by Nick Lloyd
Haig’s desire to push onwards was not just a response to success on the battlefield, or a feeling that the Germans were cracking, but was also a reaction to growing unease in London, and a need to give them something, anything. The previous day he had received a ‘great bombshell’ from Robertson threatening to bring his offensive to a premature halt. At a conference in Boulogne on 25 September it had been agreed ‘in principle’ that the BEF would take over more of the front line from the French Army, thus drawing off Haig’s reserves and making any kind of concentrated effort in Flanders almost impossible.51 Haig was not happy, muttering unkindly that ‘Robertson comes badly out of this’ and complaining that he had not been kept informed of these developments.52 But Haig must have known this would happen. Support for his ‘northern operation’ had always been tenuous at best and now the failure to progress was inevitably bringing the spotlight back on to GHQ. The truth was that Lloyd George was still determined to undermine the Flanders campaign, and by now he had decided that the only way to do that was to remove the weapon from Haig’s hand.
The Field Marshal, doggedly as ever, fought his corner. Downing Street had requested an appreciation of the role of British forces in the event of Russia being knocked out of the war (as part of the discussions over the Kühlmann peace note), so Haig duly obliged. Addressed to Robertson (and dated 8 October), it covered familiar ground: the lack of any strategic alternative to defeating the German Army; the danger of undertaking ‘any of the various indirect means’ of attacking the Central Powers; the ‘good progress’ that had been achieved at Ypres; the draining effect of sustained combat on Germany’s divisions; and so on. Haig concluded that the offensive must be maintained for the remainder of the autumn, which would give ‘excellent prospects of decisive success’ for the following year, but only if the British threw their full weight into the Western Front. Even if Russia failed over the coming months (and the Germans were able to shuttle divisions to France), he had no doubt that the accession of America to the war would provide enough combat power to defeat Germany’s forces in 1918.53
In some respects, there was much to recommend in Haig’s memorandum. Germany’s armed forces were the key centre of gravity for the Central Powers, and when they failed, so would the Austrians and the Turks. While the elimination of Russia from the war would enable sizeable reinforcements to be sent west, Haig guessed correctly that it would not provide a decisive superiority on the Western Front (as would be shown in 1918). Yet Haig’s appreciation of the situation raised the question of whether it was still either possible or desirable to maintain the offensive in Flanders, and here he was on stickier ground. ‘I have every hope of being able to continue it for several weeks still and of gaining results which will add very greatly to the enemy’s losses in men and moral[e], and place us in a far better position to resume an offensive in the spring’, he noted rather hopefully. Moreover, he was pleased that they would end the year ‘with practically all the observation points originally held by the enemy in our possession’. Yet Haig would not have appreciated being reminded that his offensive had not been launched simply to wear down German divisions, or secure key observation points, but to liberate the Belgian coast and achieve a strategic decision. In this it had failed.
Once again, Haig seems to have been oblivious to the awkward contradiction in his way of making war: the tension between conducting breakthrough operations aimed at securing huge sweeps of ground, and more limited ‘bite-and-hold’ attacks that were designed to chew up German divisions. As Pétain had long noted, in the context of 1917 the Allies could only hope to achieve any kind of success with avowedly attritional methods: using artillery-heavy, limited attacks to wear down German formations while exposing their own units as little as possible. But Haig had never been entirely converted to this way of thinking, and saw his ‘northern operation’ as being primarily about seizing ground. Had he wanted to operate on a more limited, attritional basis–something his commanders had repeatedly argued for–then it would have been much better to conduct a series of operations on the lines of the Canadian attack at Hill 70. Indeed, if you wanted to wear down the enemy, then Flanders was, arguably, the worst place to do this, given the German advantages in holding the high ground, and in forcing the British to occupy a shell-ridden swamp.
As for Robertson, his room for manoeuvre shrank with every week that passed, having to endure frequent clashes with the Prime Minister. ‘He is out for my blood very much these days’, he complained to Haig on 9 October.54 Lloyd George was still heartily sick of the military advice he was receiving, but was now more inclined to do something about it. He was increasingly bent on some kind of unified military command, or at least an inter-Allied council that would take a common view of strategic questions, and allow him to bypass Haig and Robertson. He attended four meetings of the War Policy Committee between 3 and 11 October and repeated, yet again, his belief that Britain should ‘make every effort to detach from Germany her Allies, beginning with Turkey’, which would require ‘adequate military assistance’ and a viable plan to defeat the Ottoman Empire.55 He also convened a special Council of War on 10 October and invited Sir John French (former Commander-in-Chief of the BEF) and Sir Henry Wilson (GOC Eastern Command) to address it; both of them could be relied upon to stick the knife into their former colleagues.56
For all of Lloyd George’s frantic efforts, he achieved very little. Robertson fought him all the way, insisting that any attempt to knock Turkey out of the war (as the Prime Minister was urging) was fraught with difficulty and was, in any case, logistically unviable.57 He also made it clear that French and Wilson’s involvement revealed–as it did–a lack of confidence in his advice, and, therefore, he would offer his resignation. The situation, which could have caused a Cabinet meltdown, eventually resulted in an awkward stalemate, with none of the underlying problems being resolved. Robertson was reassured–not entirely convincingly–that the War Cabinet’s invitation to French and Wilson was merely like calling in an ‘independent medical opinion’ and that they were perfectly entitled to do it.58 At the same time–like warring schoolchildren being separated by friends–Lord Curzon warned Lloyd George that any attempt to push Robertson out would probably result in the resignation of the Cabinet, including himself, Lord Derby (the Secretary of State for War) and Arthur Balfour (the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs).59 Lloyd George could do little other than fume impotently from the sidelines. On 11 October he predicted to his colleagues that the latest attack would fail and that ‘he would call the War Cabinet’s attention to this in three weeks’ time’.60 The Prime Minister was right. The Flanders offensive was now to enter its most infamous phase.
13.
‘The Weakness of Haste’
Our dead were lying in heaps. It was the worst slaughter I have ever seen.
Alexander Birnie1
9–12 October 1917
The success or failure of General Plumer’s next steps would depend upon logistics: in making sure the attacking battalions had everything they needed to take their objectives. Haig wanted the attack to go ahead two days earlier than originally scheduled, but it was only possible to advance the date by twenty-four hours because it started raining again. Between the morning of 7 October and the date of the attack two days later, 25mm of rain fell, which soaked the already slippery battlefield and played havoc with the logistical and engineering arrangements upon which so much depended.2 Postponing the attack would have seemed sensible, but might have had serious repercussions and, in any case, opinion was split. When Haig had tea with Plumer on the afternoon of 8 October, he was told that Sir Alexander Godley, whose corps (II ANZAC) would make the main assault, had ‘specially asked that there should be no postponement’. So there it was; they would go ahead the following morning.3
Roads and tracks had to be driven forward as quickly as possible, while existing ones required almost continuous repair work. The Wieltje–Gravenstafel road was one particularly vital artery and was mainta
ined by field companies of Royal Engineers, who laboured on what seemed an increasingly futile task. Timber–‘green and rough cut straight from the saw’–was brought up and unloaded at the railhead at Wieltje, and then, by whatever means available, taken up to the line. The best method of road construction was to ‘lay on an approximately level prepared bed four or five lengthwise stringers, to which were spiked broad stout beams making a continuous decking’. Planks were then nailed on either side as ‘wheel guards’ to ensure slippery lorries kept on the straight and narrow path. While this certainly helped to keep a steady trickle of movement going, German shelling regularly brought it to a halt. Because the heavier howitzers could only be dragged a few metres from the roads, they made tempting targets, and on several occasions direct hits on their ammunition dumps caused enormous craters to be torn in the surrounding area.4
Given the difficulties of reaching the gun positions, Second Army had no choice but to rely on packhorses. Eight shells were hitched to each animal (four on each side), and they were led up to the front through a treacherous wasteland of mud and death. J. A. Whitehead, a driver with the RFA (temporarily attached to 18th Division), recorded what their daily routine was. Reveille was at midnight, a quick breakfast, before heading off to the ammunition dump, loading up their horses’ packs, and then, in single file (‘with plenty of room in between us, to avoid shells maiming or killing too many horses and drivers’), making the five-mile journey up to the front. Inevitably there were casualties and Whitehead admitted that their only objective ‘was to get more and more ammunition to the guns’, even if it meant rolling dead horses and men out of the way. By the time they returned to their camp, they had to find the energy to clean everything, scrape the mud off their boots and uniforms, and inspect and groom the horses.
The drudgery of such an existence inevitably took its toll on the men’s spirits. ‘How we stood it, day after day, and week after week, I do not know’, he remembered. ‘I do know that I slept hours walking with my horses, or riding, to and from the guns, during those long, weary, sloppy journeys.’ Moreover:
The surprising thing was that hardly any of us had to report sick during this time, but the sick parade increased when things quietened down. Otherwise our view was one huge mass of mud and water, a few remaining trunks of trees, and some duckboards that needed a tight rope walker to keep balanced on, and then mud, mud, and more mud. Many a time we should go plunging on with our pack horses, and, suddenly, either a horse, or one of us would drop into a shell hole up to our middle. We had then to scramble out, shake ourselves like dogs, and carry on.5
‘If I were asked to name the heroes of the Third Battle of Ypres’, wrote the gunner Frank Mellish, ‘my vote would go to the pack horses which brought up the field artillery ammunition… They carried or pulled prodigious weights through country practically devoid of roads or tracks, and more often than not they were up to their hocks, and sometimes their bellies, in sticky mud. When shelling began there was just no means of getting them under cover and they stood patiently until either they were hit or the shelling stopped. They never seemed to panic and yet seemed grateful if anyone stood near them during their ordeal.’6
The problems with engineering and logistics would ultimately prove beyond both Fifth and Second Armies. Two tank battalions had been brought in to assist the operations of General Gough, but the awful ground prevented them from getting anywhere near the front, while Plumer–never the Tank Brigade’s warmest supporter–did not even bother to send any up.7 The harassed field companies, working like ants, performed miracles of improvisation throughout October, but it would not be enough. Too few guns could be dragged into range, and those that could were often deployed in the open in extremely precarious positions: half sunk in the glutinous mud, which left their crews foraging desperately for anything–timber, wooden crates, slabs of concrete–that could shore up their gun positions. Without reliable and solid firing platforms, they soon bogged down after a few rounds had been fired, which meant that accuracy suffered and the crews had to laboriously dig them out, reset them and fire again–all under growing enemy counter-battery fire. Ammunition shortages were another problem. While the heroism of the pack mules and their drivers was remarkable, in no way could they possibly meet the enormous demands for shells that a truly powerful preliminary bombardment and creeping barrage would require.8 ‘We dream of nothing else but ammunition in this blessed world’, wrote Stanley Roberts, an NCO with the RFA. ‘Those guns have tremendous appetites. It is impossible to find sufficient food for them, such gluttons are they.’9
For Plumer’s fourth step, II ANZAC Corps would make the main assault, not with Australian or New Zealand units, but two British divisions, 49th and 66th, which had assembled around Frezenberg by the evening of 8 October. It was pouring with rain. They had two and a half miles to go to reach the front line. This should have taken no more than five hours, but some attacking battalions took almost twice as long, before collapsing, exhausted and soaked through, into their jumping-off positions, shortly before the attack began.10 The urgent need to get as many guns as possible forward meant that infantry routes were neglected in the days before the assault, leaving the attacking battalions to rely upon inadequately maintained duckboards that rapidly exhausted the men. Moreover, because priority had been given to the construction of single-track roads that could carry artillery, there were not enough double-track pathways to carry men and materials up and down the line, producing extra delay and what seemed like endless traffic congestion.11
On the other side of the line, the German Fourth Army may have been battered in the three previous assaults, but it still held on to most of the Flanders I Line and could boast strongly wired and heavily fortified positions on the Bellevue Spur, which guarded the western approaches to the village of Passchendaele. Here the defences were well thought out and covered with thickets of barbed wire, up to fifty feet deep in places. Multiple machine-guns were also dug in, mutually supporting and hidden behind the concrete walls of a dozen pillboxes.12 Those divisions that had been in the line on 4 October had been relieved, with fresh units moved up, including 16th, 233rd and 195th Divisions (the latter having been hurried back to Flanders after being earmarked for service in Italy).13 The crucial sector on the Passchendaele Ridge was given to 195th Division, which deployed three Jäger regiments with a reputation as elite troops. As well as being well-rested and motivated, the Jäger regiments also brought with them up to twice the number of machine-guns–both heavy and light–as standard German Army regiments had, meaning that they could produce a formidable volume of firepower should they be attacked. Perhaps on no other place on the battlefield would the British artillery bombardment be of such importance.14
When the strength of the German position was combined with wet weather and an increasingly exhausted attacking force, there was only going to be one outcome. The attack on 9 October (what would become known as the Battle of Poelcappelle) could not have been more different to the victory of Broodseinde; indeed it was reminiscent of the carnage at Langemarck on 16 August. There were no thunderous wall of shellfire (despite some observers being impressed by the spectacle); no impressive gains of ground; no carpeting of German bodies. There were, on the contrary, only patchy artillery support and a weak, tentative attack, as the British infantry slogged forward through a moonscape of mud. ‘I had been frightened sometimes before, and windy; anxious very often’, remembered Neville Hind of 1/Lancashire Fusiliers, who was in one of the attacking divisions that day. ‘But never before, so far as I can now recollect, had I been so stunned, and stupefied, as to lose for some minutes all presence of mind… Earth and air seemed full of death.’ He went on:
The din of the massed artillery behind us, the continuous crash of exploding shells before us, great shoots of fire, and shot in the air above us, the rattle of machine guns in the German line, the bursting of shrapnel shells from the German guns; flashes of flame that seemed to swoop down from the air, as a hawk on its p
rey, and obliterate the men on whom they descended–it was through this kind of thing that we moved forward, across that desolate waste of mud and water and shell-holes–nothing else.
Hind pushed on with his battalion and managed to take one of the pillboxes that were holding them up, before suffering a ‘terrific punch on the back’. He slid into a shell hole, shivering with shock, and realized that he had been hit by a sniper’s bullet. Fortunately it had not punctured any major organs and he was soon evacuated to a casualty clearing station behind the line.15