by Nick Lloyd
On the crucial southern sector, things were much more satisfactory, and the Eingreif divisions proved their effectiveness once again. Shortly after 9 a.m. three regiments of 12th Reserve Division launched a counter-attack against the 16th and 36th Divisions, which had made only precarious advances towards their objectives. Because the RFC had been unable to spot the Germans as they assembled, the exhausted Irishmen were taken by surprise when columns of enemy infantry came up over the Zonnebeke Spur and overran their forward positions. Within an hour, most of the advance parties had been killed or pushed back to their original starting line.20 Despite their success, the Eingreif divisions seem to have encountered similar problems to 31 July–namely a lack of information about their objectives and a difficulty in moving forward. A junior officer, Schmidt (who was serving with the reserve regiment of 5th Bavarian Division), left a description of what happened that afternoon. ‘Nothing is known from the front’, he wrote. ‘Scant and muddled news of the injured is flowing in. Where is the battalion now? Has the counter-attack been successful?’ Eventually an advance was ordered:
There is a hellfire across the whole terrain. Building a telephone wire is futile. There is no visibility for transmitting a message by signal lamp. But something needs to happen… We run like lunatics between the house-high mushrooms of exploded shells. Where are we now? Keep on going; it’s definitely the right direction. We are bound to come across Germans or Tommies. Behind a hedge in a somewhat less flame-ridden stretch we catch our breath. We need to orientate ourselves! We have to make sure that we continue in a westerly direction! Out of the sheaf of fire!
They managed to reach their I Battalion, the field-grey soldiers strung out along the Wilhelm Stellung–the third German line–which was again under heavy shellfire, where they lay in support. That day Schmidt’s regiment captured three officers and 157 men of 36th Division. As the Ulstermen were being shepherded to the rear, he found an officer crouching in a ditch, unable to move. ‘His round, watery blue eyes in his clean-shaven face speak in wonderment at how quickly it has all happened.’ They took the officer with them and a few minutes later found out that the counter-attack had been successful.21
Air and artillery support had been crucial to the defensive effort. Jagdgeschwader 1 shot down sixteen enemy aircraft that day, including the fifty-eighth victim of Manfred von Richthofen, who came upon a flight of Nieuport Scouts during a routine patrol. ‘After a long chase, I attacked an opponent and after a short fight I shot up his engine and fuel tank.’ The aircraft–piloted by Second Lieutenant W. H. T. Williams of 29 Squadron–went into a spin and crashed somewhere over Houthulst Forest, at the northern edge of the battlefield.22 On the ground, German guns fired off a ‘tremendous’ number of shells, which the historian Werner Beumelburg credited for their dogged resistance. He estimated that over 269,000 shells had been fired by German batteries on 16 August. If the British are presumed to have used about double that, then the total number of shells on that day alone would have exceeded all those fired in the entire Franco-Prussian War of 1870–71.23 With only nine trains in reserve for the entire Army Group, Crown Prince Rupprecht was understandably concerned at whether they could keep this kind of profligacy up. Yet the line, or what was left of it, held. When Rupprecht saw some English prisoners, they told him that they would prefer it if their own officers had been shot, rather than go through the slaughter!24
One of those involved in the artillery battle was Reinhard Lewald, who returned to his battery on 9 August. He had recently attended a three-week shooting course at Maubeuge, and was not looking forward to coming back into the Salient. His battery position was ‘not exactly brilliant’:
Two guns are at a shattered homestead on the eastern edge of the Hollebusch [a forested area north of Becelaere]. The third gun is about 200 metres forward of Hollebusch itself. We cannot dig stands or ammunition stores in the earth, because we immediately hit groundwater. The area is so marshy, in the continuous rain, that we need to perpetually improve the route to the battery with stones to get the ammunition in and to pull out the guns. The battery is not yet detected by the enemy, but the whole area is under fire day and night from evil explosive shells, which is very unpleasant for us in our meagre accommodation of corrugated iron huts.25
On 16 August the battery fired as many shells as the barrels would stand. ‘The enemy has suffered terrible losses’, Lewald wrote. By that afternoon the British had spotted his guns and were directing heavy counter-battery fire against them, so he ordered his men to pull out temporarily in order to escape the worst of it. When they returned later on, they found a cratered, smoking mess. ‘Trenches have been created that one could put a whole mortar platoon in.’ Even worse, the shelling had struck a war cemetery, so that ‘dozens of bodies’ were torn out of the ground. Several of their shelters had also been struck by direct hits. But, fortunately, Lewald and his men, with their precious guns, had survived.26
The Battle of Langemarck had been a significant victory for Fourth Army, and German commanders were understandably elated at how things were progressing. ‘To the leaders and teams who prepared and fostered the fight and contended successfully for victory, I give thanks and credit’, read an order of the day from General Sixt von Armin. He particularly credited the work of the stretcher-bearers and medical orderlies whose ‘spirited conduct and tireless activity’ had made it possible to get the wounded back from the front lines within a relatively short period of time. ‘The doctors who applied themselves to their difficult task with the utmost dedication at the troop dressing stations, main dressing stations and field hospitals, the entire nursing staff, and the entire medical vehicle and ambulance service detachment also deserve full credit for their fruitful cooperation.’27 It was clear to von Armin who was winning the battle.
In London the atmosphere remained tense. As early as 3 August, the War Cabinet had raised the subject of whether the offensive had ‘realised the hopes anticipated of it’, with Robertson working furiously to dampen down any signs of an imminent revolt.28 Haig wrote a report on ‘the battle of 31 July 1917’, which was passed to the War Cabinet on 4 August. He regarded the results of the battle as being ‘most satisfactory’. Moreover, he was confident that the objectives they had gained thus far would ‘facilitate very greatly’ the preparations for a subsequent advance once the ground had dried up.29 Nevertheless, the pressure on Haig was increasing. Robertson wrote to him on 9 August, updating him on Lloyd George’s support for an Allied General Staff, an idea which had been dusted off at a meeting with the French and Italians on 7–8 August. The Prime Minister had tried a version of this before, during the infamous Calais conference in February, but he was evidently still anxious for some kind of unified military staff. ‘As the French keep rubbing in that it is necessary to have a Central Staff at Paris I can see Lloyd George in the future wanting to agree to some organization so as to put the matter in French hands and to take it out of mine’, Robertson wrote grimly. ‘However we shall see all about this.’30
Despite the stuttering beginning to the offensive, Haig was in no mood to reconsider his plans for the remainder of the year, and Robertson’s growing unease made little impression upon him. He was determined to reassert his authority and remind London how important it was to persevere with his operation, which, he was sure, was bound to lead to positive results. ‘You already know my views’, he replied to Robertson on 13 August. ‘Briefly, this being the decisive point, the only sound policy is for the Government to support me whole heartedly, and concentrate all possible resources here. And do it now while there is time, instead of continuing to discuss other enterprises.’ Haig repeated his well-worn refrain that the enemy could only be beaten if he was given adequate support. An ‘occasional glance at our daily intelligence summaries would convince even the most sceptical of the truth of what I write’, and moreover ‘I have been in the field now for 3 years and know what I am writing about.’31
Haig remained buoyant about the prospects for fu
ture success. In part this was because of what had happened at Hill 70, north of Lens in Artois, where the Canadian Corps had been in action. On 15 August, 1st and 2nd Canadian Divisions launched a diversionary ‘bite-and-hold’ attack on the high ground overlooking the town. The operation had originally been scheduled for the beginning of August, but the awful weather resulted in repeated postponements until the middle of the month. Supported by a brutal artillery bombardment, and with thoughtful, precise and detailed planning, Canadian troops managed to seize the high ground, dig in, and wait for the inevitable German response. Over the next ten days, the ground around Lens became a hecatomb of slaughter as German units were drawn into a vicious fight to recapture the high ground. In total over 9,000 Canadians would be killed or wounded in what was only a ‘diversionary attack’.32 Yet it achieved its aim. Seven German divisions had fought at Hill 70 and suffered up to 20,000 casualties. It was a perfect example of attritional warfare in action.33
The slaughter at Lens was, for Haig at least, an indication that the Germans were close to breaking. The intelligence coming from Charteris’s office only seemed to confirm what he had always suspected. The German Army was evidently struggling to hold its ground: some units had been broken by the fighting; younger soldiers were now being drafted in earlier than anticipated; and it was thought that enemy divisions were being used up on the Flanders sector much quicker than they had been on the Somme. Haig, therefore, remained bullish about the prospects of the war, telling his senior staff officers on 19 August that ‘if we can keep up our effort, final victory may be won by December’.34 Yet not everyone shared his confidence. At the War Office in London, Robertson’s own intelligence sources left him with a much less sanguine interpretation of German weakness, and in his letter of 13 August Haig chided the CIGS for issuing ‘pessimistic estimates’ that jarred with his own assessments on the state of the German Army. ‘They do, I feel sure, much harm and cause many in authority to take a pessimistic outlook when a contrary view, based on equally good information, would go far to help the nation on to victory’, he added, not entirely helpfully.35
The truth was that while much of the intelligence GHQ received was not in itself inaccurate (even if less positive news tended to be downplayed), Haig was at fault for reading too much into it and forcing it to fit his own preconceptions. Relying heavily upon prisoner examinations–a notoriously unreliable source–Haig was convinced that many German divisions were either worn out by constant combat or on the verge of a catastrophic collapse in morale.36 By this stage even Charteris–supposedly the ‘high priest’ of Haig’s offensive doctrine–was disagreeing with his commander-in-chief. On 18 August, Charteris authored a report that predicted Germany could only stand the strain of current operations for a maximum of twelve months provided fighting was maintained ‘at its present intensity’. When Haig got hold of it, he went ‘much further’, reporting to the War Office that the time was ‘fast approaching when Germany will be unable to maintain her armies at their present numerical strength’.37 For Haig, as he had repeatedly told his superiors, there must be no let-up in the offensive.
This was the moment when the Prime Minister should have acted. Maurice Hankey was convinced that Lloyd George should have pressed for a searching re-examination of the offensive sometime in the middle of the month. The continuation of operations was always dependent upon results, and given the modest returns so far, Downing Street would have been more than justified in looking again at what was happening in Flanders.38 That Haig was allowed to continue his attacks has always been a matter of debate and controversy. Lloyd George would later claim–loudly and persistently–that he had been deceived, and that the War Cabinet never received the full, unvarnished truth about what was happening on the battlefields of Ypres.39 There was certainly something to this (and indeed the Prime Minister suffered from a lack of crucial information on occasions), but it should not be taken too far. Ultimately, at this critical moment in Britain’s war effort, Lloyd George was found wanting. If he really believed there was a viable alternative to the Western Front, then he had to take advantage of Haig’s misfortune and act upon it. His failure to do so would haunt him for the rest of his life.
The first mention of the Flanders operation at the War Cabinet was on 2 August, with Robertson doing little to illuminate his colleagues on its progress. He had, he said, ‘little to add to what had appeared in the press’ and that ‘we had achieved all our objectives’ across two thirds of the front.40 While the subject was raised briefly the following day (and after Haig’s first despatch was circulated), it was not until 17 August that the Western Front was discussed again in any detail, with the Director of Military Intelligence, Major-General Sir George Macdonogh, reporting on the recent attack at Langemarck. It had been ‘completely successful’ on the left, but elsewhere ‘strong opposition’ had been encountered with the enemy still occupying the high ground. Macdonogh was encouraged by ‘signs of weakening’ in German reserves, but admitted that the weather was ‘bad’ and, owing to the nature of the ground, it was unlikely they would capture particularly large batches of prisoners. Casualties since 31 July were over 45,000.41
Macdonogh’s report, when stripped of its War Office gloss, revealed a number of things: Haig’s attacks had not been entirely successful; the Germans were still resisting fiercely; the enemy remained in possession of the crucial high ground; and casualties had been heavy. Yet Lloyd George failed to act upon this sobering information. When Hankey pressed him on it, he found him to be curiously lethargic and ‘unresponsive’.42 Still smarting from the tiring arguments of June and July, and distracted by other business (including Smuts’s important memorandum on the organization of air operations, which was delivered on 17 August), the Prime Minister seems to have let his focus slip when, arguably, it should have been resolutely directed on the Salient. Instead Lloyd George dealt with business as it came in–railway unrest, war risks insurance, the output of heavy guns, reserves of wheat, and so on–while struggling with persistent neuralgia that frayed his temper. It was little wonder that during August he spent a considerable amount of time at one of his country retreats, Great Walstead in Sussex, which provided a much-needed, albeit temporary, respite from the crushing pressures of London.43
Haig sent his second despatch on the battle to the War Cabinet on 21 August. He was keen to explain why no breakthrough had been achieved and why the Government must keep faith with his plans. ‘For several days after the date of my last report’, he wrote, ‘the weather continued so unfavourable that a renewal of the advance in Flanders was impossible.’ This ‘unavoidable delay’ allowed time for the enemy to bring up reinforcements and launch ‘heavy counter-attacks’ against his forces. Nevertheless, Fifth Army had gained important ground, and any further advance up towards the crest at Broodseinde would mean undeniable progress–gaining ‘valuable advantages of position’ and going ‘a long way’ to break down the enemy’s ‘power of resistance’. After repeating his ‘conclusive evidence’ of German decline–drawn from Charteris’s report–Haig admitted that the battle was likely to continue ‘for some weeks yet’. There was, therefore, only one thing to do: ‘to continue to press the enemy in Flanders without intermission and to the fullest extent of our power; and, if complete success is not gained before winter sets in, to renew the attack at the earliest possible moment next year’.44
Haig’s continued wish to go on was, to some extent, understandable–he was, after all, a proud man–but it paid little attention to how quickly the Flanders operation was descending into Somme-like conditions. Langemarck had been taken, but the push on the crucial high ground at Gheluvelt had stalled badly and there was no indication of when Fifth Army would get going again. But both Haig and Gough saw little to reproach themselves for. Haig was concerned at the poor ground conditions and felt that more time should have been allowed for artillery preparation (time which he could have granted had he been so minded), while Gough took solace in blaming his own men.45 At
a conference at La Lovie on 17 August, the Fifth Army commander made it clear that he wanted investigations into ‘the causes of troops failing in certain instances to hold the ground they had gained’. If they had withdrawn without sufficient cause, he wanted officers and NCOs court-martialled.46
Yet if Gough’s account is to be believed, he was not an unthinking martinet devoted to the offensive at all costs. According to his memoirs, the Fifth Army commander lost faith in the Flanders operation sometime in late August. Apparently, he went to see Haig and told him that the offensive must be called off, only for the Commander-in-Chief to ignore him and insist that the British must bear this ‘heavy burden’ on their own.47 Whether Gough really made such a strong representation is unclear. It has been suggested that this was subsequently invented to put him in a better light, when he was fighting to restore his reputation, and there is probably much in this.48 Gough had never been one to shy away from maintaining an offensive, even if it was unlikely to succeed, and he continued ordering attacks (to ‘straighten the line’) until the second week of September. The reality was that Gough was never likely to abandon the mission he had been given in Flanders. There was simply too much at stake, both personally and professionally, for him to back down.49 So on it went: the endless columns of mud-splattered infantry making their way to the front on thin, wobbly duckboards; the ‘iron rain’ of shellfire that never stopped; the rushed attacks on narrow fronts pressed forward with hope and gallantry, but little chance of success. The enduring image of Passchendaele was being created.