by John Taylor
It is true that Fifth Army issued its warning about Sergeant Phillips on 16 August, but this made it clear he had been captured three weeks before, so he could not possibly have been responsible, while the story about him being dismissed from GHQ also seems fanciful. Another survivor of the attack, Private William Groom of 5th Bn London Regiment, heard the same story in an officer’s pep-talk: ‘At first we thought it was just a yarn to excuse our costly defeat but then we remembered the shells that dropped amongst us, and slaughtered the reserves behind us, at the very moment our barrage opened.’23
A version of the story reached 51st (Highland) Division, with some gruesome embroidery: ‘The location of our tanks in a wood was said to have been … given away, with resulting destructive attention from bombers; and it was also said that the spy, caught later in flagrante delicto, was obliterated in the mud by an appropriate and lucky tank accident.’24
* * *
Now that the facts have finally been uncovered, it is possible to disentangle the mixture of truth, speculation and rumour which make up the story of Sergeant Phillips. It is clear the Tank Corps were mistaken in one important respect: the Germans already knew there were tanks in Oosthoek Wood before Sergeant Phillips and Corporal John were captured on 26/27 July. They had been shelling Oosthoek Wood since the beginning of the month, with the bombardment that killed the tankmen from C Battalion, for instance, taking place on 4 July.25 The fact was that despite the attempts at camouflage, German aircraft had spotted tell-tale signs almost as soon as the tanks moved in, and the intelligence officer who interrogated Sergeant Phillips added a significant note to his report: ‘Confirmed by aerial photographs.’26
In one important respect Sergeant Phillips and Corporal John probably did increase to the enemy’s knowledge. The aerial photographs had only revealed a small number of tanks in the wood, and the news that there were hundreds must have come as a shock. This may help to answer another question that perplexed the tank crews: if the Germans knew where the tanks were hidden, why did they not dedicate more effort to destroying them? It was true that the massive build-up of British forces in the Salient had created a profusion of targets, but it still seemed surprising that the shelling and bombing of Oosthoek Wood were, in the words of one officer, ‘rather desultory’.27 Or as Major Watson put it: ‘Knowing what they did, it is a little astonishing that the German gunners did not increase their nightly ration of shells, which merely disturbed the guard, who slept under the tanks when not on duty, and did not damage a tank.’28
This would make sense if the Germans had only spotted a few tanks in the wood. In addition, Major Clough Williams-Ellis offered another more depressing possibility: the tanks may not have been seen as much of a threat. ‘Perhaps the Germans, having no illusions as to what fighting in Flanders meant, and being reasonably alive to the natural limitations of tanks, scouted [i.e. dismissed] the idea of a tank attack being possible or being even seriously contemplated. Be that as it may, they certainly failed to act on the very valuable information given them in anything like an adequate way.’29
However, by the time the Germans learned the true scale of the tank preparations at Oosthoek, they may have thought it was too late. The interrogation report was prepared on 29 July, and it was reasonable to assume that by then the tanks would have moved into their forward positions ready for the attack, which was clearly imminent. However, if the Germans did think this they were mistaken. G Battalion had indeed left for the front line, but they were replaced by E Battalion, whose tanks began arriving in the wood on 29 July, while D Battalion had been designated as corps reserve and its tanks (including D51) would remain there until required.
Whatever the practical effect of the prisoners’ revelations, the fact remains that they did pass on information of potential value to the enemy, and it seems baffling that they should have done so. Sergeant Phillips, especially, was a seasoned soldier and held a trusted position as a senior NCO. He must have been familiar with the spirit, if not the letter, of the army’s standing orders: ‘If a man has the misfortune to be taken prisoner, he is not to give any information beyond his own name and rank. The enemy cannot and will not compel him to say more – though he may threaten to do so – on the contrary he will respect a man whose courage and patriotism do not fail even though wounded or a prisoner. Prisoners should be on their guard against Germans dressed as British officers who are employed by the enemy to extract information.’30 Perhaps some trickery was involved, while Major Watson thought the information was given ‘probably under pressure’.31 At the same time, Sergeant Phillips’ account of the raid suggests he felt some resentment towards the officer in charge, and no doubt the Germans played on this, as well as exploiting the confusion, fear and desire for self-preservation that might be found in any prisoner.
Strange to say, despite the curiosity that the story has aroused, no-one has ever identified Sergeant Phillips (or Corporal John), or found out what happened to them after the war. This turns out be harder than it sounds, since both names were relatively common in a Welsh regiment, and the military records give no further details about them.
The crucial clues are to be found in the German interrogation report, which identifies their battalion, and in an ‘embarkation roll’ which lists 1,000 officers and men who went to France with 14th Bn Royal Welsh Fusiliers in December 1915. This includes the name of 21158 Corporal S. Phillips,32 and the medal records show this number belonged to Samuel Phillips and confirm that he was promoted to sergeant.33 Finally, the records kept by the International Committee of the Red Cross show that he was indeed captured near Ypres on 26 July.34
* * *
In the late summer of 1917, a letter arrived at the terraced cottage of Mrs Phillips containing the information she had been praying for: her husband was safe and well, though a prisoner-of-war in Germany. The good news appeared in the local Welsh language newspaper: ‘The wife of Sergeant Sam Phillips … has received a letter from him saying he is a prisoner of the Germans in Lemberg [this should be Limburg], along with three others.’35
A few days later another local paper carried details of a letter sent from another camp in which he described his capture: ‘I was sent out one night and was in charge of a patrol when in the dark we went a little too far and got into a German trench. We put up a good fight before we were taken. Send me something to sweeten my coffee as we don’t get any sugar or milk and no tea, butter, or jam. I am only allowed to write one letter every fortnight.’36
Not surprisingly there was no mention of his interrogation, and Mrs Phillips was no doubt unaware of the furore this had caused. She had married Sam, who was a miner’s son, in 1911 when they were both aged twenty-three and he was working as a bricklayer, while his bride worked as a servant on a farm. After the wedding they went to live with her parents in their little cottage, though it must have been a tight fit as their first child was born soon afterwards. Other children followed, including a son born in 1916 who was obviously a parting gift before Sergeant Phillips went off to war.37
There was nothing in his past to indicate why he might have given away information, though we should not rush to judgment against him unless we have endured a similar situation ourselves. One searches his photograph for any clue, but the open face seems guileless and there is no obvious sign of malice or calculation. His family, not surprisingly, were aware he had served in the First World War but knew nothing more, not even that he had been taken prisoner, and do not believe that he might have been responsible for any breach of security. There is therefore no clue as to what might have motivated him.
Sergeant Phillips remained in captivity for the rest of the war, and we should leave him there to ponder what the future might hold; but the story has a strange and tragic sequel, and as we shall see, he would later repay any debt of honour that he might owe to his country.
PART II
THE BATTLE OF PASSCHENDAELE
Map 3 shows plans for the first action involving tanks from D Battal
ion during the Battle of Passchendaele. At lower left is the village of St Julien, though this had been all but obliterated, along with the river Steenbeek.
The approximate German front line is indicated, though the swampy ground prevented the creation of a continuous trench system. In front were a series of concrete strongpoints, and the objective on 22 August was to seize a number of these in preparation for an attack on the main front line.
The seven outposts to be taken by D Battalion are shown in boxes, with the crew numbers of the tanks that were to attack each one (though a number of crews were now using G Battalion tanks).
To their right, the tanks of F Battalion attacked a further series of strongpoints which are shown in the sector allocated to 61st Division, and to their right again tanks from C Battalion attacked with men from 15th Division. Two F Battalion tanks were to tackle Schuler Farm, which was also the ultimate objective of D51.
The approximate starting positions of the attacking infantry battalions are shown by a thick dashed line, though again this was not a continuous line of trenches. The British start-line incorporated a number of German outposts captured by G Battalion on 19 August, as described in Chapter 8. A description of the attack on 22 August is given in Chapters 10–12, with a full order of battle in Appendix A.
On 27 August, D Battalion launched a fresh attack on Springfield and Vancouver, as well as Genoa, Hübner and Stroppe Farms. This is described in Chapter 13.
CHAPTER 8
Ray of Sunshine
In mid-August the British finally began the next phase of their great offensive in the Ypres Salient, now generally referred to as the Battle of Passchendaele, and the full brilliance of the German defensive strategy was revealed. Unable to construct a conventional trench system in the swampy terrain, they had opted for a flexible system of defence in depth, with the front positions held by isolated units whose job was to disrupt the advance, and their main forces further back, beyond the range of most artillery fire and ready to counter-attack when the time was right. To create a series of forward outposts, they had transformed the farmhouses that dotted the area into a network of concrete bunkers which were the only truly solid features in this liquid landscape. Since these seemed all but indestructible, even by artillery, their machine guns now held fearful dominion over the blasted plain across which the British had to advance.
Three-and-a-half miles (or five-and-a-half kilometres) north-east of Ypres, near the central axis of their offensive, the British had seized what had once been a village called St Julien,1 through which flowed what had once been a stream called the Steenbeek. The village had been more or less blown off the face of the earth, and the Steenbeek had disappeared just as completely, though its filthy waters still skulked through an ever-shifting morass of shell craters. Half a mile east of St Julien, what had once been a road traversed the quagmire between the devastated villages of Langemarck (to the north-west) and Zonnebeke (to the south-east), and the farmhouses lining this road had been converted into a chain of bunkers and pillboxes which formed the first bastion of the German defences.
Ironically, the British had seized a number of these strongpoints at the high point of their surge forward on 31 July, before the German counter-attacks swept them back and left them clinging, like drowning men, to the wreckage of St Julien. Now the same positions would have to be taken all over again, and it was clear this was going to be a bloody and protracted business.
In theory tanks offered an ideal solution, since they were largely immune to machine-gun fire and could manoeuvre round to fire on the blockhouses from the rear, demoralising the defenders and forcing them to surrender or withdraw. But this was to ignore the appalling nature of the ground, which severely limited the tanks’ powers of movement and left them ditched, and sometimes half-submerged, the moment they strayed off the shattered roads.
These difficulties were exposed when the offensive finally resumed on 16 August. Twelve tanks from G Battalion left their forward positions to support the attack, but as they travelled towards the start-line they became repeatedly bogged down despite heroic efforts by the crews with their unditching gear, and by the tanks which towed each other free, and by the Royal Engineers who laboured to dig them out. Not one arrived in time and the infantry were left to advance unsupported. Not surprisingly they made limited progress, leading even the normally upbeat Colonel Baker-Carr to dismiss it as a ‘ghastly failure’.2
For those who had doubts about tanks, this fiasco added to the sense that they would never be a viable weapon of war. The Tank Corps was increasingly seen as a costly luxury which tied up thousands of men and drained resources from factories that were straining to feed the guns with ammunition. The products of all this ingenuity and expense now lay scattered across the Salient for anyone to see, in varying states of destruction and often sinking up to their sponsons in mud.
And then, on 19 August, as if the sun had broken out over the battlefield, the whole prospect suddenly changed.
* * *
The occasion for this transformation was a small-scale operation against a cluster of strongpoints to the north of St Julien. Rather than repeat their previous mistake of travelling cross-country, the tanks of G Battalion were ordered to keep to the roads, or what was left of them. Furthermore, they were given a leading role in the operation and the infantry were ordered not to move forward until the positions had been taken.3
Eight tanks took part in the attack against a series of positions known as the Cockcroft, Maison du Hibou, Triangle Farm, Hillock Farm and the Gun Pit. The attack was originally conceived on a much larger scale, and the orders issued only two days beforehand included the capture of a further series of strongpoints stretching away to the south called Vancouver, Springfield and Winnipeg – recalling the presence of Canadian troops who had borne the brunt of the first poison gas attack here in April 1915. Tanks had reached some of these positions on the opening day of the offensive, only to be driven back by the German counter-attack. It is not clear why the latest operation was scaled back, though perhaps the available resources were felt to be inadequate against so many objectives.4 As it was, the plan revolved around surprise, with the tanks advancing along the roads under cover of a sudden barrage, and smoke shells saturating any higher ground from which they could be observed. Once the tanks had subdued the strongpoints, the infantry would then move forward to occupy them.
To the delight, and it must be said astonishment, of the attackers, the Germans fell back almost immediately when the tanks approached, abandoning their positions and leaving the infantry to move in unopposed. This was achieved at a cost to the Tank Corps of two men killed and sixteen wounded, as well as the loss of three tanks which became ditched and had to be abandoned by their crews.5 A report in the files of Lieutenant-General Sir Ivor Maxse, the commander of XVIII Corps which conducted the operation, summarized the results: ‘ …our line was carried forward on a front of one mile and to a depth of 400 yards. We had captured five strong points and inflicted on the Germans a loss of seventy-five casualties. The total casualties to our infantry were only fifteen instead of 600 as estimated. Thus it will be seen the tanks on this occasion won a battle and saved British lives.’6
A wise person has remarked that success has many parents, and among those who sought to take the credit was Lieutenant-Colonel John Fuller, a staff officer at Tank Corps headquarters, who described how he had devised the method of attack based, apparently, on one used by the ancient Greeks. He told how ‘the Fifth Army, which detested tanks and seldom had a good word for them, accepted my tactics’.7 Fuller’s Napoleonic aspirations meant he was widely known as ‘Boney’, and it was not surprising that the man he liked to call ‘the Murat of the Corps’8 should also seek to take the victor’s laurels. The commander of 1st Tank Brigade, Colonel Christopher Baker-Carr – who shared a certain flamboyance with the erstwhile Marshal of France, Joachim Murat – left no doubt in his memoirs that he was the real driving-force behind the attack. At the same tim
e, he was careful to acknowledge the support of Maxse, who he described as ‘a kind of god-father to the tanks’.9 He told how Maxse had ignored the ‘contemptuous silence’ of the divisional commanders and informed them that ‘this was “Baker-Carr’s battle” and that any demands I made were to be met’.10
Maxse was also no slouch when it came to taking credit for the success, as he showed in a letter to his wife, an equally formidable figure who he addressed as ‘Tiny’:
This last little operation was run on a new plan invented, partially, by myself. At any rate, if it was not invented by me it was carried out for the first time by this corps at my instigation … I need scarcely tell you who know me too well that my plan was simplicity itself and was just obviously the thing to be done, in fact mere common-or-garden reasoning … When the results became known yesterday my Corps [Headquarters] became a centre of interest, from G.H.Q down to the humblest platoon commander!! Kig. [i.e. Sir Douglas Haig’s Chief of General Staff, Lieutenant-General Launcelot Kiggell] for the first time in the war phoned to ask ‘how it was done’? as if one could explain common-sense down a telephone to some one who has never commanded even a humble company!’11
Maxse was so much the model of a modern general that he even had a ‘spin doctor’ back home in the form of his brother Leo, whose father had bought him an ailing periodical called the National Review to run. Against the odds, Leo Maxse had turned this into a highly influential journal, and was therefore well placed to keep his brother updated on political developments at home. One of Leo’s contacts was the industrialist Frank Dudley Docker, chairman of the Metropolitan Carriage, Wagon and Finance Company which was a leading producer of tanks, and after a visit to their factory in the West Midlands, Leo told his brother how he had extolled the ‘recent brilliant little operation in your Corps when the tanks showed their marvellous life-preserving effectiveness’. Leo proposed using this to motivate the workers: ‘I could not help wishing that an account of it might be posted up all through the Works for the benefit of the employees, whose co-operation is just as essential to beat the Boche as that of the fighting men.’12