The battlefield from La Basse Ville to Ypres became a bog. Men stood with their backs to trench walls, coats sodden and filthy, their wet socks and boots sinking into the mud.
HOPE DRIES UP
In the following weeks, further attacks over the churned mud and flooded craters failed to seize the woods. By the end of August the British held only the edge of Inverness Copse— through harsh fighting it had changed hands 18 times. Haig, who’d believed that the Germans were demoralised, had abandoned General Plumer’s small advances in favour of deeper ones, but now it was British morale that was suffering. One captured British soldier said he’d gladly shoot the officers who’d ordered the attacks.
Haig was determined to continue so, with Plumer in charge, a new offensive beginning on 20 September was planned to capture the centre of the Ypres heights. The area around Menin Road and the two woods was the first objective—an advance of 1300 metres in three short stages—then, further along the ridge, Polygon Wood and Broodseinde. From there, two more advances would see Passchendaele captured and the German line possibly broken. With the British divisions exhausted, the 1st, 2nd and 5th Australian Divisions of I Anzac Corps moved to Ypres after a long period of resting and training. The 4th Australian Division, which had fought with II Anzac Corps at Messines, was also back with the corps.
MENIN ROAD
In the darkness of 20 September, the 1st and 2nd Divisions, fighting side by side for the first time, huddled close to Inverness Copse and Glencorse Wood. Once leafy and beautiful, the woods were now black and skeletal against the skyline. The men were on the southern part of the ridge, and to their right was Menin Road, which ran from Ypres to Menin. Flares revealed shadowy pillboxes in the distance. Zero hour, 5.40 a.m., was close. The Australians readied themselves, then, with British divisions on either side, they advanced.
For five days, the artillery had bombarded the now-dry land with 1.5 million shells. It had crushed the fighting spirit of the Germans; many emerged from pillboxes waving white cloths as the Australians charged. The first and second stages fell quickly, and with the shattered woods in their hands, the men waited in captured pillboxes or shell holes, eating sandwiches, smoking German cigars and even reading newspapers.
One Australian group in a pillbox was surprised by a German messenger dog. In a metal tube tied to its neck was an order for the men who should have been in the pillbox to immediately recapture the lost land. But they were dead, wounded or prisoners helping to stretcher out the wounded. Their comrades further back were then expected to retake the land, but they had to advance through a storm of shells and no counterattack reached the Australians.
At the end of the third stage, the troops dug in as shells exploded around them. The men were in high spirits: the attack had been quick, limited and successful across the 12-kilometre front. They were relieved from the front-line that night.
Still, over 5000 Australians had been killed or wounded, most as they dug in. In this battle, as in others, families lost more than one son or brother. The Seabrook family of Five Dock in Sydney received three telegrams afterwards, one for each son that fought beside Menin Road. Theo was 25, George, 24 and William, 21. It had been their first battle. The bodies of Theo and George were never found. William, who was mortally wounded and died the following day, was buried nearby. It was devastating news for their parents and their youngest brother would never speak about it in his lifetime.
POLYGON WOOD
Over the next six days, soldiers worked through shellfire and mustard gas—a new German gas that burned and blistered the skin—to build new roads so the artillery could be moved forward to support the next advance. At dusk, 80 motor lorries dumped road planks near the deadly Hellfire Corner for horse-drawn carts to transport to the next section of road being built. Menin Road, and particularly the railway crossing at Hellfire Corner, were shelled regularly, so transports raced through to avoid random shells. At Hellfire Corner, screens of cloth shielded moving troops and wagons from observation. With shells exploding around them, cart drivers steadied their horses, while soldiers dragged dead horses and smashed wagons from the road.
On 26 September, with the artillery in position, the 4th and 5th Divisions lay at the jumping-off line, facing the thin, shattered stumps of Polygon Wood as German flares lit up the night. In the centre of seven divisions on a nine-kilometre front, the Diggers were again to advance 1300 metres in three steps, their objective to capture the wood. At 5.50 a.m., the British artillery barrage intensified, spewing up walls of dust and smoke as it rolled forward ‘like a Gippsland bushfire’. While many Germans fought as determinedly as in the past, others were stunned and disorientated by the heavy bombardment. When the barrage passed over, many surrendered to the advancing Australians. Some even held out souvenirs for their captors. ‘Old Fritz’s morale vanishes when he knows we are coming,’ said Sergeant Eric Evans.
As British biplanes flew overhead to locate the new frontline, the Australians sheltered in shell holes and lit fires to brew tea. Reinforcements helped dig the new front-line under fire, only stopping to take souvenirs from passing German prisoners. Evans used several prisoners as stretcher-bearers: ‘It’s great sport, driving them on at revolver point.’
The Germans were demoralised; they’d either held the front-line under crushing bombardments or counterattacked through withering shellfire. The Australians and British were feeling more positive; the short attacks on wide fronts after proper preparation were succeeding. In front of them lay Broodseinde Ridge, abandoned by the British in 1915 and now crowded with German headquarters and observation posts.
Since 7 June, the Allies had captured three-quarters of the sickle-shaped ridge. The next advance was to see Brood-seinde Ridge captured, then, after that, Passchendaele.
Hellfire Corner on the Menin Road
in the Ypres sector. AWM E01889
New Zealand soldiers passing the ruins of the Cloth Hall in Ypres.
Alexander Turnbull Library, G- 13129-1/2
SHOCK TROOPS
On 28 September, after a period of resting and training 70 kilometres away, the New Zealand and 3rd Australian Divisions—II Anzac Corps—marched through Ypres, passing the ruins of the ancient Cloth Hall. Hooves and iron wheels clattered and clanged over the cobbled roads as they moved out through Menin Gate towards the front-line. The move had been rushed and the marches to Ypres long and hard—the next advance had been brought forward as the commanders feared that the good weather might end.
The air carried the smell of death. Duckboard tracks wove around a cratered, devastated land dotted with captured pillboxes, ruined tanks, and dead, bloated horses and mules. Villages were mounds of rubble and streams were bogs. Cemeteries were the only thing growing. Some graves had crosses inscribed ‘Rest in Peace’ or ‘Hier ruht in Gott’—here rests in God. Others were simply marked by an upturned rifle with a helmet on top. To Lieutenant Colonel Claud Weston, ‘every square yard of it seemed foul with slaughter.’
The Australians and New Zealanders joined the frontline at night. Both the British command and the Germans now considered them shock troops or storm troops: soldiers who could be given the role of taking the hardest and most vital areas. Evans felt it was deserved: ‘We are given a damn lot of work in every hopover and we have earnt the name of “shock troops” from our enemies.’ The II Anzac Corps hadn’t suffered a defeat at the Western Front yet, and their morale was high after Messines. Private Stan Stanfield came to believe that this self-confidence was misguided:
Of course don’t forget the propaganda—we were brainwashed that we were so good that you had to be good. We were taught not to lay down, therefore we didn’t lay down.
The battle for Broodseinde Ridge was to be launched on 4 October, on a 12-kilometre front with 12 divisions. The Australians and New Zealanders were on the right flank of the advance. From left to right, the New Zealanders and the 3rd Division were to seize Gravenstafel Spur, while the 1st and 2nd Divisions were to capture Br
oodseinde village. This would leave only the northern part of the ridge, including Passchendaele, for the next advances. For the first time, three Australian divisions and the New Zealand Division would fight beside each other, and each was keen to prove itself better than the others. According to Australian Sergeant Henry Kahan, ‘We always believed we were the best and the New Zealanders second best and there were times when I privately reversed that order but I didn’t say so publicly.’
Striking differences had developed between the New Zealanders and the Australians. The New Zealanders were more disciplined, neater, and they were quieter, less likely to sing or be raucous when marching or on leave. Once, while a group of New Zealanders were resting in a canteen, several Australians walked in and immediately sat down at the piano and broke into song. After they left, one of the New Zealanders complained about how ‘doleful’ his own countrymen were. Why couldn’t they ‘pipe up like the Aussies’? he wondered. But when asked why he didn’t join the singalong himself, he answered, ‘The trouble is I’m a New Zealander.’ The New Zealanders were seen as ‘stern, dour and grim’ and became known as the Silent Division.
BROODSEINDE
On 4 October, the divisions of the Anzac corps waited in small coffin-like holes or fortified shell holes, hoping the weather would hold. Flares crackled yellow through the hazy drizzle. It was a freezing night, and, as zero hour approached, the men sheltered under waterproof sheets, occasionally stretching their numb, cramped legs. At 5.40 a.m., 40 minutes before zero hour, they heard the familiar ‘crump, crump’ of German artillery. The shells hit the Australians hard. By dawn, their dead littered the churned-up land—one in seven men had been killed or wounded. Australian Major Philip Howell-Price had been removed from his battalion to spare his life after his two brothers were killed, one at Flers, the other at Bullecourt, but he’d chosen to return when he heard they were attacking. He was never seen again. Officers were uncertain if their men could still attack at zero hour, but when the British barrage began, the Australians shook themselves out of their shell holes, some lighting cigarettes as they crossed the wet ground behind a deafening barrage that hissed up steam and mud rather than a blanket of dust.
The enemy shelling had been part of a planned counterattack to win back ground, and as the Australians advanced, they met a line of advancing Germans. The Australian riflemen and Lewis gunners shot as they walked, breaking the German attack.
Beside the Australians, the New Zealanders found hundreds of German dead scattered among craters, caught out in the open by a barrage so loud that soldiers struggled to hear the man next to them even if he was shouting. After recent battles, the Germans were holding their front-line heavily in order to stop attacks immediately, rather than sending reinforcements from their support lines. Now their frontline troops were trapped between the Diggers and the barrage that had passed behind them.
Machine-gunners fired desperately from the pillboxes. One German officer, revolver in hand, led his men out to charge the New Zealanders. All the Germans were shot down. New officers replaced the fallen as each pillbox was outflanked and bombed. By 9.30 a.m., the Anzac corps were digging in at their final objectives, 1700 metres from where they had started. Broodseinde Ridge, the village and Gravenstafel Spur had been captured.
The Diggers lit red flares to indicate their positions, then covered their new shell-hole posts in camouflage netting. One and a half kilometres along the tip of the sickle-shaped ridge was the red-roofed village of Passchendaele. The New Zealanders, who were on the forward slope of Gravenstafel Spur, looked across a bogged valley at Bellevue Spur, which joined Passchendaele Ridge. Pillboxes lay stark on the spur and gunners fired freely from them, their bullets sweeping no-man’s-land.
With over 5000 Germans surrendering, their few remaining soldiers had only just managed to plug the gaps. Waves of German troops tried to counterattack but were shot down. Officers on horseback tried to round up and rally their scattering troops for another charge, but every time a shell landed among them, the troops fled.
The Germans were disorganised and their commanders seemed powerless to stop the Allied advances. In 15 days, the Allies had struck successfully three times. Many of the officers and troops had wanted to keep advancing and most now believed that if the weather held, the Germans could be forced off the heights. The Germans were exhausted. Many of those surrendering were young—17- or 18-year-olds—and quick to thank their captors. The German commander of the area, Crown Prince Rupprecht of Bavaria, was considering withdrawing from the ridge.
With victory in sight, Field Marshal Haig rushed General Plumer’s step-by-step tactics and ordered the next advance for 9 October, in five day’s time, leaving little time for the artillery to do its job effectively. At noon, rain fell. The Diggers helped their wounded, placing oil sheets over them to keep the rain off, lighting their cigarettes, giving them water or carrying them to crowded pillboxes converted into aid posts.
All Black legend Sergeant Dave Gallaher had been shot in the throat and, like other wounded, he lay outdoors while rain lashed and shells exploded around him. He died later that day. New Zealander Private Robin Hamley had been shot in the neck and stomach. While waiting, he wrote in his diary,
Dear M, D and G
Think I’m dying
Best love
don’t fret
Tell Dorothy
Rob.
He died two days later.
In the trenches the surviving soldiers leaned against the wall because there was no dry place to sit. They were soaked and smeared in stinking Flanders mud. New Zealander Private Neil Ingram spoke for many when he said he would prefer ‘a pig’s life, humans were not made for this.’ The following day, rations arrived. The biscuits were flecked with the blood of horses and men killed while bringing them up. When the men were relieved later that night, Ingram and those left in his company ate a feast of hot stew. The cooks had prepared food for 120 but only 30 men were still standing. When mail arrived for the dead, Ingram and the other survivors opened it and shared out the knitted clothing and food.
DRY AS A BONE , POELCAPPELLE
On the night of 5 October, the 49th and 66th British Divisions followed signposts through the featureless landscape to the front-line. They had been loaned to Lieutenant General Godley’s II Anzac Corps for the next attack. Their advance was one of two steps. They were to advance the line to the outskirts of Passchendaele, supported by the 2nd Australian Division. Then on 12 October, the 3rd Australian and the New Zealand Divisions were to go on to capture the long-sought-after village. The attack should have been postponed— the weather hampered the preparations essential for the step-by-step tactics, and the bogged land and roads had prevented most of the artillery getting into position. Haig, convinced that the German Army was close to collapse, believed too much had been gained to stop now. But rain was still falling.
On 7 October, Haig held a conference with the local commanders to determine whether the attack could still be carried out, stressing ‘that there should be no postponement unless absolutely necessary’. In a conference with war correspondents, one general said the attack should proceed even if the weather was bad—the valleys might be muddy but the ridge itself was ‘as dry as a bone’. After the conference, one correspondent commented:
The official attitude is that Passchendaele Ridge is so important that to-morrow’s attack is worth making whether it succeeds or fails…I suspect that they are making a great, bloody experiment—a huge gamble…I feel, and most of the correspondents feel…terribly anxious.
Lieutenant General Birdwood, commander of I Anzac Corps, also hoped the advance would be postponed, but, as the 2nd Division only had a minor role on the British flank, he kept quiet.
The attack went ahead on 9 October at 5.20 a.m., with the troops already exhausted from an 11-hour march to the front-line. Against a feeble resistance, and with large numbers of Germans surrendering, soldiers from the 66th Division made it to the village outskirts, but
the 49th Division made no progress up the Bellevue Spur. German gunners shot them down, then turned their guns onto the 66th Division, which was forced to retreat, ending up just 450 metres from where they had started. The 2nd Division, which was supporting the 66th’s flank, was also forced back down the slope.
By dusk, the attack was over. The 66th Division was reported as being just short of the first objective. It was therefore decided, possibly on the advice of Godley, that enough ground had been gained for a sufficient jumping-off position to seize Passchendaele village. Godley hadn’t visited the front-line; nor had Major General Monash or Major General Russell.
Haig ordered the next advance to take place in three days’ time. He had to secure the heights—failing to do so would mean that all who’d died over the previous 10 weeks had died for nothing. Blinded by Passchendaele Ridge, Haig told journalists that it was Flanders mud that had defeated the last attack, not the German Army. He said the Germans were at breaking point, and, despite the mud, all that stood between the Australians and the New Zealanders and success were ‘flesh and blood…not blockhouses. They take a month to make.’
Haig’s staff should have informed him of the conditions, but they didn’t. He should have known that the attacks, like those in the August rain, would fail. Even if the British divisions were at the first objective, the Australians and New Zealanders still had to advance 2300 metres: the New Zealanders to capture Bellevue Spur; the 3rd Division, Passchendaele village, with one brigade of the 4th Division supporting its flank. They were to attempt what was initially meant to be two advances in one, a difficult task in dry conditions, let alone in the mud.
For the battle to succeed the artillery had to be in position, but with rain still falling, the guns became bogged. The gunners laid debris under the wheels for traction, and, when the horses sank up to their bellies in the mud, long lines of 100 men dragged the guns forward. But few made it to their new positions and those that did sank and shifted with every shot. The guns couldn’t be fired accurately. The gunners, sick from sleeping in sodden dugouts, were now expected to increase their rate of fire to make up for the lack of guns, but there weren’t enough shells: the pack mules bringing them up were floundering. Some fell into boggy shell holes, disappearing altogether or needing their handlers’ help to keep their heads above the surface. Those that couldn’t be pulled out had to be shot. It now took 17 hours instead of one to reach the front-line, and each shell that arrived had to be cleaned of mud before being fired. When the Diggers took over from the British in the early hours of 11 October, the pillboxes and wire on Bellevue Spur stood brutally intact.
Zero Hour Page 11