by Nick Lloyd
Haig’s optimism, his dogged and continuing belief that victory was just around the corner, was always one of his chief flaws as a commander. While an unquenchable belief in victory is essential to any soldier, with Haig this tended to overwhelm a more objective and reasoned appreciation of what could be achieved in any given situation.40 Some of the blame for this has landed on the shoulders of his Head of Intelligence, John Charteris (pronounced ‘Charters’), who, it was alleged, was a spineless ‘yes man’, feeding his boss with endless fantastic accounts of how close the Allies were to victory. Lieutenant-Colonel J. F. C. Fuller, a staff officer at the Tank Corps, called Charteris ‘a hale and hearty back-slapping fellow, as optimistic as Candide, who conjured forth resounding victories… like rabbits from a hat’.41 The reality, however, was more prosaic. While Charteris’s reports certainly emphasized evidence of German decline, Haig was his own man; and his notorious over-confidence–reinforced by a powerful sense of religious destiny–was embedded deep within his soul. As he continued to monitor the preparations for his ‘northern offensive’, Haig became convinced that the climactic moment in the war had arrived and that he would be able to deliver the coup de grâce.42
Yet few shared Haig’s optimism. On 2 June Major Neville Lytton, Press Liaison Officer at GHQ, briefed Haig on the attitude of French newspaper correspondents towards the war and made it clear how deep a ‘feeling of despondency’ had taken root. Further bad news arrived later that evening when Major-General Eugène Debeney (Pétain’s Chief of Staff) visited Haig’s chateau at Beaurepaire. He had brought with him a letter from Pétain, saying that he had been entrusted to put the ‘whole situation’ of the French Army before Haig. According to Debeney, French soldiers were dissatisfied and unhappy at their lot, meaning that many had to be sent on leave immediately. Unfortunately, this would prevent Pétain from making his attack on 10 June, which could not be conducted for another month. Although the word ‘mutiny’ was never used, the grim look on Debeney’s face told its own story, leaving Haig to draw his own conclusions about how much French support he could really count on.43
Both Lytton and Debeney may have brought bad news, but Haig did not see any reason to reconsider his plans for the remainder of 1917. Indeed, if anything it simply confirmed to him that it was essential to win a major victory to revive flagging morale. A day before Haig had sent off his memorandum on future plans, Charteris had written an appreciation of the situation that buttressed his chief’s arguments in detail. German casualties were enormous, he reported, not less than 250,000 per month, and the morale of her troops was ‘very markedly’ worse than it had been in 1916. Germany was, he prophesied, within 4–6 months of being unable to maintain her present strength in the field, and should fighting continue at its present intensity, ‘then Germany may well be forced to conclude a peace on our terms before the end of the year’.44 Such was the buoyant frame of mind that Haig took with him when he travelled to London to attend a meeting of the War Cabinet on 19 June.
Haig’s rosy appreciation of the situation contrasted sharply to the growing scepticism, even depression, spreading through Whitehall. The morale of the British Army remained good, but all was not well at home and war-weariness was more evident with every month that passed. Between 30 April and 12 May industrial unrest swept the country as over 200,000 workers went on strike over fears of further so-called ‘dilution’ of private work.45 The mood was worsened by the intensification of aerial warfare against Britain’s capital. Between 25 May and 1 October, London and the southeast of England were subjected to a renewed German bombing campaign. The great dirigibles, the ‘Zeppelins’, had been the primary aerial threat to England since 1914, but the decision by the German Air Service to place its faith in large, twin-engined bombers known as ‘Gothas’, marked a new stage in the air war. On 13 June the most lethal air raid on London since the beginning of the war took place–with eighteen Gothas crossing the English Channel and scattering bombs across a wide area. In all, the raid caused over £125,000 worth of damage, killed 162 and wounded over 400 Londoners, including scores of children at a school in Poplar where a 50kg bomb exploded in a classroom.46 The shock across London was palpable. When the War Cabinet met on the afternoon of the raid, it was agreed to increase the number of RFC squadrons and pour more resources into home defence.47
Despite the darkening scene, Haig’s undiminished enthusiasm was on display when he arrived in London. Beforehand, Robertson had warned him to be careful and not to promise more than he could deliver. Lloyd George, said Robertson, was convinced that the war could be won from Italy and wanted twelve divisions and 300 heavy guns sent immediately. However, Robertson assured Haig that as long as he was CIGS, this would never happen. Furthermore:
What I do wish to impress on you is this: Don’t argue that you can finish the war this year, or that the German is already beaten. Argue that your plan is the best plan–as it is–that no other would even be safe let alone decisive, and then leave them to reject your advice and mine. They dare not do that.48
This was typical of Robertson. He may have been a staunch ‘westerner’ who believed that victory could only be achieved in France, but he was never an uncritical devotee of Haig. Like a number of other senior British commanders, he always favoured the ‘bite-and-hold’ approach to operations and naturally veered away from the full-blooded optimism that frequently swept through Haig’s GHQ like a summer fever. Nevertheless, his instinctive aversion to politicians and civilians, particularly intriguers like Lloyd George, meant that he tried to present a unified front, feeling that he had little choice but to support Haig and his plans, even if, now and again, he sent guarded hints to GHQ about not trying to go for ambitious breakthroughs.
What Haig thought of Robertson’s periodic interventions remains unclear. He had a habit of dismissing uncomfortable information and would have probably chalked it up, not as a piece of sage and prudent advice, but as a further indication of Robertson’s unsoundness of mind. Indeed, it might have reinforced Haig’s growing belief that the CIGS needed to go. While he was in London he even met with Lloyd George to discuss the possibility of moving Robertson to the Admiralty.49 Thus Robertson found himself in a dangerous no-man’s-land: between a Prime Minister who made no secret of his frustrations with the CIGS and a Commander-in-Chief who was equally sensitive to anything he perceived as not being total, unqualified support. Robertson, as he had always done, simply got on with it as best he could, ploughing his lone furrow in Westminster; a warrior without an army.
In London the scene was now set for what Hankey called ‘a regular battle royal’.50 Haig opened proceedings and explained how his forces were going to clear the Belgian coast. Now that the Messines Ridge had been secured, Gough’s Fifth Army, assisted by French and Belgian forces (as well as Plumer’s Second Army), was to push on to the Passchendaele–Staden Ridge. This would be the first step in a progressive offensive and might, as Haig admitted, ‘entail very hard fighting perhaps lasting for weeks’. Nevertheless, once this had been achieved, Gough would attack northeastwards towards Thourout, while a further operation would drive the enemy from Nieuport on the coast (in combination with naval and amphibious forces). The offensive would then be directed towards Ostend and Bruges, with the possibility that an opportunity for the use of ‘cavalry in masses’ might appear. Haig was confident that the ‘general situation’ was such that the results of any offensive might exceed expectations and result in ‘great developments’ in the war.51 Moreover, the Field Marshal stressed that ‘now was the favourable moment’ and that all efforts must be made to defeat the German Army. Flourishing Charteris’s report, Haig claimed that ‘Germany was within 6 months of the total exhaustion of her available manpower, if the fighting continues at its present intensity.’52
For Lloyd George, fidgeting in his chair, this was exactly what he did not want to hear. Admittedly, he had been impressed with Messines, but felt that the idea of a major offensive in Flanders needed very careful considerat
ion. He never forgave Haig for demonstrating his plans on a relief map of the Western Front, with his hands sketching out how far his forces would advance: ‘first the right hand brushing along the surface irresistibly, and then came the left, his outer finger ultimately touching the German frontier with the nail across’.53 At a War Policy Committee meeting on 21 June, the Prime Minister outlined his objections to the scheme, including the low chances of success given the slender superiority of Allied to German manpower (barely 15 per cent), the equality in numbers of guns, and the unlikelihood of significant French support. Failure would ‘be a very serious business’, he grumbled. If they were unable to clear the Belgian coast, perhaps making an advance of ‘only’ seven or eight miles (while suffering heavy casualties), then ‘the effect would be very bad throughout the world’. In his opinion, success would require ‘overwhelming’ force, a strong diversionary operation and a significant collapse in the enemy’s morale; conditions that he believed were nowhere close to being fulfilled. Furthermore, what possible reason, he asked, was there for believing they could achieve more than they had on the Somme, when it had taken five months to gain five or six miles? ‘Yet, our military advisers were just as sanguine then as they were now.’54
There was no doubt that clearing the Belgian coast would be a strategic prize of the highest order. The First Sea Lord, Admiral Jellicoe, pressed for some kind of ground operation, telling the War Cabinet that there was no use making plans for 1918 because ‘we cannot go on’. Although few shared the Admiral’s pessimism about the U-boat campaign, it added further weight to Haig’s contention that his was the best plan to adopt.55 The question was whether, as Lord Milner conceded, ‘it was worth the risk involved, and the losses which would be incurred’.56 In the end, Lloyd George blinked first. He had no wish ‘to take the strategy of the War out of the hands of their military advisers’. If, after having taken into consideration the views of the Cabinet, the generals still ‘adhered to their previous opinion, then the responsibility for their advice must rest with them’. Robertson and Haig were left to mull over Lloyd George’s appeal, while considering three points: whether ‘more active cooperation’ could be gained from the French; the feasibility of an attack on the Italian Front; and the ‘possibility and desirability of asking the French to send guns to Italy’.57
When the War Policy Committee reconvened on 25 June, little had changed. Lloyd George tried to open up fissures between Robertson and Haig, asking pointedly whether the CIGS shared Haig’s views on the likelihood of the ‘northern operation’ being a success. Robertson seemed to blanch at this, but eventually held firm. Results would depend on circumstances out of his control, and although he admitted to using ‘deliberately guarded language’, he believed Haig’s plan was ‘the best course to adopt’–thus staying loyal to his entreaty to Haig that they must remain united. Lloyd George tried again, asking whether Robertson’s views in Paris the previous month (that unless the French ‘put in the whole of their strength’ the British should not act alone) were now inconsistent with his current position, but Robertson refused to bite. In Paris they had committed to continue the offensive on the Western Front with the ‘whole of the forces’ available. ‘Without fighting’, Robertson added wearily, ‘we would never win the war.’ At this point Lloyd George relented. Haig was permitted to continue his preparations for the time being, while renewed pressure was to be placed on the French Government to do all it could to cooperate with Haig’s plans.58 It was an unsatisfactory situation from all sides: Haig returned from London feeling somewhat battered; while Lloyd George squirmed frantically as the strategic straitjacket closed around him–one moreover that he lacked the strength of will to break out of.
4.
‘Have We Time to Accomplish?’
Never has an army been so ready to fight a defensive battle. The troops and divisional commanders face it full of confidence.
Fritz von Lossberg1
21 June–15 July 1917
‘The longest day of the year, and we have not yet even begun the really big effort’, lamented John Charteris at GHQ. It was 21 June 1917; almost three years to the day since Gavrilo Princip, a Serbian terrorist, had assassinated the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, in the backstreets of Sarajevo. Every evening Charteris would stand outside his office and smoke, listening to the wind in the trees and the frequent birdsong, which was accompanied, as always, by the eternal rumbling of artillery fire at the front. Now, sadly, the endless summery nights began to draw in as the year turned and thoughts fell on the prospect of another winter at war; another winter in the damp, open trenches at the front. It was a sober and unwelcome reminder of the misfortune that had hampered the Allied war effort and of their hopes for victory that seemed to flicker and threaten to die out; a guttering candle surrounded only by darkness.
‘Six months ago I thought by this time we should have been near peace’, Charteris wrote. He was depressed at the prospects of the war not ending any time soon:
Now it looks as if nothing can prevent another full year of war. In six weeks the ‘three years’ that seemed the extreme possible limit will be passed. Except that America is now with us we are not much better off than, if as well as, we were this time last year. Then, as now, we were getting ready for a big attack, but then, Russia was still hopeful and France was fighting well. Now Russia is out of the picture, and so, for the time being, is France. We cannot hope for much from Italy. The Dardanelles venture is dead. Salonika is useless, worse than useless indeed. Mesopotamia does not matter either way. We fight alone here, the only army active.
Despite the all-encompassing gloom, Charteris remained confident in the fighting ability of Britain’s forces. ‘We shall do well, of that there is no reasonable doubt.’ Yet one thing nagged away at him. ‘Have we time to accomplish?’2
It had been two weeks since Plumer’s stunning strike at Messines; two weeks since Crown Prince Rupprecht had lamented the horrifying sight of Bavarian soldiers lying scattered around the battlefield, killed by the explosion of a million pounds of high explosive. Yet there was still no Flanders offensive, and in the hot June weather some could be forgiven for thinking there was no war on. One of Fifth Army’s liaison officers was the artist Paul Maze, who spent his days studying the ground and sketching the positions they were to attack. Every day he would lie ‘hidden among the poppies’ and stare out across the Flanders landscape: from the Passchendaele Ridge on the right, to the ‘heroic remnants’ of Ypres, behind him, with its medieval Cloth Hall (which looked ‘like a birthday cake after the guests have had their share’). Despite the great damage Ypres had sustained from earlier fighting–as well as being a perfect aiming point for German gunners–Maze thought the town ‘impressively strong and undaunted’. ‘Its aspect constantly changed with the varying light. Sometimes it would be a grey mass of walls, like a huge crypt; at other times every house took on a prominence and came out with a distinctness that threw the surrounding landscape into secondary place.’3
In view of how bad the weather would be in late July and August the delay between the attack at Messines and the beginning of the main offensive would have significant repercussions. Henry Rawlinson had originally recommended a pause of only two or three days between the two phases, just enough time to move the guns and register new targets, but in total it would be nearly eight weeks. It took time for Gough to organize his forces and plan his attack, and the addition of Anthoine’s French troops on the left delayed things even further. At La Lovie, Gough watched, with growing unease, the increase in German strength opposite him. Not only were more German air squadrons being encountered by the RFC, but the number of enemy divisions his intelligence was spotting also began to grow disconcertingly. Gough could do little else but emphasize the importance of camouflage and deception to his subordinates, while comforting himself that the German reinforcement was ‘in accordance with Haig’s strategical idea of compelling the Germans to concentrate’ against them r
ather than the French.4
Gradually the offensive began to take shape. By late June Gough had devised a plan that, he hoped, would allow for a swift and decisive push out of the Ypres Salient. The file he received from GHQ envisaged an advance, during the first day, of about a mile. This would be just enough to capture the German second line, before a further advance–perhaps one or two days later–was made on to the Gheluvelt Plateau on the right. Once this had been secured, operations would then resume in the centre, pushing further eastwards past the Steenbeek and on to the Passchendaele Ridge. After being briefed by Haig (who was very clear about the need to break out of the Salient), Gough redrew these plans to take account of this more ambitious approach. Another objective was added–out to the German third line–and, should that be achieved, his troops would then march on to a fourth objective, another mile eastwards towards the main ridge at Broodseinde. After a pause for several days, the offensive would be renewed towards the apex of the Salient, and then out on to the coast.5
In order to achieve this, Gough put all four of his corps into the line, from left to right along an eight-mile section of front, hoping to spread German defences and guns across his whole sector. He was concerned that if he concentrated his men and guns for a push towards Gheluvelt, this would make it easier for the enemy to contain his advance. At a series of conferences on 26 June, Gough went over many of the key aspects of the operation, including the sequence of objectives and the all-important artillery support. There would be three stages to the attack. The first (the Blue Line) was about 1,000 yards into the German position and included the villages of Hooge and Verlorenhoek. The second (the Black Line) was another 1,000 yards in and ran up to Westhoek, Frezenberg and Pilckem. The final objective (the Green Line) lay about 1,500 yards further on, out towards Polygon Wood and Saint-Julien. Should this ground be taken, Gough then recommended a further advance up to Broodseinde (the Red Line). This took the total advance, should everything go well, up to 5,000 yards–nearly three miles into the German position.6