, if one didn’t have to practise ‘warcraft’ every day, and if the thunder and roar of the front wasn’t booming across the distance, always warning and threatening.18
Schärdel’s men enjoyed themselves in a landscape they felt was much friendlier than their previous tour in French Artois. Flowers bloomed in the windows; the Flemish language sounded happily familiar to German; and trips to Ghent allowed his men to drink beer in the estaminets and pick up ‘loose women’ in the side streets.
Others were equally pleased at being sent to this corner of the Western Front. ‘From our observation point, we see the old town of Ypres directly ahead’, wrote Reinhard Lewald, whose battery was deployed northeast of Gheluvelt. ‘We find a nice dry meadow and pitch our tents. With the beautiful weather, life is glorious’, he recorded. ‘The constant fighting is very lively here. The English have taken our front positions after extensive blasting.’ Lewald’s main task was to disrupt or destroy the enemy gun batteries that were beginning to crowd into the Salient. Every day they would fire around 100 shells, assisted by aircraft observation and balloon reports, and had ‘good success’ with the regular blowing-up of the ammunition dumps that dotted the landscape. Everyone expected a major attack to come soon.19
By June 1917 the balance of forces on the Western Front was delicately poised, without significant advantage to either side. Combined, the British and French Armies could muster 175 divisions (including small Belgian and Portuguese contingents), while the German Army in the west totalled 156 divisions (with another eighty in the east). In reality, the numerical advantage possessed by the Allies was probably greater than a mere nineteen divisions on paper. British divisions (sixty-two in total) were considerably stronger than their German equivalents (by around a third), and could count on an almost unlimited amount of ammunition, more machine-guns and significantly better food. In artillery the Allies possessed still further superiority, with over 7,300 guns opposed to 4,800.20 Nevertheless, whatever advantages the Allies possessed in men and guns was more than countered by the inherent professionalism and coherency of the German Army, and the natural strength of its defensive position across the Western Front.
In Flanders, the Germans could boast a formidable series of defensive lines that ruled out any prospect of a swift Allied breakthrough. As the northern extension of the famed Hindenburg Line, three so-called ‘Flanders Lines’ had been constructed in the winter of 1916–17. Beginning at the outskirts of Lille and continuing through Flanders up to the coast between Ostend and Middelkerke, the Flanders Lines provided a firm foundation for any defensive campaign in this sector. Although they had not been fully completed–the rearmost line, Flanders III, had only just been surveyed–the Germans judged (correctly) that should the Allies attack, they would have enough time to strengthen it before it was breached. Nevertheless, the German High Command realized that if their armies were to retreat even a relatively short distance on this sector, it would be much more difficult, if not impossible, to hold on to the Belgian ports and the key railway junction at Roulers. Therefore, following the strike at Messines, the German defences needed to be bolstered at all costs.
By June, the ground between Flanders I (which ran from the high ground in front of Passchendaele, along to Broodseinde and down to Gheluvelt) and the British front line was rapidly being converted into a further series of defensive zones, thickly forested with concrete gun emplacements and battery positions. As well as the main defences opposite the British trenches, a second line had been dug (the Albrecht Line), and a third went from Zandvoorde up to Zonnebeke and beyond (the Wilhelm position). Each one was a fortified zone between 2,000 and 3,000 yards deep, with the front line being held by relatively few troops, and reserves echeloned in depth and out of range of most British guns.21 One witness noted how they were ‘in some places concreted trenches, elsewhere strongly revetted with high hurdlework held in position by strong timbers or stakes firmly driven into the ground’. The machine-gun emplacements were all made of reinforced concrete shaped into pillboxes. In places small tramways had been built right up to the front line, which offered an invaluable method of bringing up supplies.22
The plan, as it had been drawn up by OHL, was to conduct the defensive battle according to the principles that had been proven during the spring. ‘An opponent who has advanced over the weakly occupied front line should use up his strength on the opposition which gets stronger after the front-line trenches have been taken, and is then thrown back again by troops who have been held ready behind it.’ Furthermore:
With the enemy’s great superiority in numbers, particularly in artillery, you have to expect loss of ground. To restrict it to a minimum, however, was especially necessary as the distance to the Belgian ports was only slight. There was, therefore, diligent work carried out on the extension of rear emplacements, as well as on the construction of defensive walls between the emplacements, even if with limited manpower, in order to prevent the lateral exploitation of any breakthroughs. A new operational emplacement system was explored to the rear of the fortified zones, which were already in existence or under construction.23
At OHL, Ludendorff knew they needed more than new defences; they needed someone who could pull it all together. He ordered Colonel Friedrich Karl ‘Fritz’ von Lossberg (then serving with the Sixth Army) to report immediately to General Sixt von Armin’s Fourth Army, which held the front in Flanders. Lossberg had long been known as a tactical expert in defensive warfare in the German Army and was often sent, like a travelling salesman, to units which the High Command felt would benefit from his advice.24 On the morning of 13 June, Lossberg drove to Fourth A
rmy Headquarters and met his new commanding officer. As a corps commander on the Somme, Armin had ‘acquitted himself splendidly as a superior leader’, and he immediately welcomed Lossberg to his headquarters. He was convinced that the British and French were both preparing ‘a mighty full-scale attack’ against his army and there was much to do.25
Fourth Army was split into five groups (essentially equivalent to a British corps), which were named after their respective sectors: Lille; Wytschaete; Ypres; Dixmude; and Nord.26 The most important zones were in the central section of the line around the Salient: Groups Wytschaete and Ypres. Here von Armin could rely on seasoned troops and experienced subordinates. Commanded by Major-General Karl Dieffenbach–a long-serving Rhinelander who had spent most of the war on the Eastern Front–Group Wytschaete held the front from Warneton to Bellewaarde Lake and was built around IX Reserve Corps, with five divisions in the front line. To the north was Group Ypres, commanded by Major-General Freiherr von Stein, a gifted artillery officer who had entered the Bavarian Army in 1879. His three front-line divisions were part of III Bavarian Corps and were dug in all the way to the village of Langemarck. Behind them lay five counter-attacking divisions–essential if the defence-in-depth plan was to work.27
After a long talk with von Armin, Lossberg (who was now acting as his Chief of Staff) contacted OHL and requested a reinforcement of operational staff, who were in short supply. These men would be needed to manage the coming battle–a request that Ludendorff soon granted. Lossberg then drove out to the front and met a number of senior officers in the line, including most of the divisional commanders in Fourth Army. He had last been to Flanders in the autumn of 1914 and immediately began reacquainting himself with this sector. Kneeling down by the side of the road, he examined the soil, the mixture of sand and clay breaking apart in his hands. Lossberg knew how important the ground would be in the coming battle:
The Flemish soil consists of a very soft and fertile humus layer, which reaches as far as 1 to 3 metres below the earth’s surface. Under the deep layer of soil lies an impermeable layer of clay of around a metre thick. If this is broken up by the effect of the artillery, then the groundwater wells up and fills the shell holes up to the top with water. Almost all the emplacements that have been built here had to be mounted on the humus layer, and thus were easily recognizable for the enemy. With continuing dry weather, the topsoil becomes very hard. Then the attacker finds favourable conditions. In heavy rain, which often occurs in Flanders, the humus layer changes into a swamp-like pulp. Then the defender has the advantage.28
Lossberg spent most of the night working out the number of divisions and guns he would need to hold the front, requests that OHL was able to grant without difficulty. Despite the urgent requirements that needed to be taken in hand, he was confident the German position would hold.
There is little doubt that Lossberg’s arrival galvanized the German defence in Flanders. Albrecht von Thaer, for one, was delighted. He was absolutely certain that a ‘decisive battle’ was now imminent in Flanders and that something needed to be done to reorganize the German defence. Despite ‘never-ending work’, he was pleased that Lossberg was now in place. ‘The fact that Lossberg is our chief really is a blessing for the situation as I see it’, he felt. ‘He really is a devil of a brave man, a first-class worker. Everyone trusts him. He impresses the commanding generals and from the Supreme Command he gets what is required in terms of troops, artillery and munitions.’29 Thaer found himself being transferred from the Saxon Corps to IX Reserve Corps, which held the front southeast of Ypres. In any coming offensive, this ground would be of the greatest importance.
At his headquarters in Courtrai, Lossberg lost no time in getting ready. He demanded an improvement in his communications network and made sure that all his artillery brigades and aerodromes were linked up to the higher command posts and plugged into his small office. ‘This network covered thousands of kilometres’, he boasted. ‘Its existence had truly proved its worth in the Battle of Flanders. From my desk, I could speak to all field commanders, divisions, artillery brigades and aerodromes at the same time by plugging the lines together. The individual departments of the army staff were always connected in such conversations, listening in, and then acting according to my orders, which I had discussed in advance with the Supreme Commander of the Army.’ With every day that passed, Lossberg–a man who buzzed with urgency and energy–was given more time to complete his arrangements: like a chess player lining up his pieces for the perfect defence.
General Sir Hubert Gough’s headquarters moved up to the front on 1 June. He occupied the chateau at La Lovie, a few miles north of Poperinge, where he would remain for the duration of the battle. Neither Gough nor his staff were particularly fond of their new home. It was ‘an ugly red building’ only redeemed by the large gardens where a forest of tents and Nissen huts were erected for the growing Fifth Army staff. Unfortunately, there was a large pond in the grounds, which would have been a perfect aiming point for German bombers had the chateau been targeted with any determination.30 Soon after their arrival, rumours began circulating that the residents (a Belgian count and his family) were secretly in touch with the enemy, which explained why the house was never hit (in a landscape almost entirely flattened by shellfire). According to Gough, ‘I do not believe there was a word of truth in these stories, though it remained a mystery to me why and how the chateau escaped destruction.’31
Sir Hubert Gough was a 46-year-old cavalryman whose family had one of the most illustrious pedigrees in the British Army: his father, uncle and brother had all won the Victoria Cross.32 Gough was, by some considerable margin, the youngest army commander in the BEF, and had enjoyed an impressive rise since the outbreak of war. A deeply self-confident man who could, in turns, be witty and charming or petty and vindictive, Gough was, sadly, a limited soldier. He had suffered the curse of over-promotion and by the summer of 1917 Fifth Army had acquired an unhealthy–if not entirely undeserved–reputation for the carelessness with which it prepared attacks, which was often contrasted with the detailed care and attention that Plumer’s Second Army took with its operations. Nevertheless, Gough’s instinctive aggression and his reputation as a ‘thruster’ meant that Haig looked kindly upon him.
The decision to give command of the main attack to Gough has long been regarded as one of Haig’s cardinal mistakes.33 It was not that Gough was an incompetent officer; he was, on the contrary, a hard-fighting soldier who had earned plaudits for his handling of the attack on the Ancre in November 1916. The problem was that Gough lacked the in-depth knowledge of the ground (as compared to Plumer) and never convinced subordinates that he had the necessary touch to command such a large operation. Moreover, Gough suffered from ‘an incomplete grasp of the realities of battle’ and cultivated a ‘climate of fear’ among his subordinates.34 His performance at Bullecourt had further heightened concerns that he was not up to the job. Australian troops, who had been thrown into the battle and suffered severely, always regarded Gough with suspicion afterwards. Charles Bean, the Australian official historian, criticized the Fifth Army commander for his ‘almost boyish eagerness to deliver a death blow’ to the German Army at Bullecourt. ‘He attempted a deep penetration on a narrow front’, thus breaking ‘at every stage through [sic] rules recognised even by platoon commanders’.35 It would have to be seen how Gough would approach the much more formidable task in front of him at Ypres.
Gough did his best. He was out every day, usually spending up to twelve hours away from La Lovie roaming the lines. On horseback he would visit the units that comprised Fifth Army: engineers or gunners, infantry or signallers, and impress upon the officers the importance of working together. ‘If you do that, you’ll learn how to help one another when the battle begins’ was a remark he often repeated.36 Gough was usually accompanied by his Chief of Staff, Neill Malcolm, and together they angled for a better view of the battlefield. Unfortunately, most of the German positions lay on the reverse slope of
the ridgelines, meaning that they were invisible from the British sector. Binoculars in hand they trotted up and down the front working out how they could seize the high ground, while feeding in the intelligence reports they received every day. Fifth Army’s orders were to secure the Passchendaele Ridge and the crucial Roulers–Torhout railway line, thus facilitating an amphibious assault at Ostend, which would allow for the ‘possession of the Belgian coast’.37 But how was this to be achieved? For Haig the attack would be a decisive one: a smashing blow that would unhinge the German right flank, secure the coast, and perhaps even prompt a general advance all across the line. While Gough understood this, he recognized that such an objective could only be achieved in a number of bounds, and although he was certainly more sanguine about his prospects than either Plumer or Rawlinson had been, his plans were still more methodical than Haig would have liked. The stage was thus set for an attack plan riven with contradictions, overseen by a commander unsure of his goal.38
Meanwhile, British strategy remained as torn as ever. Five days after the stunning blow at Messines, Haig prepared a memorandum on his future plans for the War Cabinet in London–the first time Lloyd George and his colleagues had been given a detailed insight into the projected Flanders operation. Good progress was being achieved, Haig stressed, and should he receive the numbers of drafts and guns he had requested, then success at Ypres would be more likely. He considered that any operation intended to improve the line would probably counterbalance the natural wastage that a sector like Ypres tended to produce. Therefore, plans for his so-called ‘northern operation’ were being pushed ahead with all possible speed, although these would naturally take some time to mature. At this point he reminded the War Cabinet of how the ‘endurance of the German nation is being tested so severely that discontent there has already assumed formidable proportions’. According to his sources, the German Army was already showing ‘unmistakeable signs of deterioration’. If Britain were to relax its pressure now, then ‘waning hope’ in Germany would be revived, with a correspondingly depressing effect on the morale of France. However, if they were to concentrate their resources, ‘great results’ could be obtained that summer–‘results which make final victory more assured and which may even bring it within reach this year’.39