Passchendaele
Page 29
British and Dominion morale may have remained remarkably stable, even under the most inhospitable conditions, but it was particularly noticeable how nervous men became as their moment for relief drew nearer. According to Lieutenant Sinclair Hunt (55/Battalion AIF), the first few hours’ walk after being relieved, when you would make your way back down the line, were particularly trying. ‘It is then that the ugly feeling of fear grips hardest’, he wrote.
A hot walk becomes a steady jog, a steady jog becomes a run until some puffing hero declares he won’t run another step for every Fritz in creation and the pace slackens. No barrage descends, some optimist declares he thinks we are pretty right now and wonders what the cooks will have for tea and whether the blankets and packs will be ready when we arrive. The pace becomes a swinging walk and long, long into that night and the next morning parties of weary fagged men limp along the roads resting here and there to get a cup of the finest coffee they ever tasted at some YMCA and often just before dawn throw themselves down upon some tent or hut floor to sleep the sleep of the just.7
As Lieutenant John Nettleton (2/Rifle Brigade) later recalled:
one was always more windy coming down the line than going in. The nearer you were to safety, the worse luck it seemed to be hit. And when you were going on leave, it was worse still. Men who stood up to all sorts of horrors in the line, behaved like frightened rabbits when they were going on leave. It was a well-understood phenomenon and nobody thought the worse of you for it.8
Inevitably some men decided that their only salvation lay in leaving their units, going absent without leave or deserting entirely. The total number of British soldiers reported absent without leave rose steadily throughout 1917, peaking in December with 2,000 recorded cases. Australian soldiers seemed to be particularly affected by the intensity of fighting in Flanders. Despite only consisting of about 3.6 per cent of the nominal strength of the BEF, just short of 200 Australians were recorded as being absent in December 1917 (or about 10 per cent of the total number of deserters). Australian figures for both absence and desertion also hit a high in October–when fighting was at its fiercest.9 Although there is no doubt that Australian and New Zealand combat performance remained high, it was a worrying indication of how draining Passchendaele was becoming. Even senior commanders did not escape lightly. Although they were spared the worst of the conditions of the battlefield, most did not live a life of chateau-bound luxury. The headquarters of II ANZAC Corps was at Ten Elms Camp near Poperinge. Admittedly, this was about five miles from the front line, but most staff officers lived in tents (as did the GOC, Sir Alexander Godley), which were draughty and highly vulnerable to enemy air raids.10 As for I ANZAC Corps, its commander, Sir William Birdwood, made regular trips to the front line and suffered from painful swelling in his feet. ‘Even though I wore good, thick boots, laced lightly to encourage circulation, I found that the many hours I had to spend tramping through icy mud turned my feet into blocks of ice, and gradually a couple of toes gave out and troubled me for years afterwards.’11
Despite the murderous shambles in front of Passchendaele, Haig was not yet willing to give up (or at least not entirely). At a major conference at Cassel on 13 October, which everyone seemed to attend–Kiggell, Charteris, Davidson, Plumer, Gough and assorted staff officers–the question of whether the offensive should continue was discussed. According to Haig, ‘We all agreed that our attack should only be launched when there is a fair prospect of fine weather. When ground is dry no opposition which the Enemy has put up has been able to stop them.’12 This might have been so, but the ‘prospect of fine weather’ seemed increasingly unlikely as the offensive dragged on deeper into the autumn. It was now getting inexorably colder and wetter with little hope for improvement. While the British had benefited from a better than usual September, October was worse than expected and the month was notable for heavy downpours on 7–8, 13, 17 and 24–26 October.13 Yet this did not cause Haig to question whether he should give up; if anything it hardened his determination to see it through, whatever the cost.
In correspondence with John Charteris after the war, Haig would reaffirm that one of the reasons he maintained the offensive was to keep pressure off the French Army, which he then believed to be in an extremely fragile state. When he found out that Winston Churchill, then Chancellor of the Exchequer, had criticized him in the third volume of The World Crisis, Haig was unimpressed. ‘It is impossible for Winston to know how the possibility of the French Army breaking up in 1917 compelled me to go on attacking.’14 Therefore, according to Haig, his operation could only be judged after taking into account the weakness of his allies and the burden this placed on the BEF. Haig’s claim would eventually become enshrined in the British Official History, with Sir James Edmonds writing of the ‘persistent and urgent pleas of General Pétain to continue the Flanders operations in order to ensure that the flow of German reserves should be diverted from the French front’.15
The question of what influence French weakness (or perceived weakness) had on the continuation of the battle is an important one. Most historians have been sceptical of Haig’s claims–seeing them as either a fabricated ex post facto justification or evidence of impaired memory. There is, indeed, little evidence that Pétain begged Haig to keep attacking.16 Recently the historian Elizabeth Greenhalgh has described Haig’s justifications as being ‘completely false’, citing French documents which reveal that in the build-up to the French Army’s attack at Malmaison (which would take place on 23 October) Haig repeatedly asked for it to be brought forward–to as early as 5 October–to draw German units away from Flanders. Much to Haig’s chagrin, Pétain, as cautious as ever, refused to be rushed.17 Haig’s own diary entries are clear on this point. On 26 September he told Robertson that he wanted to see the French commander about ‘the importance of attacking without delay’. He summoned General Anthoine and asked him to get Pétain to do something ‘to hold the German divisions in their front’. Yet it was to no avail. After Haig was told that it would probably be mid-October before Pétain could attack, he was distraught, muttering that this would ‘not help me’ and that the French were ‘not playing the game!’18
The reality was that Pétain had never been particularly keen on Haig’s plans for Flanders, and had warned him about his over-confidence back in May. The thing that Pétain wanted, more than anything else, was for the British to take over more of the Western Front, which would have allowed him to relieve units and concentrate his forces for a number of carefully prepared limited attacks (at either Verdun or the Chemin des Dames). By the autumn of 1917, with Russia likely to exit the war imminently, Pétain’s mind was already turning towards the possibility of having to conduct major defensive operations in 1918, hence his wish to conserve what forces they had. On 18 October, when the Allied general staffs met in Amiens, he asked the British to relieve his Sixth Army and told Haig that he ‘was anxious that I should agree to the principle of taking over more line’–thus raising that perennial bugbear: how much frontage should be allocated to each army on the Western Front.19 When Haig commented that this would probably force him to abandon his operation in Flanders, Pétain was nonplussed. Thus the two Commanders-in-Chief held diametrically opposing views on how to fight the war. Haig–always the compulsive gambler, throwing good money after bad–believed that changed circumstances merely reinforced his belief in offensive action. Pétain, on the contrary, showed a much more perceptive grasp of how the tide of war was changing and turning, ominously, against them.20
For the time being, then, Haig remained convinced that he was on the cusp of a decisive victory and that the enemy was close to breaking. When Major-General Macdonogh at the War Office disagreed with some of his most recent pronouncements on the state of the enemy (which had been drawn from prisoner interrogations), Haig was deeply affronted and complained loudly to Robertson.21 The problem was that the Field Marshal had ‘cried wolf’ too many times before. Certainly, morale was low in a number of German divisions–Haig cited the 10
th Bavarian and 79th Reserve Divisions as being particularly poor–but how much reliance could be placed upon the testimonies of individual prisoners or rumours about mutinous units? In any case, so what? This hardly meant that the whole German Army was on the brink of collapse. Robertson, as coolly as ever, wrote back to Haig on 18 October. For three years ‘numerous optimistic prophecies and calculations… have been made by different people, and it is not too much to say that most of them have proved to be false’. Therefore, it was ‘premature to assume that any great diminution of morale in the German armies has yet taken place’.22
The arguments over the state of morale in the German Army, and whether GHQ’s assessments were accurate, rumbled on for the rest of the year. But they would become increasingly irrelevant to the last series of attacks that would be made on the Passchendaele Ridge. On 3 October, Haig had signalled that the next phase of operations would be conducted by the Canadian Corps, which had been holding the line around Lens. Having recently been involved in a sapping attritional battle at Hill 70, its commander, Lieutenant-General Sir Arthur Currie, was loath to put his corps through more combat, let alone in dreaded Flanders. It had been rumoured that they were being placed in Fifth Army, but Currie made it clear that he would, under no circumstances, serve under Gough, and Haig, reluctantly, went along with him. When Currie met Plumer on 13 October, a day after the attacks towards Passchendaele had met with such fierce resistance, he made it clear how unhappy he was. One look at the ground convinced him that the whole endeavour was futile. He is reported to have said that taking the Passchendaele Ridge would cost 16,000 casualties (and subsequent events would prove his forecast to be remarkably accurate). The blasted place was ‘not worth a drop of blood’, he swore. Plumer, always a sympathetic listener, had to agree, but shook his head slowly.
‘My orders are clear.’23
News of Currie’s unease did not take long to reach GHQ. ‘It was not common for Haig to dicker with his generals’, wrote the historian Tim Cook, but in this case he made an exception.24 In stark contrast to how he treated his other–British–corps commanders, Haig felt it necessary to ask personally for Currie’s help. Partly this was due to Haig’s growing respect for the Canadian, but it also reflected Currie’s position as head of what was, effectively, a small ‘national army’ with a ‘de facto veto over what Haig and British Army commanders could or could not ask the Canadian Corps to do’.25 According to Major-General Archie Macdonell (GOC 1st Canadian Division), when Haig’s car rolled up during a divisional meeting, Currie went outside to greet the Field Marshal, who was eager to put some kind of proposition to him. ‘Haig was very earnest and very animated and after a halt during which he had failed to convince Currie, would take him by the arm and walk up and down with him in a very animated way and evidently full of argument.’ Shortly afterwards, Haig addressed Currie’s staff directly. He told them that Passchendaele had to be taken and that the Canadians were being asked to do it. He admitted that their commander was ‘strongly opposed’ to doing so.
‘But I have succeeded in overcoming his scruples. Some day I hope to be able to tell you why this must be done, but in the mean time I ask you to take my word for it.’
Haig reassured the men that ‘an unprecedented amount of artillery’ would support their attack.26
Sir Arthur Currie could not have been more unlike Haig. Hailing from a modest background in Strathroy, Ontario, Currie had been, successively, a teacher, insurance salesman, commander of militia and real-estate broker. Currie had joined the militia in 1897, and although he was prevented from serving in the South African War owing to an on-going stomach ailment–that would periodically resurface in France–he was a natural fit. Known as a disciplinarian, Currie approached war with an emphasis on professionalism and training, smart dress and attention to detail. Crucially, Currie ‘never claimed to have all the answers’, but read what he could, learnt off others, and understood that only hard-won experience would allow him to master his craft.27 These traits would stand him in good stead as he embarked on a dizzying rise: brigadier-general in 1914; major-general in 1915; and lieutenant-general twenty-one months later. By the summer of 1917, Currie had become the foremost Canadian soldier in the empire–and the man whom Haig went to when he needed a favour.
Haig’s reticence in telling Currie why the Passchendaele Ridge had to be taken was, in some respects, quite remarkable. For such an important operation to go ahead, employing some of the best troops in the empire, without a clear understanding of why objectives had to be secured and at such a late stage, was highly unusual. But Haig, as can be understood, was not keen to dwell on the matter or discuss it in more detail. When Currie asked him, again and again, why the ridge had to be taken, Haig would reply with the same infuriating phrase–that some day he would tell Currie, but not now.28 The truth was that without it he had little to show for an offensive that had been conceived in over-optimism and which had failed to achieve its grandiose objectives. The Field Marshal had envisaged his forces sweeping towards the Flanders coast, but the grim truth was that Roulers and the Channel were as distant as ever. Without the ridge in his hands, Haig would have to go bareheaded back to the War Cabinet and beg for their forgiveness. Therefore, the capture of Passchendaele was not about breaking the line or fixing the enemy in place, or even gaining a better line for the winter–it was about saving Haig’s own skin.
Haig may not have been open about his reasons for wanting Passchendaele taken, but his attitude towards Currie illustrated how important the Canadian Corps had become by 1917. The biggest overseas contingent of the BEF, it comprised four divisions with supporting artillery, engineering and medical units, and totalled over 8,000 officers and 106,000 other ranks (significantly bigger than the Australian and New Zealand contingents, which could field around 75,000 men combined).29 Whereas British divisions would be shuffled around the front as was necessary, moving in and out of corps headquarters on a relatively regular basis, it was made clear to the British Government by Ottawa that Canadian public opinion would not stand for their divisions being treated in the same way. Canadian divisions would stay together, and they would fight together. Some British officers would grumble that this meant that the Canadians were more troublesome to deploy and less flexible than British units–and there was certainly some truth in this–but the benefits more than outweighed any drawbacks. Because Canadian troops operated together, not only did this help to generate a remarkable esprit de corps and cohesion, but it also made it easier to develop and promulgate new tactics and doctrine.
By 1917 the Canadian Corps had won a growing reputation for innovation and professionalism on the battlefield. By the time it attacked Vimy Ridge on 9 April, it had already pioneered the use of new platoon tactics, more effective counter-battery fire, machine-gun barrages and armoured cars.30 Canadian units were also employing greater numbers of analysts and intelligence staff, and to a lower level, than their British counterparts and were making impressive efforts to integrate this with air power and artillery.31 Utilizing a new centralized structure, the Counter-Battery Staff Office, the Canadian Corps was able to pool information on the location and movements of enemy guns and devise comprehensive measures for dealing with them. At Vimy, Canadian officers reckoned that they had pinpointed 176 out of 212 German guns on their front; a success rate of over 80 per cent.32 Indeed, this excellence–more than anything else–showed why Haig had entrusted the capture of the Passchendaele Ridge to the Canadians. Their struggle to seize the high ground would be the last great act of the Third Battle of Ypres. If they could not take it, then no one could.
The German infantry of ‘F’ Company, 9/Grenadier Regiment (3rd Guard Division), went up to the front on 13 October, deploying from Keiberg north to the Ypres–Roulers railway line, just south of the village of Passchendaele. ‘The weather is dreary’, recorded the regimental history. ‘Rain day and night. All paths have been destroyed.’
As far as the eye can see, everything is a vast fi
eld of craters. Fusiliers will sink into the muddy ground up to their knees. The craters themselves are filled with muddy water, and only a few concrete blocks [pillboxes] that have escaped enemy bombardment so far offer miserable protection against the inclemency of the weather to small numbers. Most men lie wet and freezing in the craters, partly in water, and the tarpaulins they have pulled over their heads barely protect them against moisture from above. At the same time, any conspicuous movement must be avoided. For all day a swarm of enemy aircraft continuously circles in the sky above, reporting any movement to their artillery. The heaviest harassing fire is continuously trained on the sea of craters…33
By October 1917 conditions on the Passchendaele Ridge were appalling. The village itself had been almost wiped from the map, and aerial photographs showed all too clearly the progressive destruction of buildings and roads. When he first saw it, ‘lit by the glare of the morning sun’, a soldier with 13 Reserve Infantry Regiment (13th Reserve Infantry Division) was amazed. ‘The smashed walls reached up towards the sky, as did the wrecked and torn remains of the church… In all directions there was yawning emptiness, ruins, ruin and destruction.’ There was little cover for the men, just endless shell holes–what they called the Trichterfeld, the ‘crater field’–while battalion headquarters was housed in a ruined farmhouse that was terribly vulnerable to shellfire. It was from here that the next phase of the battle would be led: the desperate juggling act of trying to support the forward battalions as they fought off the attackers; working out where reserves should be sent; and then pressing forward from shell hole to shell hole through murderous drumfire.34
It was often said that the terrible ground conditions and appalling weather hampered the attackers far more than the defenders. General von Kuhl thought differently. For him the opposite was true. Because the ground water was just below the surface, German troops were left exposed on the battlefield; unable to build the trenches or dugouts that would have protected them from the unending ‘iron rain’. While the landscape was dotted with concrete pillboxes and bunkers, these were magnets for enemy guns and soon became surrounded by shell holes and scattered with bodies–like battered ships amid a turbulent sea of mud. Kuhl described the situation German troops faced in stark terms: