by Nick Lloyd
By midday the battle, for what it’s worth, was over. Second Army had reached most of the Red Line by 8 a.m., and after a pause of one to two hours (which was mainly devoted to ‘mopping up’ the captured positions) had marched on to the Blue Line, which was consolidated shortly after one o’clock. Another ‘bite’ of 1,200 yards had been made in the German line, with over 4,000 prisoners being escorted to the rear. Although a number of counter-attacks had been launched against the newly won positions, the Germans found themselves up against well-drilled machine-gun and rifle fire that scattered their columns as quickly as they came up. Out to the north, XVIII and XIV Corps of Fifth Army had secured the left flank and captured the village of Poelcappelle.17 Whether it would have been possible to go further remained unclear. Although in places subsequent, albeit modest, gains were made (such as XVIII Corps, which pushed on another 500 yards), it was generally considered that any deviation from the plan would have been too risky. The Germans still had eight divisions in close reserve and it was known that their positions on the Flanders II and III lines were largely intact, which made any kind of ‘rush’ against them highly improbable. It was probably for the best that Second Army decided to sit tight.18
There may have been no dramatic exploitation, but Broodseinde appeared to be a stunning success, and within weeks news was being relayed across the empire of the ‘greatest victory of the war’.19 German dead were everywhere: scattered by heavy shelling; torn to pieces inside caved-in pillboxes; or cut down by machine-gun fire like slaughtered cattle. Second Army intelligence recorded how evidence of German demoralization and disorganization was everywhere. Prisoners had been taken from nearly every company of the defending divisions; their wireless stations were now ‘significantly silent’; and no ‘serious counter-attack with large forces’ had been made. ‘His machine-gun and rifle fire is erratic and his artillery continues to change rearward and to the flanks’, it concluded. There were also ‘abnormal train movements’ as the Germans desperately tried to relieve shattered divisions and thousands of wounded, and bring fresh troops into the line.20 For Lieutenant-General Sir William Birdwood, whose corps (I ANZAC) had taken the village of Broodseinde, there could be ‘no doubt as to the completeness and importance’ of their success. ‘The Germans, who had recently been holding their front line in vastly increased strength, not only suffered heavily, but had lost one of their most vital positions on the Western Front; and this despite their knowledge that the blow was coming.’21
Predictably, perhaps, there have always been those who remain to be convinced by the victorious tales that emerged from Broodseinde. Lloyd George was supposed to have scoffed at Haig’s ‘victory’ and, more recently, the historians Robin Prior and Trevor Wilson have asked whether the battle really ‘constituted a model of irresistible progress’.22 They claim that some of its apparent success was undoubtedly down to ‘ill-judgement and sheer bad luck on the part of the enemy’–such as the ill-fated spoiling attack at Zonnebeke–that was unlikely to reoccur in subsequent operations. Moreover, Plumer had benefited from the dry weather throughout the preceding month, which would soon be replaced by the usual autumn rains. Given that the British were now overlooking an ominous stretch of low-lying ground before Passchendaele (where the Ravebeek drained into the Stroombeek), it was highly likely that any more bad weather would inundate the battlefield and make significant progress all but impossible. Even more worryingly, Broodseinde did nothing to address the fundamental problem that British attacks were getting narrower and narrower as they drove towards the high ground at Passchendaele. The further they pushed into the re-entrant, the more exposed they would become to German artillery batteries on either side.
A number of objections can be raised to these criticisms. Yes, the British certainly benefited from running into a German counter-attack at Zero Hour, but such is the fate of war. Indeed, given the appalling luck they had experienced since the beginning of the offensive (particularly with the weather), they were surely due a slice of good fortune. It was true that every day brought the winter closer (and reduced the chance of significant progress), but Plumer had been ordered to try and push on and he did his best. As for the problem of fighting on narrower and narrower frontages, it was true that this was hardly ideal, but then what possible tactic was ideal in Flanders in October 1917? It was a question of what else Second Army could have done. It could either continue along those lines or revert back to the wider and deeper ‘penetration’ attacks that had caused such frustration on 31 July and throughout the August battles.
Whether Plumer made all the correct decisions or not will remain a point of conjecture, but, nonetheless, Broodseinde deserves to be recognized as a major success and, in hindsight, would be the highpoint of the Flanders offensive. Charles Bean sensed as much. He argued that it was one of the most decisive and ‘cleanest’ victories ever won on the Western Front; one moreover that ‘has never been fully recognised except by the commanders and forces that took part’. ‘An overwhelming blow had been struck,’ he wrote, ‘and both sides knew it.’ Broodseinde was the third such strike in fifteen days, driving the Germans away from one of their most important positions in the Salient, and doing so in the full knowledge it was coming.23 As with all military operations, the only thing that really mattered was its impact on the enemy, and this was undoubtedly severe (as Bean fully realized). The German Official History called the battle ‘a considerable success’ for the British and detailed the sense of resignation, verging on despair, which took hold of the German command in Flanders as they realized that their ‘new combat methods’ (i.e. the heavier manning of the front line) had been ineffective. ‘All the counter-attack divisions behind the Ypres Group and the Wytschaete Group had had to be used’, it noted. ‘The Army High Command came to the conclusion that there was no means by which the positions could be held against the overpowering enemy superiority in artillery and infantry. Loss of ground in these heavy attacks was unavoidable.’24
The intensity of artillery fire at Broodseinde was testament to how hard the German Army was fighting to maintain its hold on the high ground. That day Fourth Army fired off the contents of thirty ammunition trains–surpassing the total for 31 July–and claiming the record for the highest amount of German shells fired during the battle.25 ‘Here in Flanders, the battle continues with an intensity that increases with every day. Inconceivable artillery fire rages incessantly’, wrote Major-General Karl Dieffenbach, the commander of Group Wytschaete (in a letter to his family):
On Thursday [4 October], they attacked again with twelve divisions. Our brave compatriots, the 25th Infantry Division, occupied the most important ground. They did not cede an inch of it and repelled the last attack on Gheluvelt around midnight. Next to this, the enemy was able to penetrate, to a depth of 2.2 kilometres in one spot, but the Mecklenburg Division [17th Division], deployed to carry out a counter-attack, was able to repulse them in a desperate struggle, so that they were only able to hold on to 1 kilometre of ground on my outermost right flank. The acts of heroism of our troops up there defy description; one has to see it with one’s own eyes. We expect another four great days of battle, after which the plains of Flanders will be an impassable swamp. And the English will not achieve their goal in these plains.26
Like Dieffenbach, some German observers crowed about the relatively modest amount of ground that had been gained by the enemy–seemingly missing the point of Plumer’s ‘bite-and-hold’ tactics–but there was no doubt that the German Army was being placed under enormous strain.27
German casualties for 4 October had been heavy. Somewhat predictably, the thickening of the front line with extra troops had only resulted in greater losses and dislocation for those units unfortunate enough to be deployed. At Becelaere, no battalion of 8th Division came out of the line more than 300 strong, with some battalions being reduced to fewer than 100 men.28 4th Guard Division had lost eighty-six officers and 2,700 other ranks killed, wounded or missing in a matter of days.29 In th
e two infantry regiments of 20th Division that faced the New Zealanders, there were over 2,000 casualties (about 42 per cent of their nominal strength).30 According to captured prisoners, the division had ‘an exceptionally high percentage of casualties’ and was ‘practically wiped out’, with companies being reduced from 120 men to as few as twenty-four. In total it lost 257 dead, 878 wounded and 2,588 missing between 29 September and 9 October.31 Indeed, some Australian battalions, particularly those in 3rd Division, ran into crowds of German soldiers who surrendered freely. The ground over which they advanced was also, quite literally, covered with enemy dead and wounded. For example, 37/Battalion, which advanced along the northern edge of Zonnebeke, captured 420 German prisoners and counted 350 dead in their sector alone (roughly 500 yards square).32
For the German High Command, the Battle of Broodseinde was just the latest in a series of major battles and it seemed the worst of all. It was, what one German historian has called, ‘der schwarze Tag’, ‘the black day of 4 October’.33 At OHL, Ludendorff met the first reports of the battle with barely concealed despair. ‘It was extraordinarily severe,’ he wrote, ‘and again we came through it only with enormous loss. It was evident that the idea of holding the front line more densely, adopted at my last visit to the front in September, was not the remedy.’34 Within days, he had met with Sixt von Armin and discussed further defensive positions that needed to be constructed to keep the British at bay. He also requested opinions on what amount of ground could be safely given up without imperilling the U-boat bases on the coast. A major counter-attack against the British right at Gheluvelt had been mooted, but a lack of men and shortages of ammunition had prevented it from going ahead. Therefore, if they could not attack or redeploy, the Germans had to find some other way of enduring what was coming.35
After 4 October, Ludendorff recognized immediately that there would have to be tactical changes. Without bothering to ask the opinion of his senior commanders, he ordered a return to defence-in-depth with a greater emphasis on machine-gunners to hold the front. Fourth Army should form an ‘advance zone’ between the enemy’s position and the German front line (known as the Vorfeld). ‘The enemy would have to cross this strip in making his attack, and our artillery would have time to get on to him before he could reach our main line of resistance.’36 Essentially (as explained by General von Kuhl), this meant that the ‘cratered area in front of the trenches, to a depth of 500 to 1,000 metres, was considered an outpost zone and held by a thin chain of posts and a few machine guns’. When attacked, those in the outpost zone were to retreat back to the main defensive line, after which artillery would lay down a ‘destructive curtain barrage’. This, it was hoped, would give the Eingreif divisions enough time to get into position, while also giving ‘our own artillery the opportunity to smash the enemy in the outpost zone’. The only problem with this tactic was that it was not always clear when to retreat to the main defensive line–was the enemy making a major attack or just a local raid?–and those soldiers in the outpost zone tended to suffer (somewhat understandably) from a sense of abandonment and desperation, resulting in earlier retreats than was always desirable. As Kuhl noted ruefully, a ‘completely fool-proof method did not exist’.37
Ludendorff issued further remarks on 9 October. He believed the recent failures had been primarily the result of an ‘inappropriate deployment’ of the Eingreif divisions, and he blamed penny-packeting, premature or delayed orders, unclear objectives and a lack of coordination with supporting artillery. Front-line units had the responsibility of ejecting the enemy from their sectors, and the Eingreif divisions would only become involved if they failed to do this. It was essential that they only launch counter-attacks if they were properly coordinated and supported, and ‘concentrated and swift’. The ‘art of command’, he stressed, ‘comprises sparing deployment of the Eingreif divisions and the maintenance of their fighting strength’.38 While this was all well and good, such fine distinctions tended to melt away in the chaos and confusion of battle. As Albrecht von Thaer could have told him, it was almost impossible to make the correct judgements on when and how counter-attack divisions should be employed. Communication broke down, and units became isolated or confused, meaning that commanders found it virtually impossible not to prematurely deploy their reserves or squander them under the enormous weight of fire on the battlefield. Indeed, at this point in the war, the only thing that would stop the British was the weather–what Rupprecht called ‘their most effective ally’–and this, once again, would come to the defenders’ aid.39
Predictably, the mood at GHQ surged again after Broodseinde. Although there remained a sense of frustration that the gains could not be exploited further, Haig and his staff were well pleased. ‘Today was a very important success’, wrote the Field Marshal, ‘and we had a great fortune in that the Enemy had concentrated such a large number of divisions just at the moment of our attack with the very intense artillery barrage.’ Never one to allow an opportunity to slip, Haig met his army commanders on the afternoon of 4 October and decided that the next attack would go in two days earlier than planned (on 8 October). Haig was confident the enemy’s divisions had been fully engaged and that they had few reserves remaining. He believed that now was the moment to increase the tempo of operations, and he pressed Plumer to take another step towards the village of Passchendaele. Now was the moment to push on and take the high ground.40
Those who saw Haig at this time got a sense of a man who was determined not to let go, cost what it may. ‘I saw Haig at most week-ends during those anxious months’, wrote his chaplain, George Duncan. ‘Acutely distressed as he must have been by the set-back to his plans and the mounting casualty lists, it was not his way to give open expression to his thoughts on such matters.’ At other times he was more loquacious. One day, at lunch, the conversation turned to a divisional commander who was apparently ‘showing himself restless and dispirited’–a not uncommon occurrence in the Salient–when Haig turned to Duncan and looked him straight in the eyes.
‘The fellow hasn’t the faith to see that we can go through the enemy and beat them…’ he said, before returning to his lunch.41
Others were less sanguine. Charteris, whose optimism always paled in comparison to his chief’s, felt the burden grow as the offensive staggered on. ‘The casualties are awful’, he had written a day after Polygon Wood; ‘one cannot dare to think of them. The temptation to stop is so great, but the obviously correct thing for the nation is to go on.’ After Broodseinde, he had all but given up hope of the offensive achieving anything. ‘We are far enough on now to stop for the winter’, he wrote on 5 October, ‘and there is much to be said for that. Unless we get fine weather for all this month, there is now no chance of clearing the coast.’42
There was a sense, both then and ever since, that the campaign should have been called off after Broodseinde. The British had won a clear victory, taking the Gravenstafel Ridge, the last rise before Passchendaele, and in the face of worsening weather and awful ground, maybe they should have stayed put and been content with what had been achieved.43 Charteris thought as much, but Haig, as bullish as ever, wanted to carry on. He was convinced that should they gain the Passchendaele Ridge, then ‘the enemy will be forced to withdraw from the Dixmude front and Foret d’Houthoulst [sic] because he cannot risk his troops being cut off in that area’.44 Therefore, plans were hurriedly drafted for a series of three more bounds, in quick succession (that would take place on 9, 12 and 14 October). Second Army would push on to the Passchendaele Ridge, with Fifth Army offering flanking support in the north, aiming to break the Flanders I Line at Spriet, before taking the village of Westroosebeke.45
Such an ambitious series of operations, at such a late stage of the year, should have roused serious concerns. Yet Haig’s subordinates, from Plumer all the way downwards, offered little dissent to what GHQ was now proposing: three major assaults in just six days. The Second Army commander, who had hitherto taken barely a wrong step in the battle
, was content to carry on. His Chief of Staff, Tim Harington, later claimed that ‘he never gave a thought to stopping and turning back’ and that, in any case, there was nowhere for his troops to winter (other than on the Passchendaele Ridge).46 Further down the chain of command, Sir Alexander Godley (GOC II ANZAC Corps), who would play a prominent role in the next step, was equally enthusiastic. There is no doubt, he told Sir James Allen, the New Zealand Minister of Defence, that ‘the Boche is becoming very demoralised, and if the weather will only hold up for a bit longer and we can deliver a few more blows before the winter sets in, it will go a very long way towards the end’.47
Given what would happen next–and the horrors that would engulf Plumer’s divisions on 9 and 12 October–the question of whether the offensive should have been called off after Broodseinde is worth exploring. Haig’s apologists have always cited Tim Harington’s view that there was no choice; that it was absolutely necessary to command the heights of Passchendaele, thus denying them to the enemy and also securing higher, drier ground from where the British could spend the winter (and from where a renewed push in 1918 could be launched).48 Moreover, given the crushing success of 4 October, surely it was worth pushing on, even at heavy cost, to break what remained of the German Army? For John Terraine, Haig’s greatest defender, the reasons for continuing were ‘complex’: a desire to exploit recent success; to maintain the initiative over the enemy; and to grasp at the possibility–faint though it might be–‘of hammering Germany to her knees before the end of the year’.49 Therefore, the Passchendaele Ridge had to be captured at all costs.
Yet the painful truth was that the Passchendaele Ridge did not need to be captured, or at least was not worth the heavy losses that taking it would entail. It was true that the Gravenstafel Ridge–which the British had just overrun–was not as high as Passchendaele (and certainly did not overlook open countryside to the northeast), but there was only a handful of metres in it, and, moreover, holding the Gravenstafel would have been, in many respects, no more difficult than holding on to Passchendaele; indeed, it might have been significantly easier. Between the two ridges lay perhaps the worst stretch of ground on the entire battlefield, where the Ravebeek drained into the Stroombeek. The farms here–Waterfields, Marsh Bottom and Peter Pan (among others with suitably aquatic-sounding names)–lay in a flooded morass overlooked by heavily wired German positions on the Bellevue Spur, which guarded the western approaches to Passchendaele. This ground was a significant obstacle in its own right and would have served as an excellent no-man’s-land. Moreover, Passchendaele Ridge was virtually indefensible. When it was finally captured in November 1917, a detailed appraisal admitted that the newly won positions were hugely disadvantageous. Front-line troops could ‘now be shelled from any point on an arc of 240 degrees’; there was ‘no cover for supports or close reserves’; it was only with ‘great difficulty’ that supplies could be moved up; and it was almost impossible to reinforce the garrison in an emergency.50 Yet, increasingly for Haig, Passchendaele assumed a significance that surpassed its mere importance on a map.