SOMME

by Lyn Macdonald

  British reconnaissance planes flying with fighter escorts behind the German lines were not allowed to go about their business entirely unmolested but they managed, to a far greater degree than the enemy, to produce vast quantities of photographs of fine definition which, even taken from high altitude, pinpointed with extraordinary accuracy the enemy’s supply and ammunition dumps, his transport depots and gun positions, the roads which carried his soldiers to and from the line. The Army cartographers were consequently able to produce maps so finely delineated that the guns were able to range and fire on such targets with a precision that was distinctly disturbing to the Germans. In a secret report, later captured by British Intelligence, the Germans observed:

  It is worthy of remark that our enemy’s guns apparently have a much smaller zone of dispersion than our own. He also appears to have better and more accurate data for shooting from the map than we have. This seems to be proved by the fact that, in weather that excludes all possibility of observation, and under conditions very different from those prevailing during previous shoots, he obtains hits on small targets with great accuracy.

  The Germans’ answer during the bloody days of August was to keep firing with every gun they had in continuous bombardments – haphazard, but so intense that, raking and ranging methodically back and forth behind the British line, the sheer intensity of the fire-power was bound to wreak destruction somewhere and lower the morale of the British troops as much as it raised the morale of their own men. On one such night of thundering retribution, they scored a hit that sent the morale of C.276 Battery plummeting to the edge of despair.

  In the Signallers’ dugout a little way behind the guns, George Worsley and Fred Sharples were only twenty yards from the ammunition dump when the shell hit it and if the 2,000 eighteen-pounder shells had gone up in one almighty bang, they would not have lived to tell the tale. It was bad enough that it started a fire.

  Gunner George Worsley, No. 690452, C Bty., 276th Brigade, Royal Field Artillery, 55th Division

  It was like all hell let loose – an absolute inferno! It was like someone throwing fire crackers into a fire, but multiplied a million times. All the ammunition was exploding in the heat and flying over our heads. There were no officers there and no order was given.

  There were three of us stood in a trench and, of course, the top of the trench was crumbling in all the time until our ankles were covered and I screamed at this NCO even though he was a bombardier. I took charge. ‘We’ll get killed whatever happens!’ I screamed. ‘We’ll be killed whether we stop here or whether we run away. For God’s sake, let’s be killed trying to get out of it.’ And he said, ‘Right-o, George.’

  It was every man for himself. We ran like hell. The dump was blazing, lighting up the sky, and there was nothing else to do but run because, as soon as the Germans spotted it – and you could see it for miles around – all their guns would be trained on it.

  There was a young officer staggering round blinded and screaming and, as we ran, I saw our cook – just his head sticking out of the earth where he’d been buried, and he was screaming too. Not that you could hear anything in the terrible roaring of all these explosives, but you could see by men’s faces if they were screaming. And you could see that this man had gone stark staring mad by the frenzy in his face.

  You couldn’t do anything for him. The idea of digging amidst all that would have been sheer lunacy and everyone was running just to get out of it. I didn’t expect to get out of it. I didn’t expect to be alive a few seconds afterwards. We ran like hell until we were out of range. Then we dropped down and lay on the ground and watched this thing – a great lurid light, lighting up the whole sky. Blazing!

  At dawn, when the fire had burnt itself out, the few survivors, sleepless, shocked and white-faced, began to stumble back towards the guns. But there were no guns to be seen and nothing but a few tangles of twisted metal among the smoking debris to hint that a battery had ever stood there. There was no sign of the cook. No sign of the blinded officer. No sign of a single survivor among the mangled bodies in the wreckage.

  A little later a visitor arrived. His appearance was strangely incongruous in the blackened desolation of the burnt-out gun sites and contrasted oddly with the tousled looks of the shocked and filthy gunners. It was a warm morning and the Staff Officer was jacketless. His shirt sleeves were neatly rolled up, his breeches immaculately pressed, a cane tucked under his arm. He was clean, newly shaved and looked as if he had enjoyed an excellent breakfast before setting off on the difficult journey up to the gun-line.

  Gunner George Worsley, No. 690452, C Bty., 276th Brigade, Royal Field Artillery, 55th Division

  He presumed to give us a lecture. Nobody formed up or stood in a line or anything, we just looked at him and I can remember every word he said. He said, ‘Well, men, I can see you’ve had a terrible night. But you haven’t seen the worst of war yet.’ (We looked at each other as if to say, ‘You should have bloody well been here last night!’) He said, ‘It’s when you see women and children killed. That’s the worst of war. Now, while you’re here, I want you to forget about your wives and your sweethearts and your friends. Concentrate on the job in hand, so that, when the time comes for you to march out, those of you who are fortunate enough to be left can march out with your heads held high.’

  What a lot of rot! We just exchanged looks. So far as we were concerned, he could have had England for twopence at that moment! By the time we went out of the line, of the original forty-two in our battery, there were only six of us left.

  In the course of the day a few more survivors drifted back. They included the Sergeant who, to Worsley’s later chagrin, was awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal for ‘putting the fire out’. New guns were hauled up and dug into fresh positions; new gunners arrived to replace the casualties and later in the day there was a well-meaning attempt to provide the men with a hot meal. Worsley’s portion was a mess-tin of what appeared to be warm water with raw mutton fat floating on the top. His stomach, churning with the stench of the dead, revolted. Captain Smith happened to be passing and Worsley, shoving the mess-tin under his nose, snarled, ‘Look at that.’ The Captain took a step back. Worsley followed, remorselessly holding the unsavoury dish under the officer’s nostrils. ‘Go on! Look at it! It’s not fit for swine. If we have to be killed, for God’s sake let us die with something in our bellies.’

  It was an extraordinary breach of discipline and protocol, but Smith and Worsley had served together since the beginning of the war. The Captain knew his man, though it was difficult to recognize the young Territorial of two years before in the strained, dishevelled figure who confronted him now. For more than ten days Worsley, like his comrades, had slept – when sleep was possible – in his clothes. Like his comrades, for the past twelve days he had neither loosened his puttees nor undone the laces of his boots. Like his comrades he was at the point of exhaustion and, as Captain Smith doubtless realized, nearing the end of his tether. The Captain nodded sympathetically, looked at the ‘soup’ in the mess-tin and murmured, ‘I’m sorry.’ There was little he could do about it.

  Some twenty-five kilometres away, where the King was a guest of honour at a luncheon party at Fourth Army Headquarters at Querrieu, the menu was more elaborate:

  MENU

  Déjeuner

  Oeufs Glacés à la Russe

  Poularde Rotie

  Viande Froide

  Salade

  Mousse aux Fraises

  Compôte de Framboises

  Desserts

  The meal had been planned to appeal to the most refined tastes for, besides the King, the party included some senior Commanders of the French Army. In deference to their Gallic appreciation of good food the dishes had been prepared with elaborate care; in deference to the King’s wishes, no alcohol was served. At the beginning of the war the King had set an example of sacrifice and abstemiousness to the nation by announcing that neither wine nor spirits would be served at his table un
til the day of victory. Certain disgruntled courtiers, offered a Hobson’s choice of flaccid soft drinks, entertained the ignoble suspicion that the ‘ginger ale’ served to the King bore a strong resemblance to whisky and soda and that the fizz in Queen Mary’s ‘fruit cup’ owed more to Champagne than to lemonade. Their disgust was as nothing compared to that of General Joffre when Haig’s butler, Shaddock, with as much aplomb as if he had been offering Hock or Chablis, invited him to state his preference for ginger beer or orange juice.

  Sir Douglas Haig was fond of ‘Papa’ Joffre; the two men got on well and Haig’s excellent French, combined with an instinctive ability to handle Marshal Joffre, had amicably resolved numerous arguments and smoothed many feathers which had been ruffled by disagreements on Allied policy. But he could not resist teasing the old man. His orderly, Secrett (who combined his duties as personal servant to the Commander-in-Chief with those of mess servant when his master dined or entertained guests) was consumed by amusement behind a suitably impassive countenance.

  Like Secrett, Sir Douglas had observed from the corner of his eye the meaning look Joffre cast at the waiter, with a half nod towards his empty wine glass.

  Haig beckoned a waiter. ‘I think Marshal Joffre wants the bread!’ The waiter dutifully presented the silver bread basket to Joffre who politely accepted, taking the opportunity of lifting his eyebrows, rolling his eyes towards the empty glass and then staring the waiter directly in the face in an endeavour to communicate the telepathic message that man – or at least a Frenchman – cannot live by bread alone. With the oblivious exceptions of the King himself and the President of France on his right, the whole party was now aware of Joffre’s predicament. The entrée was brought in and served. Still Marshal Joffre’s wine glass remained empty. Sitting on the King’s left, impressed by the proximity of Majesty, he achieved the difficult feat of appearing to give his full attention to the royal conversation conducted in the King’s schoolboy French and, as soon as His Majesty turned to talk to the President on his right, pantomiming to waiter or butler in discreet dumb show, and venturing – as if absentmindedly – to toy with the stem of his empty glass.

  ‘I think,’ remarked Haig jovially, ‘that the Marshal would like some more bread.’

  Again the waiter presented the bread. Again Marshal Joffre snatched a piece, glaring at Sir Douglas Haig across the table. It was plain to all that he would have dearly liked to throw it at him.

  As soon as the meal was finished and the King was safely closeted in another room in private conversation with President Poincaré, Haig’s secretary, in response to a nod from the Commander-in-Chief, discreetly drew Marshal Joffre aside, explained the circumstances and offered him ‘a little something’. Joffre refused with disdain. If he could not enjoy a glass of wine with his meal like any civilized man he would take nothing at all.

  This slightly unfortunate episode did not advance the cause of Anglo-French understanding. However, it had, on the whole, been a satisfactory afternoon, particularly for Sir Douglas Haig. He had been able to assure President Poincaré, who was ‘… most anxious, before the approach of winter, that we should have made some decisive advance in order to keep the people of France and England from grumbling…’, that he expected at least ten weeks of good weather before winter set in, that he was unequivocally optimistic that a great deal would be accomplished, and that he and General Foch were in entire agreement about future plans. He had also had the honour of playing host to the King at an excellent lunch which had been sauced by a good joke and, after the French visitors had left, Sir Douglas Haig had the ultimate gratification of being presented by the King with the Grand Cross of the Victorian Order. This honour was in the King’s personal gift and, although the immaculate tunic of the Commander-in-Chief already carried several rows of well-earned campaign and service medals, none could approach the value of this mark of his Sovereign’s personal esteem and appreciation.

  The King, equally pleased with his visit, took his departure to spend a few days with his armies in the north before returning to London. Accompanied by the Prince of Wales, his personal ADC and Major Thompson (an ADC provided by the Commander-in-Chief) the King was driven back to St Pol in a staff car set aside for his personal use. It was a glorious evening. At the King’s request they travelled with the hood down. Motor cyclists of the Military Police travelled well ahead to make sure that the road was clear of congestion and the troops, waiting on either side for the royal party to pass, were cheered and delighted with their brief glimpse of the King.

  On 14 August, the weather broke.

  Chapter 18

  It poured with rain on the Somme. On the thinly held front of the Reserve Arm from Serre to Beaumont Hamel, where the line was still stuck precisely where it had been before the First of July, the troops crouched in the trenches, sheltering – if they were lucky – under hastily rigged-up canopies of waterproof sheets that bulged under the weight of the rain and occasionally treated an unfortunate Tommy to an unexpected shower-bath. There was little to do. Apart from the occasional rattle of machine-gun fire from the drier and more comfortably accommodated Germans, and the occasional random salvo of shells designed to keep ‘Tommy’ from getting too complacent, watch-keeping in daylight hours was more or less confined to keeping a gloomy eye clamped to a trench periscope and watching, through the raindrops that splashed steadily on to its mirror, the same depressingly familiar view of No Man’s Land where for six long weeks the bodies of the dead had lain still and silent and beyond recovery. Now, as the rain beat down, a sudden squall would lift some muddied rag of uniform and wave it in grim salutation.

  The River Ancre, long liberated by shellfire from its battered banks, swelled and sent tributaries groping across the valley so that the swamp turned into a lake and water lapped inches above the surface of the wobbling duckboard tracks leading to the line in Thiepval Wood. Below the dripping rubble of Thiepval village, where the Germans were busily pumping out their trenches, gravity carried the water downhill. It ran down the chalky slopes to Thiepval Wood, trickled down through the ragged tree stumps and turned the steep communication trenches into glissades of slime and mud, soon stirred into squelching soup by the constant passage of soldiers slithering to and from the line.

  Above the village, on the wide expanse of the Thiepval plateau, there was no shelter from the elements and the wind drove the rain across in curtains from the Leipzig Redoubt, where the British were still trying to increase their hold, to Mouquet Farm, soaking the exhausted Australians still doggedly striving to capture it. But they had won the old windmill to the north of Pozières and, in other parts of their sector, had gained the top of the rain-swept ridge that ran away to Martinpuich, to High Wood and to Delville Wood beyond. Protected by two great redoubts and by the Switch Line behind them, Martinpuich held out. High Wood held out and the Germans were still clinging on to the edges of Delville. They were clinging on everywhere with exceptional tenacity, fighting back and charging forward in powerful counter-attacks that rocked and sometimes broke the newly captured line.

  The Germans were not in an easy situation. Five experienced divisions had been transferred from the Somme to the Eastern Front and, to the fury of General Von Falkenhayn, their replacements had been of such inferior calibre that he had been forced to send them straight back again. At Verdun the French had gained the upper hand. They were now taking the offensive and the Germans, spreading their troops as thinly as they dared, were hard put to it to maintain the illusion that the German Army was as strong as ever. Supplies and transport were a constant headache, and every man going into the line now had to carry on his own person sufficient rations and water for the five days he would remain there. It all added up to the first crack in the mighty armour of the German war machine that had growled into action on the Somme almost two years earlier.

  In the British trenches, the Tommies were unaware of the problems that beset the German High Command. They detected no crack in the armour, no lessening of
the enemy’s fighting spirit. Under the onslaught of his counter-attacks, numbed by the ferocity of his shelling, they were not given to analysing the broader strategy of the battle, still less of the war itself. They no longer lived from day, to day, but from hour to hour, minute to minute. Few had a thought to spare for anything but the next man at his shoulder, the next hot brew-up, the next relief. Letters, lovingly penned in ink that ran into blue rivulets under the rain, had an air of unreality. News from home, news of births and bazaars, of deaths and dances, of gossip, of shopping, of all the trivia of everyday events, had little significance. And the pleasure of any brief release from the dank and gloomy trenches was mostly overwhelmed by the knowledge that there would soon be another attack.

  The next attack was on 18 August, four squally, stormy days later. Ted Gale’s Battalion was attacking to the left of Delville Wood and their objective was Orchard Trench. It was part of a general attack on the line from Guillemont to Thiepval Ridge and, this time, surely, High Wood and Delville Wood would be finally secured and the way ahead would at last be opened. The 18 August would be the fiftieth day of the Battle of the Somme and two years, all but five days, since the first engagement of the war – the Battle of Mons.

  Ted Gale had been at Mons. He had been in the Army in the days when, in his opinion, it was an Army and he never tired of regaling grumbling comrades who had joined up ‘for the duration’ with tales of pre-war discipline as a Regular Rifleman: of having been confined to barracks for five days for being two seconds late on ration parade; of the regular duty of polishing the barrack-room floor with brick dust and lead; of having been given pack drill for failing to shine the soles of his boots. His companions were not particularly impressed by Ted’s early hardships. They thought he had been amply compensated by the enjoyment of a cushy war, for he had twice spent long periods in England. Admittedly he had suffered the loss of all his teeth when a horse kicked him in the mouth early in 1915, but that unlucky episode was followed by several months of safety and comfort at home, while his mouth hardened sufficiently for the Army to fit him with dentures. This fortunate circumstance had resulted in his missing the Battle of Loos. Only a few months later he had gone down with rat poisoning, through eating infected rations, and after the initial discomfort had been blessed with another pleasant period of relaxation and recuperation in Blighty. It was five months now since he had been posted back to France to the 7th (Service) Battalion, The Rifle Brigade, and, after six years of soldiering, he was about to go over the top for the first time.