by Nick Lloyd
Early at 6 o’clock, the hellish artillery fire began, and the resulting smoke was such that we barely had a few metres of visibility in our craters. Yet we all waited for a visible attack. Finally, the English stormed forward, and we greeted them with our rifles, in such a way that those who weren’t dead surged back in retreat. We had barely accomplished this when we saw a tank approaching us on the road behind us. Threatened by the tank, we left our craters and found a suitable place behind the road. Suddenly, to our delight, the tank got stuck in a crater and could not go any farther. Together with Lieutenant Schulz and Musketeer Krügel from the same company, I attacked the monster. But it was in vain! We used hand grenades and rifles–we used everything. But there was not a single hole. The crew was also firing continuously with the guns that were there. I ignited a charge comprising six hand grenades under the gun, but this did not help either.
Later that evening, Oechsler and his men crawled up to the tank again. After sliding several grenades through a small opening they found in its armour, Oechsler shouted, ‘Get out of the box, or it’ll explode!’ Immediately the small side hatch opened and the eight crewmen clambered out as quickly as they could, begging for mercy.16
At Courtrai, Crown Prince Rupprecht felt an enormous sense of pride in how well his units were coping, particularly given what they were up against. The fighting on 22 August, he noted, ‘lasted into the night’. So heavy was the demand for shells that his reserve had shrunk to only seven ammunition trains.17 Nevertheless, he was confident that morale was holding. On the morning of 24 August, he met some officers and men of 5th Bavarian Division, which had fought at the Battle of Langemarck.
All officers I spoke to emphasized that our excellent infantry feel superior to the English. During our counter-attacks, the English often hardly defended themselves while English troops previously bore up even against a wall of fire. Apparently even officers knelt down with hands held aloft and surrendered without a struggle. Generally our troops desire to be allowed to attack. As painful as it is for each soldier to remain in the defence, our method is the right one…18
In Group Wytschaete, Albrecht von Thaer was of a similar opinion. ‘Yesterday’s battle, on the whole, went well’, he wrote in his diary for 23 August. His losses were significant, but he felt they were fewer than last year on the Somme, owing to better organization, and more artillery and ammunition. ‘Accordingly, the mood of the troops is far better than in the previous year.’19
The use of combat reserves, to seal off enemy penetrations and strike back at key moments, remained at the heart of German defensive tactics. Two days after Inverness Copse had been recaptured, Fourth Army issued a report on how such reserves should be handled, which distilled the lessons of recent fighting. Stress was laid upon organization and preparation, as well as the vital need to avoid getting battered by the artillery fire that swept the Salient. Reconnaissance could ‘never be thorough enough’, even during heavy artillery bombardments. Troops ‘must be rested as far as possible in the days before their expected deployment’. Assembly points had to be located ‘outside the main zone of fire’ and, if possible, in improved accommodation to protect against the weather. Battalions should practise together ‘at least two or three times’ and ensure close contact and liaison were maintained between the Eingreif divisions and the units they would support in the line. A key point, which the document stressed, was the importance of not assembling troops too far forward. ‘A minor loss of time in the counter-strike will be amply compensated by the division’s greater freshness for combat’. If these precautions were taken, Fourth Army was confident all counter-attacks would have ‘good prospects of success’, and in the last days of August this seemed to be borne out.20
Back in London, David Lloyd George was in a positive mood, writing to Robertson on 26 August: ‘The Italian attack seems to be developing well, and judging by the reports… there are great possibilities in it if fully and promptly exploited.’ The Prime Minister had still not given up on his wish to circumvent the Western Front, and Cadorna’s success on the Isonzo electrified him. After reading reports from the British liaison officer in Italy, Major-General Delmé-Radcliffe, he was convinced that Austrian demoralization might herald ‘a signal military victory’ on that front.21 For Lloyd George, news of this success was energizing and tantalizing–an alluring glimpse of what could be achieved away from the Western Front and the muddy killing grounds where Haig’s army continued to flounder.
Yet Lloyd George’s belief in the Italian Army would prove, like his naive faith in Nivelle, to be dangerously misplaced. Delmé-Radcliffe was ‘long on gossip and short on crisp assessment’, while his consistent and unabashed optimism on the state of the Italian war effort masked serious deficiencies.22 Far from being on the cusp of a decisive triumph, Italian soldiers were suffering from a catalogue of weary problems: poor morale and exhaustion; a lack of heavy artillery and ammunition; and corrupt, brutal and frequently incompetent commanders. Yet pacing around Downing Street, reading reports and grumbling to his secretary, Lloyd George saw none of this. For him, the Italian Front offered the possibility of decisive success without the blood cost of the Western Front (or at least without British blood). Screwing up his courage, he pressed Robertson to act urgently, reminding him of the ‘enormous responsibility’ not to lose this ‘promising opening’. ‘Do you not think that a new situation has arisen there which requires immediate action on the part of the Allies to support the Italian attack, make up their deficiencies and enable them to convert the Austrian retreat into a rout?’ he asked.
For the CIGS, who no doubt read the letter with a furrowed brow, this was yet more unhelpful meddling by an amateur strategist with no idea of the practical difficulties of moving hundreds of heavy guns to the Italian Alps. He was determined to stop it. At a meeting of the War Cabinet the following day (27 August), Robertson’s Director of Military Operations, Sir Frederick Maurice, delivered the bad news. ‘The only way by which he could assist the Italians with a sufficient number of guns to have an effective result was by withdrawing them from the Ypres operations.’ Furthermore, sending the guns would mean the abandonment of the Flanders campaign–something, it must be admitted, that was very much on Lloyd George’s agenda–and this would have a ‘disastrous’ effect on British Army morale. The best they could do, he suggested, was to keep attacking in Belgium, where they could ‘really afford the most direct assistance to the Italians’.23 Robertson continued this rearguard action before the War Cabinet on 28 August, lecturing those present on ‘the history of events during the last eight or nine months’. After taking the War Cabinet through the long, tortuous story of Allied policy since the winter, he proclaimed that it would be ‘false strategy to close down the offensive on the Western Front in order to give General Cadorna support which would only reach him too late to be effective’.24
Despite Robertson’s dour refusal to countenance Lloyd George’s wishes, the Prime Minister would not let go. At an inter-Allied conference on 4 September–which Haig attended–the question of sending guns to the Italians was raised again. The French commander, Ferdinand Foch, who was present in London, suggested that 100 medium guns could be made available. The usual military protests were made, but, ultimately, the political imperative of supporting an ally won out, and Haig was told to review his artillery situation and, if possible, send up to fifty of General Anthoine’s guns to the Italians. Although Lloyd George seemed to have made some progress, it was hardly a major victory. Haig was only mollified with the promise that Pétain would replace these before his next major push. Moreover, fifty guns might eventually reach General Cadorna, but this was hardly the decisive shift in Allied strategy that the Prime Minister desired. Yet again, his military commanders had proved stubbornly resistant to his charms; it was almost as if he were stuck in mud.25
In Flanders, matters were coming to a head. As in 1916, the British kept battering away. Gough launched further attacks on 27 August, with Maxse’s XVIII
Corps pushing on to the Langemarck–Gheluvelt Line (the Wilhelm position), but running into the same problems again and again. ‘The weather conditions were wretched’, noted an after-action report. ‘Rain fell in torrents the previous night and continued to fall on the day of the operation after Zero Hour.’ So bad was the ground that the infantry of the two attacking divisions (48th and 11th) would probably have been unable to keep up with the barrage had it proceeded at a much slower rate. As it was, even covering 100 yards every eight minutes–half the speed of the barrage on 31 July–the covering fire soon left the struggling infantry behind. The report continued:
The attacking waves at once found the going almost impossible. The Boche, at first, showed every inclination to surrender, but directly they took in the situation and saw that our troops could not move, they picked up their rifles again and took full advantage of the unequal contest, at the same time training every machine gun on our men as they struggled in the mud.26
The result was predictable. Although some minor gains were made against a handful of strongpoints, elsewhere the infantry were shot down in droves. Evidently Fifth Army was no nearer to realizing the kind of decisive success that Haig’s ‘northern operation’ clearly demanded.
It was the same story on Maxse’s right flank, where XIX Corps continued to toil. The attack of 61st Division was supposed to have been preceded by a discharge of smoke candles–to shield the first waves from enemy observation–but by the time they went ‘over the top’, a ‘driving wind’ prevented them from being lit. The creeping barrage moved at the same, gradual pace as in XVIII Corps, but, as the war diary recorded, ‘it is clear that the state of the ground, cut up with shell-holes full of water, and all slippery with mud, made it impossible for our leading lines to keep in touch, and on approaching the enemy trenches they were met by a heavy fire from the direction of Gallipoli, Keir Farm, and Martha House’. Junior officers tried to rally their men, but it was no good. Weapons became clogged in mud and refused to fire; many of the attackers fell into shell holes and drowned; a third of the men and half of the officers were hit. The advance came to a standstill about 100 yards in front of the enemy trenches.27
The assault of 61st Division was perhaps one of the worst examples of a failed attack at Third Ypres. The combination of heavy rainfall and mist, poor artillery support and treacherous ground meant that it was almost inevitable the attacking infantry would be slaughtered. It was extraordinarily difficult to manoeuvre across no-man’s-land, meaning that ‘fire and movement’ tactics were hardly possible; and, in any case, with enemy strongpoints able to fire at will the leading waves were decimated. When Arthur Gould Lee, a pilot with 46 Squadron, finally got airborne on 1 September (many squadrons having been grounded for days), he was astonished at the sight of the battlefield, now covered with thousands of bodies. He flew along the front line east of Ypres trying to ‘work out where British territory ended or German began’, but could not see anything. He only spotted the infantry after noticing ‘little groups of white blobs’, which he realized were the faces of men on the ground. ‘I suppose their uniforms are so smothered in mud that they’ve become part of the landscape. It’s just not conceivable how human beings can exist in such a swamp, let alone fight in it.’28
By the end of the month Fifth Army had fought itself out. In the week ending 24 August, Gough’s forces had suffered almost 17,000 casualties and for very little gain.29 ‘Until the weather improves’, lamented Neill Malcolm on 28 August, ‘all dates mentioned in the Conference notes… of the 26th August may be taken as being in abeyance.’ Gough had originally wanted XIV, XVIII and XIX Corps to continue their attacks in the direction of the Green Line towards Poelcappelle, but this was now out of the question. Any further operations would depend upon good reconnaissance–which was unlikely given such stormy weather–and getting enough guns up to the line of the Steenbeek. In XVIII Corps Ivor Maxse was already struggling to get enough artillery into range of his objectives, and he was ‘doubtful whether he could find sufficient gun positions’ to support any further attacks. The army commander had no choice but to let go. Until such time as the weather improved, he urged his corps to ‘proceed with the capture of tactical points with a view to improving the line and gaining a good “jumping-off” position for future operations’. He also wished to draw ‘special attention’ to extending tracks and roads in the forward area, pumping out flooded dugouts, and improving captured pillboxes wherever possible.30
Sir Hubert Gough, the man who had been brought in to achieve Haig’s breakthrough, cut a frustrated figure. On 2 September he issued a memorandum on the ‘evidence of recent operations’ and the ‘dangerous tendency’ of troops to give up ground to German counter-attacks. ‘Nothing could be worse’, he stated. ‘If such action becomes general throughout an Army that Army will never achieve success and will lose a great deal.’ Moreover, troops who retire ‘not only cause unnecessary losses to their comrades and their Country but bring dishonour to their arms and their nation’. For Gough, this was ‘not due to any lack of fighting spirit’, but rather to a want of training and a failure to utilize enough rifle fire to repulse the ‘inevitable’ counter-attacks. He urged his officers to ‘stick it out’ and consolidate captured trenches thoroughly, while impressing upon their subordinates the importance of ‘courage, resolution and the offensive spirit’. He ended with a blunt reminder to his men: ‘The Bosch [sic] cannot stop the British soldier if the latter means to advance.’31
Gough’s tendency to blame his own men when things went wrong was hardly new; indeed, throughout 1915 and 1916 he had done much the same thing. When attacks failed, often because of inadequate time to prepare or a lack of artillery, Gough usually lost no time in sacking one or two commanders.32 That even determined troops could not advance into the teeth of unsuppressed machine-gun fire and heavy shelling, particularly across such treacherous, wet ground, seemed to make little impression upon him. Moreover, he was at a loss to know how to deal with the German counter-attacking tactics that were proving so disruptive. He would, however, find that his time was running out. On 23 August the lack of progress forced Haig to postpone the amphibious landing–which was supposed to link up with the breakout from Ypres–and now, for all his faults, he was determined to make other changes as well.33
On 25 August the Commander-in-Chief paid a visit to Second Army headquarters at Cassel and told General Plumer that he would have responsibility for a renewed push on to the Gheluvelt Plateau.34 At the same time, Gough was warned that he was not to attempt any operation ‘on a great scale’ until Second Army was ready to lead the new attack, and that any operations should be ‘methodical and well combined’.35 Accordingly, the ground occupied by II Corps (up to the Ypres–Roulers railway) would now come under Plumer’s jurisdiction. Such a change of heart must have been difficult for Haig, who had placed such faith in his protégé, but it was becoming increasingly clear that Fifth Army’s morale was plummeting and that a new commander was needed.36 And in Belgium there was only one option: Sir Herbert Plumer, the experienced campaigner whose cautious plans and limited advances Haig had spurned earlier in the year. Plumer, who had hitherto been maintaining Gough’s right flank, was perhaps expecting Haig’s call–yet he seemed to have no thoughts of Schadenfreude. He was always a loyal subordinate, firm and clear in his own mind, and buttressed by a powerful Christian faith. He did not accept without conditions, however. He told Haig, clearly and firmly, that he would need three weeks to prepare. Haig, whose options were narrowing by the day, had little choice but to accept.37
From his headquarters in the medieval hill town of Cassel, General Plumer tried to work out some way of squaring the circle; how to make a meaningful and sustainable advance in such a difficult environment. As early as 12 August he had written a set of tactical notes recommending progressively shorter advances or bounds (employing fresh troops for each one), with regular halts to ensure areas were ‘thoroughly cleared’ and troops readied for the next stage.38
Plumer seemed to have grasped the essence of German defensive tactics: ‘the farther we penetrate his line, the stronger and more organised we find him; the farther we penetrate his line, the weaker and more disorganized we are liable to become’. Therefore, he recommended that proportionally more troops be allotted to the furthest objectives, so that they would be strong enough to repulse the inevitable enemy counter-strokes. Moreover, any advance could only be successful if the artillery preparation, and the creeping barrage, were deeper and more thorough than ever before, with the heavier batteries focused on locating and destroying enemy guns. ‘This is the real road to the infantry success’, he believed, ‘and the enemy is well aware of it.’39
Capturing the Gheluvelt Plateau would entail an advance of about 4,000 yards up one of the most heavily defended sectors on the Western Front. Plumer wanted to do this in four ‘steps’ (each of around 1,000 yards and taking place every six days), which would allow Second Army to master the ridge, while also enabling Fifth Army to advance on their left towards the Zonnebeke–Gravenstafel Spurs. Once these objectives had been secured, it was hoped that a final assault on the Passchendaele–Staden Ridge could be mounted (after which opportunities for exploitation might occur).40 Second Army issued Operation Order No. 4 on 1 September, which outlined how the first step would be conducted.41 The attack would secure the southern section of the Passchendaele Ridge from Broodseinde down to Hollebeke, including the high ground at Polderhoek and Tower Hamlets. Two corps would make the main assault: X Corps and I ANZAC Corps, driving through the Albrecht Line towards Polygon Wood and Gheluvelt. The flanks would be secured by IX Corps in the south, while Fifth Army extended the attack to the north by pushing on to the Wilhelm Line. The operation consisted of three separate stages–Red, Blue and Green Lines–but it would not be a deep advance. On the contrary, Plumer’s plans were straight out of his ‘bite-and-hold’ manual: exhaustive preparation for a strictly limited push forward–no more than 1,500 yards in–covered all the way by his guns.